by Penny Reid
“I’m not the weird one,” I blurted, frowning at his non-expression. “If one of us is the weird one, it’s you.”
The side of his mouth tugged upward at the same time he cocked a single eyebrow. “I’m the weird one?”
“Yep. You’re the weird one.” I nodded at my own words, facing the elevator panel and not looking at Luca. “I’m the normal one.”
He huffed what sounded like an incredulous laugh. “Yes. Very normal. You chose to drop a class and take an F instead of finishing with an A.”
My mouth fell open just as the elevator dinged, announcing our arrival. Before I could speak, Luca grabbed my hand again and pulled me after him into the dark hallway, leading me three steps inside before releasing my fingers.
“Hey,” I protested when I found my voice. “What was I supposed to do?”
I listened as his footsteps echoed away from me. A light switched on above us, illuminating the fact that we weren’t in a hallway at all. We were in a large foyer of what appeared to be a massive apartment.
I took a moment to get my bearings, searching the space. The décor and architecture were extremely modern. Surrounded by grays and whites and natural wood on all sides, paintings and sculptures hung on the walls. A gigantic living room lay just beyond where Luca stood with a long bar off to one side. A floor-to-ceiling window spanned the entire length and overlooked the city and park beyond.
I refocused my attention on him just as he turned and sauntered—yes, sauntered—into the living area and to the bar. “Do you want something to drink?”
The polished, understated yet immense lavishness of my surroundings made me feel small and shabby in comparison.
Meanwhile, Luca—who was tugging off his gloves—looked . . . at home.
If he was trying to intimidate me with his slow, sensual glove removal and the immense lavishness, it wouldn’t work. Yes, I felt shabby and small, but that’s okay. I was shabby and small. There’s nothing wrong with being shabby and small. Hobbits are shabby and small and look how badass they are.
Plus, second breakfasts for the win.
Lifting my chin and dropping my bag by the door, I followed his footsteps into the living room and to the bar. “Yes. I’ll have a Shirley Temple—”
He made a scoffing sound.
The sound ended abruptly as I finished, “—with vodka.”
His eyes darted to mine as he placed his gloves on the bar. “Then it’s not a Shirley Temple.”
“I don’t care what you call it as long as you make it.” I shrugged, mentally high-fiving myself for sounding so calm and not doofus-like. Riding the wave of verbal success, I asked, “Why are we here?”
“We need to talk.” He pulled out a can of 7 Up, a bottle of Zyr, and set to mixing my drink.
“I already told you in the restaurant, I have nothing to say to you.”
“You said I was withholding myself from you, you said I give you nothing.”
I flinched, my breath catching and my heart twisting at the memory. Unable to speak as Luca finished preparing our drinks, I sat numbly on a barstool and clutched my hands together on my lap.
I hadn’t expected him to be so direct.
“I can understand now why that upset you,” he noted simply, walking around the bar to take the stool next to mine. He faced me, his gaze traveling down and then up my body in a way that felt meaningful, then added in a roughened tone, “I don’t like it when you withhold yourself from me. You shouldn’t have dropped the class.”
Struggling to keep hold of my wits and anger, I fought a rising heat caused by his blatant once-over of my form and by his blunt words, but my voice cracked tellingly as I asked, “Again, what was I supposed to do?”
He tilted his head to the side, glaring at me, his elbow resting on the bar, the back of his hand brushing against his lips. “I don’t like it when you leave.”
“Are you talking about after the . . . kiss? You told me to go.”
“I didn’t like it.”
I glanced at the ceiling, growling, then returned my scowl to his granite expression. “You ignore me. You k-kiss me. You tell me to leave. And now you tell me you don’t like it when I leave. What do you want from me, Luca?”
Crap. I hated that I stumbled over the word kiss. But saying it to him or discussing what we’d done, even though it made no logical sense, felt forbidden somehow.
“Finish the semester.” Leaning slightly forward, he placed his palm on the bar between us. “Finish what you started. For once.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” I endeavored to keep my temper out of my tone because his words made me irrationally angry. “I finish what I start, thankyouverymuch.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’ll have you know I’ve completed over seventeen jigsaw puzzles just this year and I’ve never DNF-ed a book, though sorely I’ve been tempted.”
“Oh. I see. You just don’t follow through with things that are difficult.”
I winced, clutching my heart. “Wow. Wow . . . wow. And ouch.”
Luca’s gaze dropped to the carpet and he sighed, which sounded frustrated.
“You’re kind of mean,” I said to the room, and then nodded to myself. “But I guess I already knew that.”
He cleared his throat and returned his attention to me, the lines of his face hard, unyielding. “Come back.” It was a demand.
“No.”
“You want to be there. You love it.”
“How would you know? You never look at me.” I picked up my not-Shirley Temple and took a sip. It was strong, but it also tasted like bravery.
“I see you, Anna.” His voice lowered an octave, as though he were endeavoring to control his temper; his hand on the bar inched closer. “It’s impossible not to see you.”
“Yeah, well, then you’re good at pretending I’m invisible.” I gulped my drink.
