Kissing Galileo Read online

  Kissing Galileo

  Dear Professor Book #2

  Penny Reid

  Copyright

  Legal Stuff: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, and/or locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2019 by Cipher-Naught; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Caped Publishing

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  Made in the United States of America

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  1st Edition, June 2019

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Beard With Me, Winston Brothers Book #5.5

  ATTRACTION: Book #1 in the Hypothesis Series

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Chapter 1

  *Emily*

  Professor Hanover’s eyes were affixed to his smartphone with the determined unsteadiness of a man who was exceedingly uncomfortable.

  Meanwhile, I was in the precarious position of being naked.

  Wait. Let me back up a second and explain. Most people aren’t aware that there are five stages of naked for a woman.

  The first, and most obvious of course, is just buck-bare naked. No clothes, no nothing. All skin.

  The second stage is virtually naked. The nipples might be covered with a bit of sequin, but not always. Typically, all that is needed is a strategically placed triangle secured to the front lady parts by either adhesive or barely visible plastic string. Usually, the bottom is completely exposed.

  Stage number three is almost naked. The boob—the nipple at a minimum—is scarcely veiled and panties of some kind are worn, frequently a G-string or floss-like thong.

  Stage four is still a type of naked, but some would argue it may also venture into the not-technically-naked category. We call it transparently naked and it normally involves a bra, panties, or lingerie of some sort. However—whatever the items—they are completely see-through, sheer lace. As such, very little is obstructing the eye from the skin beneath.

  Finally, stage five just manages to cross the line from naked to not naked. It is being in a state of undress, donning conservative underthings—like an opaque nightie, or a long slip—and is commonly referred to as disrobed.

  But back to me being naked in front of my professor.

  I hadn’t recognized him at first. I don’t look at the faces of clients. I exit the session with a vague impression of a person like, “that guy who smelled like peanuts” or, “the really tall one who tried to touch my boob.”

  They—the men, and sometimes their second wives or mistresses—were always looking at my body, never my face or eyes. So looking directly at the customers seemed unnecessary.

  Actually, let me amend that, they weren’t looking at me. They were looking at what I was wearing. At first, when I started, I assumed they were assessing whether seven hundred dollars was too much to pay for a bra. But the longer I worked for the Pinkery as a lingerie model, the more I began to understand that the clients weren’t concerned with money. They had plenty of money.

  They were concerned with their own boredom.

  Which meant I only ever noticed someone, really saw them, if they weren’t looking at me. Victor Hanover—Dr. Hanover—my research methods professor, wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at his cell. Thank God.

  Because I was currently stage three naked. Also, randomly, I couldn’t help but notice how huge his hands were, large with long fingers, which made his smartphone seem tiny and—

  “Hello…?”

  I blinked against the murkiness of mortified recognition and turned my attention to the only other person in the room. He was older than Dr. Hanover, nicely dressed, with silver hair at his temples. The unknown man was also smaller than my professor, but somehow his presence felt larger, suffocating.

  I couldn’t focus on this older man’s face, but not for the usual reasons. I was distracted, too busy arbitrating the wrestling match between my shock and embarrassment. Embarrassment was winning.

  “I said, could you turn?” he snapped.

  I nodded, turned, happy to show them my basically bare backside if it gave me a moment to collect myself.

  Dr. Hanover and this older man were sitting in a private room, my private room, at the Pinkery. As the most exclusive lingerie, fripperies, and accoutrements shop in New England, it required a membership and minimum monthly purchase guarantee for entry and continued access. I wasn’t used to seeing anyone I knew in real life while at work. Neither my classmates nor my professors could afford the membership or the merchandise.

  For that matter, the scraps of lace and silk were firmly out of my budget as well.

  “What do you think, Victor?”

  I swallowed, being careful to do so quietly. The last thing I wanted was to be the source of a cartoonish gulp while my professor contemplated my ass. He was looking at my ass. I was sure of it. I knew the precise moment his eyes lifted to my skin and I gritted my teeth, feeling the affliction of his gaze traveling lower, over my thighs.

  Call it a sixth sense, call it intuition, but I always knew where the clients were looking. This uncanny ability usually came in handy as it meant I could focus my energy on highlighting that area, giving it the best light, angling my leg just so.

  But not this time. This time I held perfectly still like I used to do when caught by my mother with my hand in the cookie jar. And by cookie jar, I mean my hand in my high school boyfriend’s pants, in the back of my car on prom night.

  My mother, God love her, tossed three condoms into the back seat and called over her shoulder, “You better get my daughter off before you come all over her car.”

