Kissing Galileo: Dear Professor Book #2

by Penny Reid

  I tried to follow, but it was like we were having two different conversations. He . . . stopped eating? “Why? Why would you do that?”

  He seemed to steady himself for a second before lifting his eyes to mine. “This is not me. And I’m afraid that you see me, and you think this is me”—Victor gestured to his body—“but when you finally see the real me—naïve, inexperienced, messy—you’ll know I’m not enough. You won’t want that person.”

  His words were a bucket of flaming, hot coals to my brain. Quite suddenly, I was no longer overwhelmed by the feels. Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m mad at him!

  “That person? Victor, you won’t let me close enough to know any version of you. You haven’t kept me at arm’s distance, you’ve kept me at a football field’s distance, leaving tiny pellets of personal anecdotes outside the gate.” Now I held my hands wide to emphasize just how much distance. I hurried to add as my arms dropped, “And if you think I’m perfect, you are sadly mistaken. This”—I gestured to my body—“isn’t me. It’s a part of me, but my exterior will never tell the entirety of my story or of my value. Don’t you think I have the same kind of fears as you? Don’t you think everyone does?”

  His eyebrows flickered together. “You do?”

  “Of course. Of course, I do!” I turned away from him, pacing to the other end of the table and ranting, “You’re afraid of being rejected? Not being wanted for yourself? Hilarious. Welcome to the Emily and Victor show, where Emily takes whatever Victor is willing to give until he gives her absolutely nothing.”

  Something like panic seized his expression and he licked his lips, charging forward. “I was wrong. But I’m trying to fix myself so that I’ll be worthy of—”

  I lifted my hand to halt his forward momentum, meeting his gaze squarely. “People aren’t plumbing, Victor! There is no fixing people. And if you mention worthiness again, I will punch you in the throat.”

  Despite everything, his mouth tugged to the side. “There is some fixing, Em. I am working on myself, figuring things out. But you’re absolutely correct. I should’ve been honest, I shouldn’t have been afraid to tell you the truth, I should’ve trusted you. But every time I picked up the phone—”

  “Instead, you rejected me.”

  “I didn’t reject you!”

  “You’ve rejected me a lot. You’ve told me that nothing will happen between us, you stopped returning my calls and messages.” I was unable to keep the emotion out of my voice.

  My words seemed to torture him, and he was already shaking his head before I finished, “But that was because—”

  “If someone you were in love with ghosted you, how would that make you feel?”

  Suddenly, he was standing straighter, his eyes burning with an unholy brightness. “You’re in love with me?”

  Dammit! I hadn’t meant to admit that.

  “Stop changing the subject. We’re talking about you ghosting me.”

  “Me, the person you’re in love with, ghosting you, the person who’s in love with me.”

  “Victor!”

  “Sorry. Yes. You were saying.” He was grinning now. Or rather, he was trying not to grin.

  Meanwhile, I was flustered, and abruptly hot, and struggling to make my point. “How am I supposed to interpret ghosting? How would you interpret it if it happened to you? Would it scream, ‘I love you!’ Or would it make you feel like the other person didn’t care about you at all?”

  He snapped his mouth shut, his eyes narrowing, and the muscle at his jaw jumped.

  Ah ha! I got him. I had him. My logic > his logic.

  It was my turn to give him a small smile that I felt certain didn’t reach my eyes. “Victor. Come on. I have all the evidence in the world that you don’t care about me.”

  “I do care about you. I’m in love with you,” he said firmly, his eyes flashing little hot frustration fires, his square jaw lifting stubbornly.

  “So you keep saying.” I gave my head a little shake even as my heart fluttered happily at his words. Inspecting him, I reminded myself of how it felt each time he rejected me. My heart ceased fluttering. “But your actions spell out indifference, or confusion at best. Cruel game playing and manipulation at worst.”

  His eyes a shade of petulant green, sharp and calculating, obviously he was no longer afraid. Clearly, the accidental admission of my feelings had calmed and reassured the most frantic, fearful part of himself. And presently, he looked only wickedly determined, much to my chagrin. This single-minded, scheming expression effectively shoved aside my good sense and melancholy, it caused a thrill to race along my spine and set off flares of anticipatory heat low in my stomach.

  Goodness, this man’s cutting intellect—even just the hint of it—got me so damn hot.

  I braced myself for some kind of sexy logic assault as he peered down at me, tilting his head to one side as though considering a puzzle. “Or, do my actions spell out concern?” His voice was so different now. It was his professor voice—confident, firm, exacting—and it also got me hot.

  “For who?” I squinted at him, not wanting him to see how he affected me.

  “For you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. For you.”

  I squared my shoulders and crossed my arms. BAH! I just wanted to-to-to . . . smack him and kiss him and scream and take off his pants.

  “You stop returning my messages because you’re concerned about me? How does that work? Please. Explain it to me like I’m a two-year-old who hasn’t taken a nap, because that’s about where my patience is right now.”

  A hint of amusement and appreciation lit behind his eyes, but they quickly dissolved into a hazy stare of solemnity. “I told myself, when the time came, when you fell for someone else, I would tell you the truth. I promised myself I would wish you well and end things in person. I would be upfront and honest, not ask anything of you, and let you go.”

