by Penny Reid
Table of Contents
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Epilogue (in two parts)
Kissing Tolstoy
Dear Professor Series #1
Penny Reid
Contents
Kissing Tolstoy
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Epilogue (in two parts)
** Anna **
** Luca **
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Nobody Looks Good Naked
Other books by Penny Reid
Kissing Tolstoy
By Penny Reid
http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter
Caped Publishing
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, dead, or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental, if not somewhat disturbing and/or concerning.
Copyright © 2017 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
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.
Caped Publishing
Made in the United States of America
November 2017
eBook EDITION
ISBN-13: 978-1-942874-35-5
Part 1
** ANNA **
What do I have to lose?
All I needed to do was email the guy, set up the date, pray he was even a fifth as amazing as Emily said he was, and show up. That’s it.
I am such a Scaredy McFrightenedton . . .
Staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, I eyed the “x” in the upper right-hand corner. I could just close the window, navigate to the start menu, select shut down, and watch my computer screen fade to black.
One year. Twelve months. Just a week shy of three hundred sixty-five days.
Somewhere in the rebellious recesses of my mind, an annoying little voice (sounding suspiciously like my own) reminded me that nearly twelve months had passed since my last date. Since my boyfriend had broken up with me via text message, completely out of the blue, on Valentine’s Day.
On the scale of awful, it rated pretty high. This was because the text he’d sent was a picture of him kissing another girl. I was completely blindsided. One minute we were solid, and the next he was in the running for the world’s biggest-bag-of-dicks trophy.
In other words, my ex was the John Willoughby to my Marianne Dashwood, if John Willoughby had quoted Pokémon and anime instead of Shakespearean sonnets. And Marianne had liked him mostly for his skills as a trivia night partner and cheerful acceptance of her jigsaw puzzle habit.
Even though my heart hadn’t been broken, it had been bruised. Afterward, I had difficulty trusting my own judgment. He’d seemed so nice. Nerdy nice. My kind of nice.
And though I hadn’t run recklessly into a rainstorm and nearly died of pneumonia, I’d sworn off romantic relationships with non-fictional characters (i.e. other real humans) for the remainder of my life. At the time, it felt like an easy promise to keep.
But now, after almost twelve months and Valentine’s Day looming, I felt restless, surprisingly ready to throw my hat in the ring again. Get my groove on. I might even be persuaded to watch Netflix and chill.
And yet, I wasn’t so sure.
What do you have to lose?
The thought troubled me and I debated the nature of loss, realizing—sans the possibility that this guy Emily wanted to set me up with was literally a serial killer—all I had to lose was time. Time I would most likely otherwise spend watching A Room with a View and rewinding the scene on the hill over and over and over and over.
The one where Julian Sands grabs Helena Bonham Carter with his big man-hands, holding her around the waist and sliding his—I imagined—cool fingers over her cheek, then pulling her to him with expectation. And as their lips meet for the first time, amidst the sea of golden barley, the kiss explodes with passion.
And there it was.
The possibility of passion, and maybe even the possibility of real heartbreak, feelings for a person beyond the safety of my comfort zone, the risk of actually wanting to run recklessly into a rainstorm, had me internally monologue a pep talk.
Screw fear of the unknown! Carpe Diem! Seize the fucking day!
I nodded, and then began typing.
Hi Lucas,
You don’t know me . . . and I don’t know how to do this. But rest assured, the most terrible and terrifying thing has already been written (the most terrible thing being the word “hi”, because—in this circumstance—it is also the bravest).
Now that my awkward reference to Anna Karenina has been made, let me start again:
Hi Lucas,
You don’t know me. Our mutual friend (Emily Von) gave me your email address. Emily has told me many times that she thinks we would be perfect for each other, that it’ll be “love at first sight.”
Even though I’m a romantic, I don’t believe in love at first sight; the concept strikes me as frivolous and convenient. As Tolstoy said, “It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.”
But I digress.
If you’re interested in meeting up, please come to Jake Peterson’s Microbrewery on Fifth and Pine this Saturday at 6 p.m. (Valentine’s Day). I’ll be the one in leather pants.
Looking forward to it, Anna I. Harris
PS Don’t ask what the “I” stands for because I won’t tell you.
On a rush of adrenaline, I typed the message and the email address from the card Emily had given me, and hit send. And then I reveled in my courage and guts and ability to seize the moment, taking wide steps around my apartment with my head held high. I smiled at my reflection and the inspiration of meeting at the microbrewery, most likely brought on by the picturesque barley field of Lucy and George’s first kiss.
