Kissing Tolstoy (Dear Professor Book 1) Page 5

  “Sure thing, boss.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets and nodded once slowly. My slow nod seemed to pacify him because he walked away with less concern plaguing his features.

  As soon as he was out of sight, I coughed and cleared my throat until I could swallow again.

  He was right.

  I was anxious.

  I was anxiously obsessing about what to do.

  I hadn’t told anyone about my encounter with Professor Kroft. Not even Emily. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. Or . . . something.

  He didn’t do anything wrong.

  He hadn’t. We hadn’t kissed. He hadn’t touched me or said anything inappropriate.

  But still. Still.

  STILL!

  Of note, I accidentally looked up the university’s policy on fraternization. There I was, minding my own business, when BAM! the Internet navigated to the university’s guidance on the subject of relationships between professors and students.

  Since the web page was already up, I decided to read it. What could be the harm in that?

  The university’s policy was ambiguous. As consenting adults, fraternization was not forbidden. But faculty (and staff) were encouraged to avoid “practices and behaviors that give the appearance of favoritism, harassment, or discrimination.” Of course, true favoritism, harassment, and discrimination were outright prohibited, not to mention usually illegal.

  Either way, it didn’t matter.

  If I dropped the class, I would never see him again. Problem solved.

  If I didn’t drop the class, then he would be my pessimistic professor, and I would be his quixotic student for the next ten weeks, and that would be that. Problem also solved . . . sorta.

  I pushed my obsessive thoughts to the deep recesses of my mind—where I stored information about folding sheets correctly and how to be a proper lady—and occupied myself with work, being mindful not to rush.

  Immersing myself in waiting tables did the trick. I’d completely forgotten about the class and Professor Leather Pants until I saw him.

  . . . wait! WHAT?

  I strolled out of the kitchen alcove, ready to welcome the table of twenty that had just been seated, when I spotted him. I had no other choice but to jump behind a potted plastic tree and do a double take, hoping against hope that the super hottie in black pants and a black dress shirt was not my professor.

  Apparently, hope is for hipsters because hope failed me.

  He was sitting in the chair closest to the kitchen and facing the alcove, I had a clear view. His hair was elegantly styled rather than spiked like it had been at Jake Peterson’s Microbrewery, or natural and loose like it had been in class. He was also without bowtie or leather pants, as far as I could tell. But it was definitely Professor Kroft.

  And he was sitting among nineteen other people at one long table. In my section.

  Why me? WHY ME??

  Oh the wretchedness.

  “What’s going on? What are you waiting for? Do you want me to get their drinks?” Sasha stopped next to me, already frantic.

  Five years older than me and an underserver, Sasha hadn’t quite learned how to be mindful. She was panicky and we hadn’t even taken their orders yet.

  “Calm down, Sasha-frantic.” I patted her shoulder, still peering at the table where the professor sat. Next to him was a very, very pretty woman who looked a lot like him: same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same mouth. Different nose, though.

  Unless they were one of those creepy brother-sister couples—you know, the ones that aren’t related but look like they could be—this woman was his actual sister. Which meant he was out with his family.

  “Anna? What are you doing?”

  I straightened my shoulders and tried to shake off my creeper complex. “This is what we’re going to do: I’m going to take the drink orders. You go grab some bread, butter, and water for the table. When you come out, I’ll give you the orders I’ve taken so far, you enter them and wait at the bar for the order. I’ll enter the rest so—hopefully—everything will be ready at the same time. I’ll carry out the first load, you get the second. Meanwhile, I’ll tell them about the specials, and so forth. Sound good?”

  She nodded. “I can do this.”

  I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “You can, Sasha. You can do this. You are Sasha-fantastic.”

  I turned from my coworker, lifted my chin, and prepared to meet my doom.

  Or wretchedness.

  Or just the really, really uncomfortable next few minutes.