  I stared at him, struggling hard to make sense of his words. “End our friendship? Are you saying you planned to stop talking to me as soon as I had a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?!” He was so frickin confusing!

  “Because I’m in love with you and—”

  “Ah! You’re making me crazy!” I shook my fists in the air.

  “—seeing you with someone else would be—was—too painful. I convinced myself I would never be enough for you. When I saw you with Anna’s cousin, and how he touched you and led you away, I assumed you were together.”

  “We aren’t, we weren’t—”

  “Yes, I know that now. But at the time I thought you were with him, and that meant the next time we spoke I would have to end things.”

  “So you . . . what? Stopped talking to me instead?”

  “No. Yes-no-I mean, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call and follow through with my plan. I couldn’t just walk away and wish you well. I thought maybe I could still be your friend, but every time I thought about you with someone else, it felt like—” He cut himself off, turning away, breathing out roughly.

  “So instead of picking up the phone to either end things or tell me how you feel, you instead wait until we run into each other, and then proceed to chase me around the library and kiss me, all the while thinking I was with Abram?” I asked, completely incredulous.

  And yet, also a little thrilled. So, yes. I’m a weirdo.

  He nodded, eying me again. “Yes.”

  “Were you ever going to call me?” Irritatingly, my voice cracked. “If we hadn’t run into each other? Did you ever think how hurt I would be? Did it ever occur to you that leaving me without a word would hurt me?”

  Victor’s eyes grew glassy, his features pained, remorseful as I spoke, and she shifted restlessly on his feet. “Honestly? No. I thought you would just. . .”

  “What? Not care that I’d lost a really, really good friend?” My stupid voice cracked again. “You hurt me, Victor. Again.”

  Rushing forward like he couldn’t help h
imself, he gently fit my cheeks in his palms and stole a slow, sweet kiss. Not the with-tongue kind. The soft, searching press of lips kind, like our first kiss all those months ago, the one I’d been daydreaming about—and then feeling guilty for daydreaming about—since.

  My arms unfolded and I gripped his wrists, needing the solid strength of him to keep my balance. Giving the seam of my mouth a single, light, teasing lick that made my stomach clench and my breath catch, but that I’m pretty sure he didn’t realize was teasing, he rested his forehead against mine.

  “Emily, you are right. I was thoughtless and selfish. I’m so incredibly sorry I hurt you. I never want to hurt you. Please, let me make it up to you. Please, let me make this right.”

  “Be honest with me. Stop hiding. Stop walking away.”

  “I will. God, I promise I will. But this baggage I carry, it’s my own, and you don’t deserve to be burdened with it.”

  “But if we both carry it, it’ll be lighter. And you haven’t seen my baggage yet. I might have a matching set.” It was official. I’d melted. I’d already forgiven him. Dosh garnit! When had it happened? I was doomed. DOOMED!

  He breathed a little laugh, the sexy sound distracting me. “You deserve someone experienced, who can lead instead of follow. Someone certain, someone tested, someone proven.” Victor swallowed, cleared his throat, and yet his voice was still raspy when he added, “Someone who isn’t afraid.”

  I shook my head, careful to maintain the connection between our foreheads. “I don’t care if you’re inexperienced, unproven, untested. I don’t care about that. And I don’t care if you’re afraid, because—God—I’m so afraid. I’m terrified.” I swallowed, feeling the welling of tears and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop them. Allowing my chin to wobble, I took a deep breath, hating how I knew my voice would sound but needing to say the words. “The only thing I care about is whether or not you have enough courage to trust me, to have faith in me, that you can share every part of yourself, this person you keep locked up and hidden, and I won’t turn into a Jane Eyre.”

  A surprised laugh erupted from his chest as he leaned away, his thumbs gently catching and wiping away my tears like they were precious to him, his gaze cherishing. “Jane Eyre?”

  I shifted my grip to his shoulders, still not trusting him to stay, and sniffled, swallowing, gaining enough control over my vocal cords to choke out, “I mean, you can’t really blame Jane. However, for the record, if you have a pyromaniac wife locked up in your tower and she wants to murder me, I’d still be willing to give things a try between us.”

  His lips were pressed together but he was laughing for real now, albeit quietly. His shoulders shook beneath my hands.

  I sniffled again. “Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but I’m just saying it wouldn’t be a dealbreaker.”

  “You are hilarious.” Victor kissed my forehead and wrapped me in his arms, my cheek pressed against his chest. He waited a beat, his laughter dissipating, before whispering urgently, “Please. Please give me one more chance. Please.”

  Two fat tears rolled down my cheeks and I heaved a sad sigh. “Please, don’t break my heart.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” He said the words like an oath, adding roughly, “Not even if you break mine.”

  Chapter 20

  *Emily*

  “So you just forgave him? That’s it?” Anna sounded completely horrified.

  I shook my head. “No. No, no, no. There will be groveling. Mark my words.” That was a lie. I was lying and that was a lie. There would be no groveling. I’d already forgiven him and now I was lying to my best friend because I really wanted her to like Victor again, and the only way she would do that is if she thought I was making him work for it.

