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

Part 3

"Russian literature, as you're likely aware, probes into the complexities and depths of the human soul. And since we are dealing with matters of the soul, I will tolerate no disruptions." Professor Kroft's entirely too attractive voice was the only sound in the room. "Let me be clear before we begin. If you are late, you will be locked out. If you leave, you will be locked out. The doors, which are now closed, are locked."

He held us captivated with his arresting gaze as it scanned the hall, peering at all of us and none of us at once.

I ducked, my heart in my throat, my face flushed.

Oh my God.

It's him.

It's Mr. Leather-warehouse.

I forced myself to breathe, not meeting Taylor's gaze as she inspected me. My hands were shaking. I gripped the desk.

What is wrong with me?

It was the shock. That's what it was. That's why I was behaving like a loon. Again. The temporary insanity had returned. I was overreacting. I just needed to . . . leave.

Leave!

But I couldn't, not yet. He was speaking. If I left then I'd draw attention to myself.

Stay until the end of class, then leave!

Yes. Much better plan.

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.