Kissing Tolstoy (Dear Professor Book 1) Read online

And act normal.

  Impossible.

  “What?” Taylor whispered at my side.

  I frowned at her and whispered in return, “What what?”

  “What’s impossible?”

  Gah! I’d spoken aloud again without realizing.

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Nothing. Ignore me.”

  “You’re weird.” She giggled.

  “Shhh.”

  “Do you talk to yourself often?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “Ladies . . .?”

  I stiffened, my blood pressure skyrocketing.

  Oh no.

  OH NO!

  He was looking at us. He’d stopped lecturing and was looking right at us. His hands were on his narrow hips, one of his eyebrows was cocked in displeasure. Also, he was wearing a bowtie.

  What the what?

  A bowtie?

  And yes, he looked hot in a bowtie. How was that even possible?

  “Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

  “Sorry, Professor. We were just debating the finer details of . . .” Taylor glanced at the title of my book, “Eugene Onegin. It won’t happen again.” Taylor grinned and preened under the singular weight of his attention.

  Meanwhile, I sunk lower in my chair, brought my hand to my forehead to obscure my face as much as possible without completely covering it, and shook my head quickly.

  The silence that followed was deafening. I didn’t dare look up. I was still in the throes of my overreaction and I was sure my cheeks were on fire.

  Professor Kroft broke the silence. “Your debate is timely, as Yevgeniy Onegin is the first book we’ll be discussing.”

  I closed my eyes; his voice, the words he’d spoken hitting me square in the abdomen, driving the air from my lungs. He’d used the Russian pronunciation of Eugene. Life was not fair. Not only did he look good in leather pants, fabulous in a suit with a bowtie, was a world expert on Russian literature, but also he apparently spoke Russian. Flawlessly.

  Flee! He is temptation incarnate! He will steal your soul with sexiness.

  “Uh.” Taylor’s eyes darted around the room and finally, finally she shrank back.

  “Tell me, Miss . . .?” He paused and I opened one eye, attempting to discern if he was waiting for me or Taylor to provide a last name. Thankfully, his steady gaze was locked on my classmate.

  “Taylor Garrison,” she supplied, her voice cracking with nerves.

  I wanted to shake my head at her in disgust, or shake some sense into her for volunteering a boldfaced lie. Instead, I kept my head down, hoping against hope he’d continue to target bigmouth Taylor.

  “And Miss . . .?”

  DAMMIT, DOSTOYEVSKY! Why did you have to be so tragic and compelling?

  I said nothing, but I might have moaned in mental anguish.

  “Miss?” he prompted again, an edge of harassed impatience stealing into the word.

  I gathered a large bracing breath—because what else could I do?—and blurted, “Anna Harris.”

  I waited, but he was silent again. This time the silence stretched much, much longer. It stretched for such a substantial length of time that most of the class turned in their seats to give me the once-over. After they gave me the once-over, they looked between the professor and me, then gave me a twice-over, and a thrice-over.

  “Miss Harris,” he said finally, like he’d discovered something wonderful for him, and terrible for me.

  I opened both my eyes, met the force of his, and grimaced. Yet I managed to choke out, “Professor Kroft.”

  He smiled—teeth and everything—as he leaned backward onto the table behind him. He tilted his head to the side, crossed his arms, and pinned me with his stare. Rather, he paralyzed me with the twin-blue laser beams of sadism pointed at my soul.

  Yep.

  He recognized me.

  And it was obvious he didn’t like me very much.

  Perhaps he was merely irritated that he’d been interrupted on the first day of class, or perhaps he hadn’t liked my hurried departure all those months ago. I couldn’t figure out which of my regrettable actions were the culprit.

  Either way, whatever the reason, I was in trouble.

  “Tell me, Miss Harris, is Pushkin a precursor to the realism later found in the legendary Russian prose novels?”

