Love Him Desperate (On the Market #5) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,42
found himself smiling before he got the screen swiped open.
Raphael: You’re going to have a great day.
Dmitri: Bold of you to assume.
Raphael: My great secret—I’m psychic. Knock them all down, kleine Engel.
Dmitri: I think the phrase is knock them dead, you foreigner.
Raphael: I prefer not to have blood on my hands. Once they’re down, do with them what you will.
His heart hammered against the inside of his chest, and he hated so desperately the way Raphael made him feel—both like he was walking on air and sinking like a stone. He tucked his phone into his pocket again and felt the weight of the message like a physical thing, and it helped him put one foot in front of the other until he reached building D, the faded, cracked 106 plaque beside the room letting him know he’d made it.
The classroom beyond was dark though, not a soul in the seats, not a flicker of light from the halogens above. Maybe he had the wrong day, or the wrong time. Maybe the class was cancelled and he’d go in and sit there like a moron waiting for no one at all.
He felt a ridiculous urge to check his notebook where he’d scribbled the time, date, and room number like he was some high school freshman in a brand new city, and he wondered if anyone else was as off-kilter as he was. He’d never been very good at this—at retaining information, at speaking up, at standing out.
And college was supposed to be about that.
Wasn’t it?
Dmitri jolted when someone behind him cleared their throat, and he spun around to see a man there in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and torn jeans. He had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and his face was young, but a sprinkle of gray at his temples belied his age.
“Lost or nervous?” The man’s voice was soft but rumbled deep in his chest, and Dmitri liked it.
“Am I obvious?”
“A little, but I try not to judge,” the guy said. “First days are always the worst. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve done this.”
“Well…” Dmitri said, trying not to blush. “This would be my actual first.” The guy smiled softly and reached around him to tug the door open, and Dmitri felt a surge of panic. “There’s no one in there. Can you go in there if the teacher isn’t there?”
The guy chuckled. “I have it on good authority most professors prefer their students to be early.”
“So, you’re not a freshman,” Dmitri asked, taking shuffling steps in after him. The chill in the room didn’t match the heat outside, and suddenly he wished he’d gone with something warmer than his threadbare t-shirt he’d stolen from Wilder the night the mixer exploded globs of butter all over them both. Wilder had sent him home with the shirt, and he was grateful for his forgetfulness because it was like taking a small piece of home with him on a day like this.
Which of course made him feel more pathetic, because what twenty-year-old panicked over a fucking college class?
“I’m not a freshman,” the guy said with a chuckle. “I also recommend not sitting in the front row. Some people like the attention, but you look like a stiff breeze might knock you over.” The guy went about flicking on all the light switches, and Dmitri winced at the sharp brightness as he selected one of the long tables, taking the chair against the far wall.
“Is this guy a jerk or something?” Dmitri asked.
“Debatable. I think all professors here have mixed reviews. Did you check the message board online?”
Dmitri blinked at him. “I didn’t realize you could do that. I’m sure my fucking small town is showing now.”
The guy laughed again and shook his head. “It’s fine, trust me. You don’t need to panic. It’s just school.”
It’s just school wasn’t much of a help though, and Dmitri fought the urge to take out all his supplies just to give himself something to do, but he didn’t want to look like an epic nerd before anyone else arrived. “I just didn’t think I’d be doing this college thing like, ever. But I got this new job and…I have to. And I’m rambling.”
The guy smiled as he set his messenger bag on the front table and began to pull out a stack of books. “What’s your name?”
“Uh. Dmitri. Williams,” he added, then hated himself because who the fuck gave out their last name to random classmates?