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, and 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 to 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 lead 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.

On instinct, I yawned as the pressure built in my ears.

“The pressure,” I murmured.

“Pardon?” I felt his gaze move back to me, studying my profile.

I motioned to my head, explaining, “The pressure, from the rapid ascent. I’m not tired, even though I’m yawning.”

His eyebrows inched upward, but he said nothing. Just looked at me. He looked at me like I was the weird one in this elevator. This banal looking made my neck itch beneath the starched collar of my work shirt.

“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, all 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.