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

Part 2

"So, did you tell him? What the I stands for?" Emily waved her celery stick through the air, her eager eyes betraying how completely absorbed she'd been in my telling of the story.

"What? No!" I shook my head, glaring at my friend; she'd lost her damn mind. "Of course not."

She sighed; it sounded like a deflating tire. "Why of course not?"

"Because he was in leather pants."

"So were you." Emily hopped onto the counter adjacent to where I was cooking tomato sauce for dinner.

"Yes, but I don't normally wear leather pants. He looked like he always wore leather pants. Like maybe he showered in them."

Emily wrinkled her nose at this. "Gross."

"No, no. He wasn't dirty, what I mean is: he looked really good in the pants. He looked like leather pants were his thing."

My friend crunched on the celery stick she'd been waving around earlier. "Okay, you've completely lost me. You didn't give this hot guy your middle name—or your number—because he looks good in leather pants?"

"Unnaturally good. And he wore leather gloves. And a leather jacket. And he left on a motorcycle." I thought for a moment, stirring the red sauce and becoming mildly flushed once again as I recalled the tall blond man speeding away while straddling the motorcycle. He didn't know I'd been watching him.

After he'd asked me for my middle name, my brain and mouth failed me. I couldn't physically form words. So I gave him a panicked smile, mumbled something mostly incomprehensible about going to the bathroom, and bolted out the back door of the restaurant.

I hid in my car, unable to leave but too mortified to stay.

He strolled out ten minutes later, glanced around the parking lot, looking like a perfect mixture of a young Paul Newman and Chris Hemsworth. I ducked, only peeking over my dashboard when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle. His back was to me, providing a nice view of his long legs and leather-clad torso. Straddling the bike, he kicked up his stand and drove off into the sunset like a troubled hero from one of those movies I watched too much—Rebel Without a Cause or On the Waterfront.

I sighed at the memory and reminded myself out loud, "Definitely not my type."

"Let me ask you this." Emily nudged my knee with her foot. "Did he have a penis?"

I felt my face pinch, draw to a point as I inspected Emily's wide, green eyes. "I didn't see it if that's what you're asking." Sadly.

"No. I'm asking you to guess. Did the sexy guy in leather, who I'm assuming you haven't stopped fixating on for the last three days—don't deny it!—do you think he has a penis?"

I squirmed where I stood and felt my face do odd things. Inexplicably, I was sweating. Maybe not so inexplicably, because I was now thinking about the hot stranger's third leg.

"I'll take your weird dance as a yes. Furthermore," Emily's next bite rang with a triumphant crunch and she spoke around the piece of celery, "I maintain his leather-clad assets plus the existence of his penis makes him the right type for every heterosexual woman. Admit it, he was universal-hot-guy dating material and you let him slip through your leather gloves."

I snorted inelegantly. Then, because it was just Emily and me, I did the huff-snort-laugh of disbelief. "Uh, I'd like to think I require more than just a beefcake with a frequent shopper's card to the leather warehouse."

"You said he was nice."

She had me there.

I added more oregano to the sauce, but said nothing.