  As I approached, I eyeballed the rest of the table. They were all dressed really nicely, like designer-cut suits on the guys and more diamonds than I’d seen outside the Tower of London on the women. Luca’s sister—or cousin or whatever—wore a diamond necklace and matching earrings. The older woman across from him had on three diamond bracelets and a stone on her third finger the size of a marble.

  Holy WOW.

  I forced myself to look away. That rock would hurt in a fistfight.

  I didn’t know if he was looking at me or not. I didn’t check. Instead, I walked to the opposite side of the long table.

  “Hello. May I start you off with something to drink?”

  A woman in her mid-thirties glanced at me and offered a sincere smile. “Please. You have Zyr Vodka, yes?”

  “Yes. Yes, we do.” I endeavored to hide my surprise. She had a Russian accent.

  “Zyr martini on the rocks, please.”

  I nodded and moved to the man on her right, repeated the same question and was met with a similar response. With each person I worked myself closer to Luca, but I dared not look at him. Five Zyr Vodka martinis, two white wines, and one bottle of champagne later, I gathered a deep breath and lifted my eyes to him.

  He wasn’t looking at me.

  I blinked at his profile and then forced myself to say, “May I start you off with something to drink, sir?”

  “Vodka, neat. Tito’s if you have it, Zyr if you don’t.” He waved a dismissive hand in my direction, then continued his discussion with the older woman across from him. You know, the one you’d want on your side in a fistfight because of the rock on her finger.

  But back to Professor Passionless.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but I hadn’t expected detachment. Again, I stared at his profile.

  Thank God Sasha chose that precise moment to tap on my shoulder so I could pass her the first of the drink orders. Otherwise, I might have spent the rest of the night standing there, glowering at him.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I moved to the other side of the table and continued. I felt eyes on me, but mindfully told myself I was imagining things. Nevertheless, by the time I finished collecting all the orders, my cheeks were burning, and I had the sensation of non-gross creepy-crawly things on the back of my neck, like a finger whispering down my spine.

  “Did you get the rest of the drink orders?” Sasha asked as I walked to where she was waiting at the bar.

  “I did.”

  “Was it my imagination, or did, like, half of those people have Russian accents?”

  I shrugged, evading her question. She was wrong, sixteen of them had an accent, well over half. But about half of them were speaking in Russian.

  I was in a tangle of feelings by the time I made it back to the table with the first of their drinks and being mindful was becoming increasingly difficult. But I would persevere and relay the specials, even if it killed me.

  Which, unless that woman with the ring punched me in the temple for running out of halibut, relaying the specials probably wouldn’t kill me.

  “Good evening,” I addressed the half of the table where Luca wasn’t, plastering a mild smile on my features before recapping the specials. I wrote down the first ten orders, growing calmer as I answered questions about the menu.

  Then I was off to the other side. I kept my gaze focused on the deathbringer—what I’d nicknamed the large diamond ring on the older woman’s hand—whi
le I launched into the same spiel I’d given to the first half of the table, finishing with, “Can I interest you in our seasonal steamed clams to start? Or the escargot?”

  “How are the snails cooked?” Luca asked, making me jump a little.

  I swallowed a tremor of nerves and lifted my eyes to his. Unsurprisingly, he was looking at me. Other than the looking, I had no expectations. Therefore, the glint of challenge in his eyes and the barely there hovering smile were neither surprising nor unsurprising.

  They were flustering.

  I cleared my throat before responding, “The escargot are served Bourguignon style, with butter and garlic.”

  “What about the halibut? I saw it was one of the specials, but you didn’t list it.”

  My smile grew brittle. “We’re out of the halibut. We have bass instead.”

  “How is the bass prepared again?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the one wielding the deathbringer cut me off. “Luca, you don’t even like bass. Leave the pretty girl alone and stop quizzing her. She’s not one of your students to torture.”

  His eyes cut to mine again, pinning me, sending a jolt of scorching hello and you’re in trouble and maybe also hot for teacher to the pit of my stomach.