  I hadn’t inherited my mother’s impressive talent for punch line delivery, but I had inherited her pragmatic nature. I’d always been more likely to freeze than flee, or fight, or flirt when faced with a mortifying situation.

  Which was why I stood stock-still as I heard Professor Hanover clear his throat before saying, “I’m not sure where I should be looking.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” the older man huffed with obvious impatience. “The model, Victor. Look at the model.”

  “Why? She’s not for sale.”

  I closed my eyes, pressing my lips together. It was such a Dr. Hanover thing to say, much more in character than glaring uncomfortably at the screen of his smartphone.

  Over the last two months of sitting through his course, I’d never once seen him uncomfortable, though I’d seen him glare plenty. Glare at students who took too long to answer. Glare at students who were obviously unprepared for class. Glare at students who couldn’t quite grasp the concept of a split tailed T-test.

  He glared all the time, in that exasperated “I’m so much
smarter than you, you might as well be a single-celled organism in comparison” kind of way.

  But uncomfortable? Never.

  It was Dr. Havover’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know why you brought me.”

  The older man made a sniffing sound. “Is it so odd that I would want to spend time with my son?”

  His. . . son? What? Wait. That’s weird, right? Who would take their son to a lingerie shop? Or maybe this practice was all the rage and I was completely out of touch.

  Victor made a scoffing sound, and I imagined he was rolling his eyes. I’d never seen him roll his eyes, he was far too enlightened for that, but for some reason I imagined him as rolling his eyes now.

  “Fine. Lyla suggested it.” The older man lowered his voice to a gruff whisper.

  “Who’s Lyla?”

  “Victor . . .” The single word was ripe with warning.

  “I’m sorry, is she one of your wives? I’ve lost count, so you can’t expect me to remember names.”

  Now I rolled my lips between my teeth, because that was also a very Professor Hanover thing to say. The man was firmly in the asshole column, but his sarcastic sass always made me laugh (sometimes against my will). This meant I was frequently ducking my head and hiding behind my laptop during class.

  It also meant that I never, ever, ever put myself in the position of being on the receiving end of his sarcasm. I knew the research methods textbooks so well, I probably could've taught the course at this point.

  But back to the good professor and his mad dad.

  “Don’t I deserve happiness?” he ranted. “Don’t I—”

  Victor made another scoffing sound, raising his voice over his father’s. “You want to keep looking for happiness between a woman’s legs? Fine. Go for it. But don’t fucking bring me here and expect father-son bonding time. Sitting in a bourgeois lingerie store, slobbering over a woman one third your age while your current wife—”

  “You know we’re engaged,” his father thundered, and it sounded like he’d lunged to his feet.

  “Whatever.” Victor’s voice also rose. “Current vagina of the moment—”

  Whoa!

  “Mr. Hanover,” a woman’s voice cut in, silencing both men.

  But not just any woman’s voice. Madame Purple, my boss, and a take-no-bullshit-or-prisoners kind of superwoman. She reported directly to the owner, Madame Pink.

  At the sound of her voice I flinched, half turning on instinct. But then I stopped myself and offered just my profile. From my vantage point I could see the professor was standing, facing his father. Unable to help myself, I looked at him; I’d been so shocked by his presence earlier, I hadn’t taken a moment to study the man.

  Firstly, he looked pissed, his eyes flashing fire, his hands clenched into fists.

  Secondly, I realized he wasn’t in his usual baggy dad jeans and dorktastic, overly large, brown and yellow plaid button-down shirt. With a pocket protector. One shirttail tucked in, one shirttail flapping in the breeze.

  No. Not today.

  Today he was wearing a dark blue tailored suit that accentuated the upside-down triangle shape of his torso. It fit. He looked damn fine in it. It made him seem taller, bigger, stronger. . . or was it the waves of menace and fury? Or had he always been tall and strong?

  Also, I’d never witnessed his hair anything other than flat and ignored. Not today. His hair was styled as though the man knew how to style it. However, he did don his usual thick horn-rimmed glasses. The effect of this makeover plus the glasses gave Victor Hanover a distinctly nerdy-sexy-Calvin Klein-model vibe that. . . well, it startled me.

  He was still firmly in the asshole column, but now he was in the sexy asshole column.

  “What?” Victor’s dad didn’t try to veil his impatience with my boss’s interruption.

  She smiled at the two men, her shimmery purple lipstick a gorgeous complement to her flawless brown skin. “You have a phone call.”

  “What?”

  “A phone call.”

  Mr. Hanover straightened, his gaze flickering over her like he couldn’t decide whether to be indignant or furious.

  But before he could question Madame Purple further, she volunteered, “It’s Madame Pink. She wishes to discuss the status of your membership.”