I also patted myself on the back—literally, in front of the mirror—for having the tits to schedule the date for V-day.
I spent a full minute congratulating myself, dwelling on my amazingness, before anxiety hit me like a punch in the throat.
What have I done?
Nervous wreck? Basket case? How about deer caught in headlights?
Oh yeah, all those idioms and more.
What am I doing here? What are you doing?
I glanced down at my outfit—leather pants. Leather-fracking-pants. Leather pants purchased from a thrift store. I was in someone else’s leather pants.
As a college student responsible for my own bills, I couldn’t afford brand-new leather pants. But I was also a cosplay aficionado, and therefore owned leather pants.
You know, for costumes.
My part-time job working at the Natural History Museum’s swanky restaurant as a server allowed me to maintain the ostentat
ious lifestyle to which I’d become accustomed: a 1992 Honda Civic with no original parts, tragic romance novels, early edition—and maybe a little moldy—fiction classics, boxes of wine, ramen noodles, and thrift store finds for my cosplay costumes. My modest student loans helped cover school costs beyond my academic scholarships; I was determined to graduate with as little debt as possible.
Besides, the best things in life can all be found at thrift stores. Just ask my collection of David Bowie faces on Labyrinth-themed coffee mugs.
But back to now, because right now, I was certifiable. I needed to find the nearest sane person and sign over my rights to decision making, or at least give them my laptop. Might as well throw in my passcode to the computer lab on campus.
Severely apprehensive, I glanced around the microbrewery and rehearsed for the seventh time all the excuses I could give to leave early when he eventually showed up . . . if he showed up.
It was already five minutes after 6:00 p.m.
He is not coming. You are a moron in a stranger’s leather pants, and he is not coming because you are a moron. This is what you get for reading all those books.
I tucked my hair—worn in a halo of curls—nervously behind my ear and glanced at my watch again, unable to miss the cleavage beneath the purple V-neck I’d decided to wear.
I’d justified it earlier by reminding myself that today was laundry day. What I didn’t want to think about was showing up in leather pants and my green granny sweater, the only other clean item in my closet.
Chewing on my lip, I shifted in my seat. The waiter looked my way and our eyes met. His gaze flickered to my chest. He smiled shortly. He turned and attended to another table. The knot in the pit of my stomach twisted.
Oh great, now Mr. I-am-married-waiter-guy feels sorry for Ms. Ridiculous-in-leather-pants. I rolled my eyes, reminding myself that no one looks good in leather pants, not in real life.
Then, I looked up and saw leather pants.
Leather pants, leather boots, leather jacket, leather motorcycle gloves, and blue eyes. The bluest eyes I’d ever seen. As mesmerizing as his eyes were, I couldn’t help but notice the rest of him. Thick muscular thighs, broad muscular chest and arms, square-cut jaw, and blond spiked hair. For a moment, I thought he was him. My blind date.
However, a split second later, as I attempted to swallow my lust, I’d convinced myself he was not him.
Yes, he had blond hair like Emily had described. Yes, he had blue eyes. Yes, he was tall. But, Lucas had also been described as “artsy.” This man sure as hell wasn’t artsy. Sure, his body was a work of art, his movements were artful, but I’d never describe him as “artsy.”
Not-artsy was combing the brewery, turning his head this way and that as though searching for someone. I hadn’t had time to compose myself when his eyes locked with mine, and then it was impossible to tear my gaze away.
He smirked.
I swallowed.
He walked toward me.
I swallowed again.
He halted at my table, but I was out of saliva and my mouth felt cottony and useless.
He dipped his head as though waiting for me to speak. Finally, raising his eyebrows, he asked, “Anna I. Harris?”
The sound of my name coming from his mouth broke me from the trance.
I stood inelegantly, causing the chair to scrape noisily on the wood floor, and extended my hand. “Yes, um—yes! I’m Anna, you must be—”
He cut me off, moving a chair closer to mine and said, “Sit.”
And I did. My face flushed with embarrassment. What am I? A dog? Sit. Bark. Roll over. My face flushed again, this time from unbidden images of me rolling over with him on top.
Whoa!
He was watching me, his elbow resting carelessly on the table, and I burned brighter under his scrutiny. Realizing I could clear my throat, I did.
“So, um, thanks for coming.” I glanced up, meeting his scrutiny.
He examined me with obvious interest before clearing his throat. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh. Okay.” I sat straighter in my seat. “Uh, I’m a third year chemical engineering major. I work at the Natural History Museum as a server in the restaurant, but I have an internship lined up for next fall at—”
“This isn’t a job interview.” He was smiling, and it continued to grow by the slowest of degrees until his eyes ignited and sparkled; at least to me they appeared to be sparkling. “Tell me about you. Where did you grow up?”