  Meanwhile, the woman sitting next to him spoke up, “Ignore him. My brother is just enamored with you and lacks basic people skills.”

  “Dominika,” he growled.

  She disregarded his warning. “I apologize for his bad behavior. Here, he’ll have the salmon with risotto cake, I’ll have the bass, and you can ignore him for the rest of the evening.”

  I glanced at her wide, apologetic smile as she handed me her menu. I accepted it with a garbled thanks, new feelings surfacing to tangle my throat and thoughts. Somehow I managed to jot down the rest of the orders without asking his sister to repeat the part where she’d said, he’s enamored with you so I could record it.

  Like the professional I was, I turned from the table graciously, crossed the dining room with an even stride, and then hid behind the potted plant so I could ogle him from behind a fake tree.

  He looked unhappy. He was leaning back in his chair as though relaxed, but the frown marring his features gave him away. His sister was laughing and nudging him with her elbow. Not to be outdone, deathbringer glinted in the candle light.

  “Anna? Did they order? I was about to go refill water glasses.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll enter the order.” I waved Sasha off, unwilling to remove my eyes from Luca’s stern expression.

  Leather pants. Bowties. Stern expressions. All things that shouldn’t be attractive, but were damn sexy on Luca Kroft.

  Part 7

  ** ANNA **

  “Someone tell me about the relationship between the story and the way it’s told in Pushkin’s The Queen of Spades.”

  I lifted my hand in the air.

  “Anyone?” Luca’s gaze swept over the class, sliding over my extended hand as though it were invisible.

  Gritting my teeth, I waved my fingers. Just a tad. I even tried to lengthen my arm by sitting forward in my seat.

  “Not even a guess?” He regarded the lecture hall with disappointment. When no one else moved, he pulled out the class roster. “Emma Nixon. Tell me about The Queen of Spades and why Pushkin’s method of telling the story is as important as the story itself.”

  His target sat directly in front of me. I watched as she straightened and fiddled with the pencil she held.

  “Is this about his use of numbers? Because I didn’t understand that.” Emma was a good student, just not great with the philosophical models characteristic of Russian literature.

  I let my hand fall quietly to the tabletop and tried to hide my frown. I didn’t know why I bothered anymore. Four weeks into the semester and he hadn’t called on me since that first day.

  Luca tilted his head to one side, considering her. “Do you understand the concepts of fabula and syuzhet?”

  Emma shook her head, now twirling the pencil between her fingers with nervous abandon. I could tell she was frustrated by her lack of ability to engage with him. But he took her nerves in stride, re-explaining the concepts in a new way and encouraged her to help him fill in the blanks. He even gave her a small smile of praise when she arrived at the right answer without him having to spell it out.

  Bitterness blossomed on my tongue as I watched their exchange. I glanced at the big clock over the board, five minutes left before the end of class. Five tortuous minutes.

  Obviously, I hadn’t dropped the class three weeks ago when I’d had the chance. If I were being honest with myself, the reason I didn’t drop out was because I wanted to see him again.

  Also now obvious, Professor Kroft wasn’t enamored with me. His sister had been delusional, although I was still inclined to like her.

  Meanwhile, I’d become completely enamored with him.

  I should have listened to that woman with the ring. You don’t get a ring like deathbringer without knowing what’s what.

  Professor Kroft had both kept and broken the promise he’d made to me weeks ago. He didn’t pick on me any more than the other students. The problem was, he didn’t pick on me at all. He pretended I didn’t exist. And this was a special kind of torture because Luca Kroft was a fantastic teacher.

  Like, the best I’ve ever had.

  He engaged his students rather than talked at them. He forced them to become a part of the narrative, grow invested in Tolstoy and Gogol. He challenged them to confront their ideas about life, nature, morality, and—yes—even the human soul.