  Anna nodded her approval, her eyebrow slightly raised. “Good. For the record, I expect begging.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And many reparations.”

  “Indeed. Me too.”

  “I’m talking wine.”

  “Absolutely. That’s what I was thinking.”

  “And doing all the dishes for the rest of your natural lives.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Foot massages.”

  “Wait. I need to write these down. Let me find a pen.”

  She turned to her left, grabbed a pen from the jar by my toaster and an old receipt. “Here. Use this. And many thoughtful gifts that reflect he knows and cares about your interests and passions.”

  I made a show of writing on the back of the receipt, but the pen didn’t work. Tossing it in the trash, I walked out of the kitchen toward my room. “I know I have a pen in my bag.”

  “Emily.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m serious.” She was close behind, trailing me.

  “So am I.”

  “If he doesn’t recognize your worth, I will stab him.”

  “You’re so violent.” I glanced at her over my shoulder. “I like that about you.”

  Inside my room, she leaned against the doorjamb, her arms crossed. “Do. Not. Forgive. Him. Again. Got it? After this, no more chances.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at her demand but said nothing as I searched my purse. We both knew I was a serial forgiver.

  After a few minutes of searching, I made a face at the gaping darkness of my purse. “How can I not have a pen in my bag?”

  “You have more in the jar by the toaster. I’ll go get one. This list is important!” She turned and darted out of my room just as the interior of my bag lit up.

  My phone was ringing.

  A thrill shot through me, anticipation cinching my throat. I fumbled for my cell. I hadn’t called or initiated any text conversations with Victor since the scene in the library two days ago, but he’d messaged me plenty. After an extended hug and another kiss that was just on the precipice of getting wild, Anna had come back in and brought reality with her. As much as I wanted to go hide somewhere with Victor for the rest of my life, I still had a final to study for.

  He’d excused himself with a promise to call me later, which he did. And then he brought over dinner for both Anna and me that night so we could keep studying. He texted me several times yesterday—to check in, to see if I needed anything, to invite me to dinner after my test, to tell me he was thinking about me—and each time I felt my heart and head relax a little, cautiously trusting his words from the library a little more.

  Anna didn’t ask about what happened between us until just this afternoon, now that my last test was over. As soon as I walked into my apartment, she appeared out of thin air. Obviously, she’d let herself in, and felt it necessary to scare a fart out of me as she jumped into my path in the kitchen.

  “Now that your exam is over, TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED WITH VICTOR!” she’d demanded.

  Presently, I struggled to get a good grip on my phone and extract it from the alternate dimension that was the interior of my bag—where space and matter cease to function according to the laws of physics—bringing it to my ear and answering breathlessly, “Hello?”

  “Emily.”

  “Victor.” I said his name on a sigh. A happy sigh. A super happy sigh.

  “How are you? Your test is over, right?”

  “Yes. All done.” I tossed my bag to the bed and didn’t even care when I missed and it hit the floor. An irrepressible smile claimed my mouth, one that felt like it originated within the mitochondria of every cell in my body.

  He was calling to check on me and it felt so natural and right. This is what I want.

  “Do you still want—” He seemed to stop himself, pause, like he was reconsidering what he’d been about to say. I heard a chair or something creak in the background. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper, firmer. “What time should I pick you up tonight?”

  “About tonight, I’ve been thinking.” I sat on the edge of my bed, working to arrange my thoughts in an order that was sensical. “Do you want to stay in?” We were supposed to go out to dinner—our first official
date—but I knew he didn’t like public places.

  “No. I don’t. I want to take you out.”

  I debated how to best get my point across, that I wanted him to be comfortable.

  But then he said, “You’re hesitating, wanting to say the right thing, not wanting to upset me. Don’t do that. Just say what you’re thinking.”

  “Fine.” He asked for it. “You don’t like restaurants. I don’t want you uncomfortable during our first date.”

  “I appreciate that.” He sounded like he was smiling. “But I’ve been thinking, maybe a little discomfort would be good for me. Without experimentation, there is no data.”

  “Well, there’s data, but it’s a retrospective study rather than prospective.”

  “However, you can never establish causation—with any confidence—utilizing a retrospective cohort. Causation can only be established using a prospective study design.”

  “And double-blind randomization,” I added, another thought occurring to me as I said these words. I wondered if I should push the flirt envelope . . . Why not? I needed to be allowed to be myself with him. I couldn’t always be second-guessing every word. If this was going to work, he was going to have to accept me for who I was. Period.

  So, I just said it. “Are you saying you want me to blindfold you?”

  He made a choking sound and I heard something thump and then clatter in the background, like an object had been dropped.

  “Victor?”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “Sorry. Coffee went down the wrong pipe.”

  I grinned. And then I laughed. “Okay. How about you pick me up at seven?”

  “Sounds good.” His voice was still rough, strained. “See you then.”

  “I’ll bring the blindfolds.”

  A beat. A breath. And then, “Emily.”

  My name was a plea.

  I giggled. Evilly.

  What? He said he wanted discomfort.

  Being on a date with Victor turned out to be just like hanging out with Victor except for a few details.