“A few hours outside of Chicago. And you?”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No. But I have two cousins I’m very close to. They’re a few years older, but my aunt watched me while my dad worked, so they felt like older siblings.”
“What do they do?”
“Um, Marie is a journalist in Chicago, and Abram,” I had to pause, because my cousin Abram was incorrigible, but also awesome. “He’s a musician in New York. Do you have any siblings?”
“One sister, older, Dominika. She’s . . .” He gave me a look that communicated both exasperation and affection. “She’s a handful. What about your parents? How did they meet?”
“Uh, let’s see.” I grinned at him, unable to help myself. Being near him felt electrifying, exciting. Or he was magnetic. Or his obvious interest in me made me feel magnetized toward him. Something like that. “My parents were nurses. They met in Nigeria—where my mother was from—when my father worked for Doctors Without Borders in the late nineteen eighties.”
“Was from?” He tilted his head to the side just slightly, frowning.
“Yes.” I nodded, feeling myself grow rigid. “My mother died when I was little.”
His expression noticeably softened, and—as though I’d caught him off guard—he blurted, “My mother died when I was eight.”
At his admission, my breath caught. Jeez. What were the chances?
I wanted to cover his gloved hand with mine, offer comfort. I knew it still hurt to think about, let alone discuss. But I stayed my fingers and instead leaned forward.
“Really?”
He nodded, rubbing his bottom lip with his forefinger, his stare thoughtful. “What brought you to New England?” A hint of what sounded like suspicion entered his voice.
“College. I thought about going to the University of Chicago, or maybe Michigan, but I wanted a change.” I knew I needed new experiences, new people, new places. I needed to force myself to be adventurous before life became a predictable series of days, each an exercise in responsible adulthood.
Silence fell between us as my gaze flickered over Lucas. The silence wasn’t awkward, and it wasn’t heavy. It just was. It struck me that today—this moment—was the most adventurous I’d been since leaving home. And that left me wondering if this guy was for real.
His body inclined forward and he studied me studying him. “Am I not what you expected?” he asked quietly, like the question was a secret between us.
My eyes widened and I automatically shook my head. “No, of course I—” I looked away, searching for a plausible and polite half-truth that wouldn’t have me admitting he was better than I’d expected. Ultimately, I decided the best way to keep things from getting weird was to admit as little as possible.
So I lifted my eyes again. “Well, actually, yes. You are not what I expected.”
He raised his eyebrows and scooted his chair closer. “How so?”
I smiled, feeling more at ease and more anxious at the same time. “Well, Emily said you were artsy and somehow . . .” I gestured to him with my hand, unable to finish my sentence.
His expression unreadable, he responded flatly, “I’m not artsy.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. His smile returned, small but genuine, and so did the sparkle in his eyes. This time it felt sharper, more purposeful.
Indicating with his chin to my lower half, he said, “Nice pants.”
My laughter faded. I tucked a curl behind my ear and narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, well, you
rs aren’t bad either. Where do you shop? The Leather Warehouse?”
Leaning back in his chair, he smirked and pulled off the leather jacket and gloves, like he’d just made up his mind to stay awhile. Removing his jacket revealed a charcoal-gray T-shirt that proved my suspicions about his chest right. Realizing I was staring, I forced myself to look away. “So, um, Emily said—”
Glancing to the side and exhaling, he shook his head. “Look, I need to tell you something.”
Oh God. He’s married. He’s a eunuch. He’s gay. He hates my leather pants.
I tried not to let my panic show as he stared at me. Making certain I was paying attention, he leaned in close. “I’m not who you think I am.”
My eyebrows pulled low, evidence of my confusion.
He continued, “I think you sent me that email by accident. I don’t know anyone named Emily. And no one tried to set me up with an Anna.”
My jaw dropped in despair and a rush of intense embarrassment seized my insides. “Oh my God.” I stood, reached for my bag, and backed away from the table.
Clearly anticipating my movements, the stranger grabbed my hand. This didn’t deter me from intermittently muttering curses and apologies.
“I’m so sorry, this is not, I mean, I’m sorry you came all the way to—I don’t know what the hell I was—you are definitely not—and I’m not—”
“Listen,” he stood and moved his grip from my hand to my elbow, “wait.”
I raised my eyes to his, shaking my head. “Why did you even come?”
He took a step forward, dwarfing me. His hand felt strong and sure—I noticed this without wanting to—and he shifted it to my waist, holding me still and sending heat to my stomach.