  Oh. Snap.

  My eyes widened, but I caught the crack in my demeanor almost instantly. Schooling my expression, I gathered a silent breath. There was no three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy at the Pinkery. You were out when Madame Pink said you were out. End of story. She never explained why. Once you were out, you could never get back in.

  Mr. Hanover shifted restlessly on his feet. “I apologize if our raised voices caused any disturbance.” It looked like the words poisoned him as he spoke them. I imagined this man rarely—if ever—apologized. This suspicion was confirmed as his son glanced between Madame Purple and his father, visibly confused, or astonished, or both.

  “Please.” Madame Purple widened her smile, stepping to one side and motioning to the door with a graceful movement of her hand. “After you.”

  Mr. Hanover slid his teeth to the side and sent his son a quick, incensed look. Then the man turned a rigid grin to my boss and gave her a little head nod, strolling unhurriedly out of the room while fiddling with a cuff link.

  My boss gave Professor Hanover a whisper of a smile, then to me indicated with her chin toward the bar console in the corner. “Lavender, please pour a glass of scotch for your guest. And . . .” Her eyes moved back to him and she studied his openly bewildered expression for several beats before continuing, “And perhaps the black and red garter ensemble next.”

  I wanted to wince. I wanted to wince so hard. Or at the very least communicate my panic with a glance of extreme askance. It would be the most askance glance in the history of glances.

  But I didn’t. Mostly because I was frozen. But also because Madame Purple didn’t give me the chance. She turned on her heel and left.

  Oh jeez.

  Well.

  Okay then.

  Here I go.

  . . . I couldn’t move.

  But I had to move. I glanced at the camera, artfully hidden in the corner, and reminded myself of how much I wanted this job. For the record, it was a lot. Think of your mom and all her therapy bills. Think of money. Money!

  That did it. Finally, I forced my feet to carry me toward the bar.

  “Where are you going?” Professor Hanover’s voice was heavily seasoned with suspicion; my steps faltered at his tone.

  I didn’t stop, though my gaze instinctively lifted and connected with his, causing my chest to tighten with dread. I ignored the sensation. Instead I focused on his frown. To my immense relief, I saw his gaze was cloudy with something like frustration, but definitely not recognition.

  I motioned to the bar and continued toward it, saying nothing. If I could help it, I rarely spoke in front of clients, just what was required according to our guidelines. But beyond that, I wondered if Dr. Hanover was more likely to recognize my voice than my face.

  I was quiet in class, answering succinctly whenever he called my name. And I typically wore a hat with my hair tucked up inside or pulled back in a ponytail. I also never wore makeup outside of work, mostly because makeup was expensive. In addition to inheriting my mother’s pragmatism, I’d also inherited her frugal nature.

  Flexing my fingers, I relaxed, realizing that the chances of him recognizing me were fairly low. He had, what? Over a hundred students in that lecture hall every week? And that was just my class.

  Slowly, I placed my hands on the glassware, pleased to see they weren’t shaking. I’d just removed the stopper to the decanter and released a steady breath when he spoke again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  My fingers stilled, and I looked at him, discovering that my professor was strolling toward me. His hands in his pants pockets, his attention on the bar console. He stopped a few feet away while I tried to stand as nonchalantly as possible.
br />   Have you ever tried to stand nonchalantly before? Like tried to be pointedly disinterested? Or “act normal”? It’s impossible. It’s like trying to pee on a target with an audience of five hundred nuns.

  Not to mention, Victor Hanover had just apologized. To me. For what, I had no idea. The mere idea of the superior professor apologizing to anyone for anything had me questioning whether I was awake, or if this was a dream, or maybe I was high. I’d never touched drugs, but the possibility of being high felt more likely than Dr. Hanover apologizing.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice softer, his gaze resting everywhere but on me. “My words were sarcastic and spoken in anger. They were meant to reflect how my father views women, and are not indicative of my own thoughts. He is a faithless taint, and should be despised. For the record, I do not share his—” Victor’s eyes moved to the left, as though he were searching for the right words. “I do not share his lack of respect for other humans, especially female humans. Therefore, I’m sorry you heard it. But more than that, I’m sorry I said it.”

  Well . . . huh.

  How about that?

  Unable to tear my gaze away, I stared at him, openly examining my professor. His eyes were a dark color—maybe dark green, maybe brown, maybe indigo—it was hard to see them behind his glasses. His nose reminded me of Brad Pitt’s or Chris Evans’s nose, smaller than the average man nose, but strangely it worked for him. Victor’s jaw was angular, strong, and covered in late afternoon scruff. He was probably one of those guys who had to shave twice a day.