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asks.
    “You mean like a professor?” Chloe asks, as he ascends the steps of Old Main. “You want him in torn jeans and a muscle tee?”
    “God, yes,” Sam breathes.
    “I think it’s cute,” I say. He disappears into the building and we all look away. I roll onto my back and look at the canopy of branches above us, willing my heart to settle down.
    “It’s the blazer that bothers you,” Ashley says to Sam wryly, “not the professor thing.”
    “As if you don’t know the answer to that question,” Sam says. I can just imagine her grinning like the Cheshire cat.
    “You’re shameless,” I say, trying to sound disdainful of violating such a taboo, and ignoring that little part of me that wishes I was brave enough to violate it myself.
    Or would that be stupid enough?
    I’m not sure I know.

Chapter 5
     
    At the end of class the following day, Professor Brooks wraps up our discussion the same way he always does: he comes away from the front of table (which he tends to lean against, instead of hiding behind the podium), claps his hands together once, and says, “Alright!”
    It’s kind of adorable. It’s also my least favorite part of the day, because it means class is over.
    “Make sure you come to the next class prepared to discuss Wittgenstein’s essay, ‘On Certainty.’ Have a good weekend everyone.”
    The class rumbles into action, gathering books and laptops and leaving their seats. From my usual spot in the back row, I watch half the freshman girls give him a goofy smile and wave as they leave. I’m not the only female in class with a crush on him, that’s for sure. In fact, I think I’ve identified at least one guy with a crush on him, too.
    I’ve been pointedly avoiding such giggly, obvious behavior. Instead, I’m hiding my childish obsession like a grown up. I don’t say hello or goodbye, and I try to look at him as little as possible (though I’ve become an expert at stealing glances). I stick to the back but haven’t been able to resist jumping into discussions. The class is out of my comfort zone but it’s fascinating the hell out of me.
    Today I have to break my don’t-engage-him-as-you’re-leaving-class rule.
    I approach his desk as he’s packing up his leather bag. I should be regretting the fact that I’m having to break my rule and get so close to him. I really should. But I’m not.
    He notices me and smiles. “Ah. Miss Procopio Caivano Nikas,” he says grandly.
    I stop short, my eyebrows raised.
    He lifts a little green folder. “They sent the updated roster.”
    “Ah.”
    He stuffs the folder in his bag and goes for his stack of books. “That’s quite the list of names you have there.”
    The list he has is still one short. “Family names,” I say, coming the rest of the way up to his desk. “You know how that goes.”
    “Are your family Greek or Italian?” he asks.
    I remember how he correctly identified the origin of the name Nikas on my first day. “Both,” I answer. “My maternal grandmother was Greek. She fell in love with my grandfather, an Italian Catholic, when he was in Greece on leave. She converted to the Catholic Church and everything. Being Greek Orthodox, it was quite the family scandal, as I understand it.”
    He smiles. “I can only imagine. The rules people will break for love.”
    He doesn’t see my reaction to this statement because he’s looking up toward the ceiling and furrowing his brows like he’s trying to remember something. I take in his profile and broad shoulders, my heart getting worked up yet again. It’s galloping away all on its own, as a matter of fact.
    “If I remember correctly, Procopio is the name of the first Christian martyr in Diocletian’s persecutions. Back in 300 AD, I think.”
    I laugh a little. I can’t help it. How the hell do you know that? I want to say. But he’s my professor, so instead I say, “Is it? Did you just... know that?”
    He smiles. “No. Google. I’m kind of a dork about names.”
    I