  “Uh,” my attention flickered to the side, to Taylor, who was watching me with a please-don’t-murder-me expression. She was terrified. For some reason, her terror lessened mine.

  “I’m waiting, Miss Harris,” he said, demanding my attention once more, in a harsh tone that sent goosebumps racing up my arms and over my chest. “And I don’t like to be kept waiting.” This last part struck me as meaningful, because I had kept him waiting. I’d kept him waiting last February for twenty minutes before he’d given up and left.

  But this wasn’t February and this room wasn’t a restaurant. I needed to answer, because everyone was waiting. Shaking my head, I blinked rapidly, endeavoring to clear the riot of flailing cobwebs from my mind, and repeated his question silently.

  Is Pushkin a precursor to the realism later found in the legendary Russian prose novels?

  Yes.

  Yes, he is.

  I nodded.

  He frowned.

  I flinched.

  Say something. Answer him. You can do this. You love discussing this stuff.

  “Um, so, realism. Yes.” I nodded again, my mind finally engaging. “Yes, Pushkin is a precursor to the realism found later in prose novels.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why?” I parroted, my voice cracking.

  His gaze grew hooded, his jaw slid to the side, his teeth scraping together. “Yes. Why?” The question was now a harsh staccato. Exacting. Punishing.

  I answered without allowing myself to overthink, sensing that haste in responding was the only thing keeping me from being tossed out in abject humiliation. “Because he described the differences in social classes during his time. And not just easily discernible differences. He described their lives, everything from high society, to lower gentry, to peasants in the countryside. He displayed a proto-realist attitude later adopted by other authors.”

  The last syllable of my last word seemed to echo in the room. Or maybe it echoed in my head. Once again, silence stretched.

  Professor Kroft’s features had arranged themselves into a stoic mask as he continued to stare at me through half-lidded eyes. I was holding my breath. It might have been my imagination, but I was pretty sure half the class was as well.

  Finally, he announced, “That is correct.”

  His gaze shifted from mine, releasing me from the purgatory of his austere attention. “We may find examples of this attention to detail in his tour through Petersburg high-society life with Yevgeniy in the first chapter, and the bucolic descriptions of the provincial nobility,” he continued.

  I took the opportunity to breathe.

  My heart was still racing, but heady relief pumped through my veins. He could still toss me out. He could eject me from the class. He could ridicule and embarrass me.

  But I didn’t think he would. At least, not today. My heart began a slow descent to the floor as I watched him pace in front of the class, waxing poetic about quotidian elements.

  I had to drop the course.

  I’d read the reality in his eyes when he’d challenged me. They’d glowed with a keen, sinister attentiveness. If I stayed, if I tried to finish the semester, he would make my life extremely unpleasant.

  Embrace the wretchedness, Anna. Embrace it.

  I’d just resigned myself to embracing wretchedness when I felt eyes on me again. I looked up from the sad faces I’d been doodling in my notebook and discovered I was, once again, the focus of the entire class and Professor Kroft.

  “Miss Harris?” His tone was studiously polite. The politeness struck me as infinitely more dangerous than his palpable exasperation earlier.

  “Yes?” I cro
aked, gripping the desk again, hoping he wasn’t about to toss me out of the lecture hall.

  He held my gaze, and I swear one side of his mouth inched slightly upward with a knowing smirk, though his expression hadn’t altered.

  “Please stay after class, Miss Harris.”

  A low murmur rumbled through the hall at the professor’s demand framed as a request. Instinctively, I sunk lower in my seat, shying away from the multitude of eyes pointed at me, and gritted my teeth.

  Great. Just . . . great.

  Not even embracing the wretchedness could cheer me up.

  Dammit, Dostoyevsky. Damn you to heck.

  Part 4

  ** ANNA **

  In Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, there’s a scene where Bazarov realized his strict nihilist philosophies and assumptions about the values of provincial life might be erroneous. His entire worldview was challenged, and he was forced to accept that his radical ideas and how he had wielded the sword of his charisma may have irrevocably hurt those who trusted him.