He waited a beat, inspecting me, before speaking again in a hushed tone. “If I looked at you, if I called on you, if I allowed myself to debate with you during class, I would never speak to anyone else.”
“So you ignore me.” I licked my lips, tasting the sweet soda and grenadine on my lips, turning my gaze to his.
His attention was on my mouth. “Yes. For your benefit as well as mine.”
“How is you ignoring me beneficial to me? I’d really like to know.”
He paused, his stare sharpening into a glare. “You’re very young.”
“Thank you . . . ?”
Luca’s eyes lifted to mine. “You’re impetuous.”
“Enough with the compliments, Luca. I’m blushing,” I deadpanned through clenched teeth, the ball of frustration in my chest ballooning to near critical size.
“I’m your professor—”
“Were my professor. Past tense.”
“I never should have kissed you.”
“Which time?” I seethed, his statement a punch in the stomach.
Luca nodded, as though accepting the veracity of my anger. “It was inappropriate and wrong, and I’m . . .” Luca gathered a deep breath, giving me the impression he was preparing to speak rehearsed words, “I apologize for my inappropriate behavior. If you want to drop the class, I will sign off. If you want to report me to my Department Chair, I fully support your decision.”
In a fit of fury-fueled insanity, I spat, “Report you for what? Kissing me? In case you’re confused about where I stood on the subject of us kissing, I was all for it.”
The muscle at his jaw jumped, and he continued with his prepared speech as though I hadn’t spoken, “Despite my regrettable actions, I take my role as your professor seriously. You deserve an impartial teacher, and I have failed you. But I could not let you go. . .” He paused to swallow, giving me the sense he needed a second before finishing his thought. “I could not let you drop the class when it is I who am to blame.”
I tried to keep up with him, and I was certain I missed most of the nuance behind his words. Because, ultimately, a
ll my yearning heart heard was: I regret kissing you, kissing you was wrong. Maybe with a side of, You’re too young for me, and Let’s keep things professional from now on.
And now I understood what it was to feel truly wretched.
Glaring at him, I lifted my chin. “I don’t care what you say, I don’t regret anything. You can’t take blame for something I refuse to feel upset about. And I think you’re a jerk for telling me you regret it. A jerk and a coward.”
Unexpectedly, the side of his mouth tugged upward, and I didn’t think it was my imagination when he swayed forward a scant inch.
But his eyes were seasoned with sadness as he whispered, “Wait for your Pierre, Natasha.”
My planned volley of sarcasm died in my throat, strangled by his comparison. I could only stare at him.
That’s not entirely true. I could only blink and stare at him, my mouth working to no purpose, because if he considered me to be Natasha, then Luca was . . .
He thinks he’s Andrei.
Part 11
** ANNA **
“ . . . send you the remainder of the assignments. As stated in my email, the TA can administer missed coursework . . .”
I frowned at him, at the pleasing cadence of his voice, at his gorgeous face. I hadn’t been listening. My brain was stuck in the past. Specifically, stuck on his words from moments ago, when he’d called me Natasha.
Because, how could I not fixate on the comparison?
Natasha, lovely, lively, spirited Natasha.
Naïve Natasha, ruled by her emotions.
Disloyal Natasha, easily seduced by the scoundrel—shoot! What’s that guy’s name?
Repentant Natasha, but not repentant enough for Andrei.
She was never enough for Andrei, doomed to failure from the start.
I decided I disliked his analogy.
I hated it.
Meanwhile, Luca was still talking.
“ . . . don’t need to come into class, if you have no desire to attend. But I hope you—”
“I resent the comparison,” I announced. Loudly. Smacking the bar with my palm.
Luca pressed his lips into a thin line, his jaw ticking, his gaze growing hooded. “Anna—”
“Don’t say my name. No more saying my name!” I stood and marched to the door. I heard his muted footfalls on the carpet as he trailed me.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home,” I grumbled, retrieving my bag from the floor and pressing the elevator call button. I was so done with him.
Stick a fork in this BS.
“Then I’ll see you in class.”
I scoffed, gritting my teeth as I turned to face him. “Yeah. Sure. Fine. See you in class, Professor Kroft. Sounds good, Professor Kroft.” I jabbed the call button again. “Whatever you say, Professor Kroft.”
Luca shoved his fine fingers in his pants pockets and glowered at me—one eyebrow slightly higher than the other—as though my sarcastic outburst had just proved his point: immature Natasha and sophisticated Andrei never belonged together.
Doomed.
This was not the first time he’d made me feel like less. Like I wasn’t worthy of . . . him. His time. Rationally, I knew this feeling was dissonant with the truth. He’d gone out of his way to contact me, keep me in his class. As a teacher, he was doing his due diligence.
As a man, he’d kissed me for Frodo’s sake! TWICE!
And yet, as much as I recognized he was an excellent teacher, a brilliant professor, and gifted scholar, I didn’t like him—the man—very much. Because, as a man—after the kisses were over—I’d felt small and shabby.
And not in a badass Hobbit way either.
