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

Part 9

I met Luca in the parking lot, but didn't know how to feel about . . . anything.

Logicaling (of note, logicaling is not a real word, kids) my way through things was completely out of the question. Though I didn't know how to feel, I also felt too much.

I held myself back, stopping six feet from where he sat on his motorcycle, watching me silently as I approached holding his bottle of champagne.

Luca studied me with outward dispassion for a long moment, then offered me a helmet. "Put it on."

I lifted an eyebrow at the helmet, then at him. "No, thank you. I'll drive my car. Where do you want me to put this?" I held up the bottle.

"Keep it." Luca nodded once, apparently unfazed, and secured the helmet to the back of his motorcycle. "Follow me."

I wanted to ask, Follow you where? but I said nothing. This was likely because I was muddled, flustered by the sight of him and the unexpected kiss in the restaurant. My blood was still pumping hot and thick through my veins at the memory of him nipping and tasting my bottom lip.

If I boldly walked over to him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and bit his lip in a similar fashion . . . what would he do?

Before I could take any action, he revved his motorcycle to life. I jumped inelegantly, squeaking at the unexpected sound—only unexpected because my brain had been distracted with thoughts of boldly kissing him.

He glanced at me questioningly, as though to ask, Changed your mind? about the motorcycle ride.

I shook my head quickly and turned, jogging for my car two lanes over and arriving out of breath. After fumbling and fighting with my keys and discarding the champagne to my back seat, I was soon out of the employee lot.

I followed him off the museum grounds to the main thoroughfare, on the highway, off the downtown exit, left on Park Street, and into a parking garage for one of the high-rises overlooking the park and adjacent to the river.

I drove on autopilot, following without focusing too much on where we were going, where he was leading me. I was preoccupied.

We've kissed. Two times now. And I enjoyed it, a lot. I am no longer his student. He is no longer my professor. And he gave you an F for dropping his class. Do we like him? . . . I don't know. But we've kissed.

Unfortunately, I'd made it no further than these sentiments. They were a continuous loop in my brain even as Luca motioned for me to take a parking spot by the elevator—which I did—while he parked his bike behind a Mercedes adjacent to my car.

Luca opened my door just as I unbuckled my seatbelt, reaching in and holding my hand with his gloved fingers to help me stand. Saying nothing, he tugged me forward, shutting the door, and leading me to the elevator.

I swallowed tightly, glancing at his large hand holding mine, his encased in black leather.

What was happening? I wanted to ask. What were we doing?

Instead I managed, "Do you live here?"

His eyes flickered to me, holding mine just briefly before moving back to the elevator. "My family has a place in the building. It's not mine."

I nodded, trying to project an outward air of nonchalance to disguise my inner turmoil.

In unison, we stepped onto the elevator. He released my hand, pressed a button for the forty-seventh floor, and scanned a card at the panel.