A man in his mid-to-late thirties, presumably Dr. Victor Emmerson, was already standing behind the table, one jean-clad hip thrown out as he leaned over his notes, his scruffy black leather jacket tossed over a white T-shirt, a pair of reflective sunglasses folded and tucked into the shirt’s crew neck. His hair was shaggy, dark brown, and appeared not to have been combed since the day before. About three days’ worth of beard-shadow covered a strong jaw. He looked as if he took road trips on a Harley-Davidson. Everything about him oozed “cool, moody biker.” A far cry from the stuffy teachers she remembered from a few years earlier.

Maybe the class would be as interesting as she’d heard. She’d signed up because it was required for an undergraduate English degree and it sounded interesting. Even more so now.

Emmerson scratched at the stubble on his chin as he read his notes, flipping through pages, scowling at his own scribbles, only looking up when the door to the room opened and yet another student walked in and searched for a vacant desk.

The remaining spots to sit in were few and far between.

This class on Shakespeare was surprisingly popular and Kristi figured the fascination with the class had more to do with the sexy, unlikely professor than the Bard or his works. She slid her computer onto the desk to take notes and checked out the other students, several of whom looked familiar. Mai Kwan, her neighbor, was seated near the front of the room, several rows below Kristi, and a couple of girls who had been with Lucretia the day she’d come into the diner were huddled together near the windows. But the kicker was that just before class was to start, who should stroll in but Hiram Calloway, Kristi’s would-be apartment manager. She turned away quickly, hoping that he didn’t notice one of the few vacant seats was next to Kristi. Fortunately, he found another desk, near the back of the room.

Good.

The door slammed shut behind Hiram, and Emmerson checked the clock on the wall, then hit a button behind the podium, killing the music. Straightening, taking the entire class in with one broad look, he said, “Okay, I’m Professor Emmerson, this is Shakespeare two-o-one and if this isn’t the class you signed up for, leave now and make room for someone who intended to enroll. For those of you who have heard that this is an easy class, a guaranteed A, you, too, are welcome to exit.”

No one moved. The class was silent except for the ticking of the clock.

A cell phone chirped loudly and Emmerson looked directly at the kid in a baseball cap who was fumbling in his pocket.