Nobody Looks Good in Leather Pants (or bowties), Dear Professor Book #1

Part 7

"Anna," he said, drawing my focus to him, his voice just above a whisper.

Even so, I jumped at the sound of my name, my fingers falling from his torso as though caught with my hand in the cookie jar, and I automatically responded, "Professor Kroft."

He winced. And then he closed his eyes. And then he exhaled.

I stared at him, the severely beautiful lines of his face, and attempted to find the right words to express the many colors and shapes of my emotions vying for dominance. I was part elation, part trepidation, and part craving a gin and tonic.

But before I could give voice to my thoughts, Luca stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning, walking several paces away to the center of his office.

He cleared his throat once, then said in a firm voice, "You should leave."

. . .

. . .

. . .

Ugh.

His words landed like a physical blow and the wind was forced from my lungs leaving me breathless.

And wretched.

Breathless and Wretched, the new fragrance by Calvin Klein.

My gaze moved over the expanse of his back, his broad shoulders encased in a white dress shirt, presently untucked because of me. He felt distant, much farther away than the five steps he'd placed between us.

If I'd been a different kind of nice, I might've sauntered across the room, slid my arms around him, and whispered naughty alternatives in his ear.

But I wasn't that kind of nice. I was the take-people-at-their-word nice. And he wanted me to leave.

A sharp ache filling my chest, I retrieved my backpack, not quite able to lift it to my shoulder, and turned from the sight of him. A million thoughts circled my brain as I gripped the doorknob and twisted it.

Numbly, I stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind me. But I didn't leave. I couldn't. I was caught in a labyrinth of turmoil and indecision, unsure if I was upset by what had happened, by the kiss and by Taylor's disruption, or happy, or relieved, or . . . what I was.

A sound of movement from inside Luca's office spurred my feet into action. I jogged quickly away, down the hall, out of the Russian Studies department, and outside to tepid heat of a mid-summer evening. As I unlocked my car, wading through my mess of feelings about the kiss and subsequent interruption and rejection, I decided three things:

1. I liked being kissed by Luca Kroft. I liked it a lot. A. Lot.

2. I was upset and angry and (as of yet, some undetermined level of) hurt that he'd dismissed me afterward.

3. We would never be a we, because we were doomed. I was . . . goofy. And he was . . . not goofy. Again, we were two different kinds of nice, and narry the twain shall meet.

4. Because of things 1, 2, and 3—and because my drama-free, sedate existence appealed to me more than hot kisses paired with riding the roller coaster of rejection and failure—I was going to late-withdraw from Professor Kroft's class, thereby greatly reducing the chances of ever seeing him again.

Worst of all, I genuinely liked Luca Kroft. I admired him. At least, I admired the version of him he shared freely with everyone but me.

Being perpetually ignored and then rejected by a person I admired made me want to cry into a big pillow and listen to The Cure while watching Old Yeller and reading the world statistics about the Zika virus . . . but I wouldn't.

Instead, I would act. I would do something to extract myself from the overwhelming and oppressive feelings inspired by the last several weeks.

Swallowing thickly, I pulled the smartphone from my bag with unsteady fingers, navigated to my student account, and selected the dropdown box labeled enrollment status. Without allowing myself to debate the matter, I chose "late-withdraw" and hit the submit button, waiting just long enough for the next screen to load, confirming my selection, before turning off my phone and stuffing it in my bag.

The interior of my car had become tyrannically hot and judgmental. The word coward bounced around my brain, as though the upholstery of my aging Honda Civic had whispered the accusation in my ear.

I ignored the creeping doubt in favor of rewarding my pragmatism and swift action with a new jigsaw puzzle. Puzzles wouldn't kiss me one moment, then push me away the next.

No. Unlike moody, gorgeous, brilliant Russian lit professors, puzzles were safe. Puzzles were solvable. Puzzles didn't move my soul and inspire me to wish for things beyond my reach.

Most importantly, puzzles couldn't break my heart.