  And then—spoiler alert—he contracts blood poisoning and dies.

  It’s a terrible moment.

  However, I was sure that this moment, right now in my life, rivaled his moment. At least to me it did.

  As my fellow classmates departed, I felt my will to live go with them.

  Sorry. That was melodramatic. Let me clarify: I didn’t want to die, I wanted to be unconscious. I wished for a blood illness, albeit a temporary one. I’d even settle for a good old-fashioned fainting spell.

  If only I had an autopsy to perform—like Bazarov, in Fathers and Sons—it certainly would have been an excellent excuse to flee.

  Sorry. Can’t stay. I have a cadaver in my car.

  Instead, after I finished packing my bag, I sat still as a statue. I folded my hands on my lap and waited, staring at the top of my desk. My mortification plus the anticipation of what was to come fashioned a figurative blood illness within me, overheating my skin and making me shiver.

  Professor Kroft was motionless as well, except he wasn’t sitting. He was leaning against the long table at the front of the room, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’d removed his jacket during the two-hour lecture, which left him in a charcoal-gray vest, white dress shirt, and gray bowtie. He’d also rolled up his shirtsleeves, presumably so he could write on the dry-erase board with ease.

  The last of my classmates’ footsteps echoed through the nearly empty lecture hall, trailing away until the door closed with a resounding click. My brain reminded me that the doors were locked.

  No one could get in.

  We were utterly alone and wouldn’t be interrupted.

  Neither of us made a sound, not at first, although I’m sure my bracing facial expression and averted gaze spoke volumes.

  I wanted to leave. The urge to flee was strong. Like the dark side of the Force, it called to me, promised me cookies. The only thing keeping me in my seat was the fact that he was a professor. A tenured professor. My instincts and upbringing demanded I stay and accept the reprimand.

  “Come here.” His voice echoed in the hall and I started at the command, my eyes lifting from the top of my desk to clash with his.

  His gaze was . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. Not exactly probing, but not precisely attentive either. He scrutinized me and yet looked bored.

  God, let this be over quickly. You cancelled both Still Star-Crossed and Arrested Development. Haven’t I suffered enough?

  Recognizing that the time was now, I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I then traversed the stairs leading to the front of the hall, where Professor Leather Pants waited, halting just after the bottom step. With the weight of his gaze following each of my movements, I’m shocked I didn’t tumble down the steps, ass over ankles.

  My heart thrummed between my ears and in my throat. One thing was for certain: I would not be the first to speak. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say. Therefore, rather than exacerbate the situation with inarticulate apologies, I decided silence was the best course of action.

  He unfolded his arms and scratched the back of his neck, his stare narrowing until the glacial blue of his irises were small slits. My attention snagged on his forearm. I suspected the baring of his forearms earlier had been an attempt at torture. His forearms were magnificent. And so were his hands. Not that I was staring at them.

  Nope. Not staring. Just looking. Yep.

  “Anna,” he said, making me blink his face back into focus.

  “Yes?” I squeaked. Again, I was startled. This time by the use of my first name.

  He studied me for a protracted moment before stating, “You’ve read Onegin.”

  I nodded and said, “Yes,” even though he hadn’t asked me a question.

  “Which of the others on the class syllabus have you already read?”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, confused. He didn’t sound angry. That was good, right?

  “Uh, let’s see,” I fiddled with the strap of my bag, “Maybe it would be better for me to list which of the books on the syllabus I haven’t read.”

  One side of his mouth hitched upward. “Fine.”

  “Okay, so, um. I haven’t read Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s What Is to Be Done? Or Maxim Gorky’s Mother.” I tried not to butcher the name Chernyshevsky, but it was ultimately impossible. I had no idea which syllable deserved the emphasis.

  He waited for me to continue with my list, his eyebrows lifting by millimeters when I remained silent.