  Last week he’d made several groups of students act out a scene from The Brothers Karamazov, casting women in the roles of the men, asking them to explain their motivations as though they were the characters. I’d wanted desperately to be chosen for the role of Ivan, but I was passed over, given no role except silent spectator.

  So, I guess he did pick on me by not picking on me.

  Every week—his charisma, intelligence, patience with and passion for his other students—had me falling a little more head over heels. And I wasn’t the only one.

  Taylor, the troublesome talker from the first class, along with at least seventy-five percent of the other students, had basically become his disciples. The books she’d scoffed at on that first day now littered her desk, pages flagged and earmarked. She’d invited me out to dinner last week with a few of our classmates and we’d spent the entire meal debating the superiority of Tolstoy over his contemporaries.

  Luca Kroft had made them all Russian literature zealots.

  After each class I’d leave feeling both energized and despondent. I wanted to debate with him, with the other students. I wanted to be a part of what felt like a movement and an awakening. Instead, I’d been relegated to the sidelines.

  I was frustrated.

  Yet enamored.

  Even if I’d never met him months ago in his leather pants, I was pretty darn sure I’d still be smitten with him now.

  Abruptly, Luca glanced at his watch. “Ah, times up.”

  A quiet murmur of regret rippled through the class. This was customary at the end of his lectures. If he heard or noticed it, he never made a sign.

  “I have your papers from last week at the front, stacked alphabetically. Letters ‘A’ through ‘H’ are here, ‘I’ through ‘M’ here, and so forth. Pick them up before you depart. If you have any questions about your grade, schedule an appointment through my secretary.”

  I perked up at this news. He’d warned us before we turned in our first paper that he was exceptionally critical. Most of us could expect Ds and Cs, but that he anticipated we would improve over time.

  Determinedly, I spent every free minute on my paper for a week and a half, crafting it, perfecting it. Plus, I loved the subject matter: Onegin’s relationship with the young Tatyana Larina and how the role of superfluous man shaped their combined destiny.

  Since Luca refused to call on me during class, I poured every ounce of f
rustrated thoughts and feelings into the paper.

  He left through the side door and I turned to my classmate. “Hey, Taylor? Could you watch my stuff? I’ll grab our papers.”

  “Sure, but—”

  Not waiting for the rest of her sentence, I jogged down the steps and power-walked to the front table, waiting my turn for the ‘A’ through ‘H’ stack. Upon reaching the papers, I grimaced.

  He hadn’t been lying about being critical. The top paper—and all the others I flipped through—looked like they’d been bled upon. Red pen colored every page—crossed-out sentences, questions in the margin, culminating into at least a paragraph of comments at the end of each paper, in what I presumed was his scrawling handwriting.

  I pulled Taylor’s from the stack, noticing how red it was, but making a concerted effort to avoid seeing her final grade.

  Then I found mine.

  My heart stuttered. And then it dropped to my feet. Adrift, I blinked at my paper, dumbly flipping through the pristine pages.

  Except for the final grade—which was a B—he hadn’t written on it at all.

  Not at all. Nothing. No thoughts. No questions. No comments.

  A potent mixture of confusion and anger swirled in my stomach. Tears pricked behind my eyes. My hurting heart sent a wave of heat up my neck and to my cheeks.

  He’d ignored me.

  Again.

  “Hey, Anna? Are you done?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and realized I was holding up the line. Clutching my paper to my chest, I quickly moved out of the way and numbly climbed the stairs to a waiting Taylor.

  “Ah! I’m so nervous. I don’t think I did very well.” She accepted her paper, flipping through his red marks without reading them and searching for her final grade. “Damn. I got a D.”

  I gritted my teeth, irritated with Taylor. Actually, I was jealous. She had a treasure trove of Luca’s comments and insights, and she’d ignored them, instead focusing on the grade. I wanted to throttle her.

  “I did, too,” Jordan Washington, the boy who sat on her other side chimed in. “And so did Carter, Jayden, and Gretchen, and everyone I’ve talked to so far.”