“Anna—”
“You know,” I rounded on him, holding a hand up between us, “just stop. Stop. I get it. I do. You’re attracted to me, or you were—whatever—and I’m your student, or I was. But I’m also young, and not just age-wise. I’m young in a perpetually immature, goofy-person way. Which means I’m ‘not your kind of nice.’ Even if we were the same age, or if I were older than you, I’d still be ‘not your kind of nice.’”
I watched him gather a deep breath, watched as his eyes moved between mine and his lips parted as though he wanted to contradict. But he didn’t. He swallowed and said nothing.
I didn’t expect him to speak. I knew he wasn’t my kind of nice either. How could I judge him for sharing the same thoughts? I couldn’t.
We didn’t fit. We didn’t make sense. We never would.
Dooooooomed!
The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. I tore my gaze from his and stepped onto the lift, my heart heavy as I pressed the button for the parking garage.
Luca placed his hand on the space where the door disappeared into the wall, keeping it from sliding shut. “Will I see you in class?” he asked quietly, his tone tight and refrained.
I gave him a small, humorless smile. “How about this. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll re-enroll if you promise to call on me during class once a week.”
I didn’t expect him to agree. I expected him to scoff, to lift an indifferent eyebrow and dismiss me without a word. I’d even begun digging in my bag, searching for my keys, because I considered the matter settled.
“Fine. Deal,” he said, removing his hand from the doorway.
My head snapped up and I gaped at him, shocked. “Deal?”
“Deal.” He nodded once, his lips a grim line, his serious eyes more somber than I’d ever seen them.
“But—”
“See you Monday,” he said gruffly.
Then the door closed.
The elevator descended.
I was caught, ensnared in a trap of my own design.
Part 12
** LUCA **
My older sister lived in our father’s building. She received a monthly stipend, deposited into her personal bank account automatically, as recompense of her efforts on behalf of the family.
She accompanied our father on trips, served as a hostess for his parties, and shelved her own interests—personal and professional—in favor of his whims.
Dominika didn’t complain. Nor did she appear to be unhappy with the arrangement.
She’d emerged from what our father called the rebellious phase, a period during which his children were determined to live their life outside of his influence, make their own decisions, and thus relentlessly dissatisfy him.
I was still in my rebellious phase.
If his opinion wasn’t consulted, even successes were a disappointment. Scholarships, degrees, awards, grants—all meaningless.
Ultimately, however, and despite my fiercest efforts, Sergey Kroft’s influence was impossible to escape. He’d made certain of that.
“Dr. Kroft,” Dr. McGovern stood as I entered his office; he extended a hand if not a genuine smile. “Please come in, sit.”
I walked to a new set of leather club chairs and took the one closest to the door. The Persian rug was new, as were the shelves lining both walls, the conference table, the stained glass lamps, and the desk. My attention idled on what appeared to be a gold- plated stapler next to a futuristic looking conferencing telephone.
The forthcoming discussion was certain to be uncomfortable, now even more so with evidence of my father’s influence infiltrating every corner, and this was precisely why I hadn’t wanted to bring Anna into this world, my father’s world.
“What do you need?” The head of my department rested in his wingback desk chair, tepid smile in place.
“An impartial mediator is needed for a student in the summer session.” Impatience to have this exchange over imbued my tone with clipped efficiency.
Outcome certain, I saw no use delaying inexorable unpleasantness.
If circumstances had been different, if I’d earned my place as a tenured professor, if I—and Dr. McGovern—were free of Sergey Kroft’s influence, then I would be holding a resignation letter. No one would ever know that the captivating Anna I. Harris had been
my reason and I would breathe easier.
Reality held us both hostage, to a point.
Dr. McGovern tugged on the hidden tray holding his keyboard and moved his attention to the new flat screen monitor on his desk. “Why do you need the mediator?”
“Compromised impartiality.”
“Why?”
“I hope to become involved with the student.”
And there it was.
Dr. McGovern ceased typing. His stare slid from the monitor to mine, and held. Previous traces of forced friendliness now gone, a flinty expression emerged. This, at last, was sincere.
When I’d met Dr. McGovern years ago, a CRT monitor sat on his pressed wood desk. The office had been shabbily decorated in postmodern avocado greens, peeling vinyl chairs that smelled like cigarettes, and shag carpet, presumably bequeathed from one Department Chair to the next since the 1960’s.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way. . .”
Bracing for the impressive pomposity of the exceptionally hypocritical, I inclined my head for the Department Chair to continue.
“I imagine it must be difficult for you, not knowing if your position, your tenure has been earned, or if it was a consequence of your family’s generosity to this great institution.”
He paused, and we shared what I suspected was meant to be a meaningful look, one that left me in no doubt of his thoughts on the matter.
“If you were any other young faculty member—an adjunct, or an assistant professor—you would be dismissed for this. This is a small world we live in and your credibility would be destroyed.”
He paused, as though to let that sink in, before continuing philosophically, “And if you were any other tenured faculty member, you’d be old enough to know better. Or, you’d be dismissed, forced to quietly retire. Let me be clear, I would force you out. I do not tolerate harassment of my students, the preying upon of young people by those in authority.” His gaze dropped to the gold stapler I’d noticed earlier. “But we both know you are not any other professor.”