  “That’s it?”

  I nodded.

  “Those are the only two you haven’t read?”

  I nodded again.

  He seemed to be gritting his teeth while his gaze flickered down and then up my body. “Did you know it was me?”

  My lips parted while my eyebrows danced on my forehead; I didn’t understand his question. “Pardon?”

  Professor Kroft pushed away from the table, stuffing his fine fingers into his pants pockets, and strolled forward, his gaze searching.

  “In February. Did you know who I was?”

  I tried to take a step back only for my heel to connect with the stair behind me. “Uh, no. No, I had no idea. I thought you were just a biker dude, or something.” My thwarted retreat might have been responsible for the unrehearsed, blunt honesty of my words.

  He slowed his advance, both sides of his mouth curving upward for a split second before he erased the almost smile from his face.

  “But you figured it out eventually?”

  I shook my head again, bracing my feet apart to stand my ground. “No. I had no idea you were a professor. Not until today.”

  “Then why are you in this class?” he demanded quietly, three feet separating us; the size of his frame made his proximity feel imposing.

  “Because I like tragic stories.” More unrehearsed and clumsy honesty.

  “Tragic stories?”

  “Yes.”

  He frowned, like he was thinking, or trying to remember. “In your email you said you were a romantic.”

  “I am.”

  “But you like tragic stories.”

  I nodded.

  He scowled. “That makes no sense.”

  “It does. The most romantic stories always have tragic elements.”

  “Like what?”

  “War and Peace.”

  It might have been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn he swayed toward me. But then he said, “That’s ludicrous. War and Peace isn’t romantic.”

  I didn’t like his tone—it was dismissive—like he thought I was an idiot.

  I stiffened my spine and lifted my chin. “It is.”

  He shifted a step closer, shaking his head, taunting me. “It’s Tolstoy’s naturalist reflection on inequality and the inevitable disappointment of life. It’s about the stark pragmatism required to navigate a reality ripe with injustice. It’s about settling. War and Peace is brilliant because of the very fact that it’s an anti-roman
ce.”

  What?

  Oh, HELL no.

  Those were fighting words.

  “Then why does it make me feel so much?” I blurted fervently, clutching my chest, clearly forgetting to whom I was speaking. “Why then does Pierre’s love for Natasha—”

  “Natasha is a faithless twit and Pierre is vapid and brainless. She didn’t belong with Pierre, she belonged with Andrei, but she was blind and selfish and she ruined him.”

  My mouth fell open, wide with outrage. Sacrilege!

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned, but his eyes seemed to brighten as they examined me. He smirked, looking more like some biker dude in that moment than like a PhD professor in Russian Literature.

  “Like Andrei, everybody who is worthwhile or interesting dies before their time. That’s how real life works.”

  “I would argue that the canvas of death and tragedy provides depth to the growth of the characters and underlying romanticism.”

  “Then you’re delusional. And a masochist.”

  “Then you’re a sociopath,” I volleyed back, shoving my face in his because he was pissing me off, “incapable of feeling empathy or passion.”

  His eyes narrowed menacingly as they flared, flickering to my mouth and chasing my anger with something equally hot and confusing.

  “You think so?” he rasped on a whisper; it sounded like a challenge. Or a dare. Or both.

  “It’s a definite possibility.” My words arrived breathless because my heart was beating erratically.

  His body swayed toward mine again and this time it wasn’t my imagination.

  What is happening? What is going on?

  We shared a breath. And then two breaths. Our eyes clashed. His darkened. The muscle at his jaw ticked. My stomach did a somersault and the back of my throat burned with anticipation.

  I felt a tug, a pull, a force, again gravity—like before when we first met—urging me to touch him, to place a hand on his magnificent forearm, to incline my chin just two inches.

  Do it!

  I can’t.

  Why not?

  He’s my professor.

  And?

  And he’s still not my kind of nice.

  How do you know?