Professor Adorkable by Edie Danford

Author:Edie Danford [Danford, Edie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Marek

This Saturday is Pete’s day off. Usually on his days and evenings off, I see him the same as usual. We’ll still share meals—takeout happens more often than not, at my insistence. Occasionally, he’ll go visit friends or family. And, occasionally, I’ll hint that I want to accompany him on these visits. He never takes the hints. I am bad at being subtle with hints, so I figure he’s understood what I asked, but preferred I didn’t go with him.

He’s almost always kind about it, but he probably needs a break from me on occasion. And introductions, especially early in our relationship, would’ve been awkward. This is Marek—he is the doofus professor who I work my ass off to take care of.

But now that Pete has agreed to become a part of my data set, I’m hoping he’ll begin thinking of me as a true friend. And, someday, as more than a friend. “Hashtag relationship goals,” as Zoe would say.

Pete hadn’t discussed his plans for this particular Saturday. We’d discussed mine ad nauseum.

I’m making additional plans to find out more about Pete’s plans as I finish putting on my much-debated “museum date outfit.” All of it is very form-fitting. Well, Zoe would call it form-fitting. I would call it tight. She would call the colors “cool.” And I would call them “too much.” The jeans are a deep shade of purple. The shirt is lavender with purple stripes. The sweater is a blue-gray. Zoe said something about it matching my eyes. This had set off a tiring debate about whether matching is the same as complementing, etcetera, etcetera.

I hear sounds down in the kitchen, so I don’t fiddle with adjusting collars—they can settle against my neck however. Pete’s door had been closed when I’d gone down for breakfast earlier. It sounds like, at last, he’s stirring.

In the mirror I frown at my hot-as-fuck hair—which is looking lukewarm because the sweater has smashed it on one side—and hurry down the stairs.

My socks slide on the floor as I round the corner into the kitchen. When Zoe and I had been out shopping yesterday, Pete had been doing floors even more vigorously than usual. I skid to a stop about ten centimeters from him.

“Whoa!” He takes a step back, putting a protective hand over a muffin on a plate.

“Sorry.”

We stared at each other. I feel my cheeks get hot. This isn’t our usual morning greeting. The look in Pete’s eyes as his gaze travels from my head to my feet, isn’t usual, either. On a regular day, he’d give me more than a brief glance, business-like but concerned, checking for stains or misbuttoned collars or mismatched socks.

Today, though, his eyes are wide, surprised. And I’m sure my own eyes are similar. Pete is wearing a suit. A suit that even I can tell is very nice. The dark fabric hugs his body and the necktie knotted against the snowy-white collar is a pinkish-purple shade that suits him perfectly. He’s done something to his hair too—maybe put one of Ro’s products in it?

“You look—” I begin.

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