Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (9 page)

"What?
Libby, you know me. It's Clarity. I helped you with that Aristotle paper,
remember? Can't you just pretend you didn't see anything?" Clarity asked. She
clutched her fingers together and held them out beseechingly to Libby.

Libby
crossed her arms. "And what exactly am I not seeing? It looks a lot like
you're making out with a professor in the bushes. God, you should be glad I got
here when I did or you were going to break all kinds of rules. Isn't that a
little out of character for you, goodie-goodie?"

"Yes,
it's all my fault. I've, I've been drinking but you're wrong, he's not a
professor, he's—"

I
cut Clarity off before she could lie for me. "Libby knows who I am."

"I
sure do, Professor Bauer," Libby snapped.

I
snatched up my rented tuxedo coat and marched through the leaves to where Libby
bounced near the sidewalk. I caught her elbow in a hard grip and pulled her
farther down the sidewalk away from Clarity. "A word, Ms. Blackwell?"

Clarity
wrapped her arms around her waist and backed away to the far curve of the
sidewalk, out of ear shot.

Libby
yanked her elbow from my grip and hissed up at me. "Don't think I don't
know what you're trying to do. You're torturing me. Did my roommates tell you
my regular route, or have you been watching me?"

I
suppressed a disgusted shudder as Libby licked her lips. "This has nothing
to do with you, Libby, and you're going to keep it that way."

"Am
I?" Libby put her fists on her hips. "I think it has everything to do
with me. You're trying to make me jealous, aren't you, Ford? Two years apart
and you're losing it. Well, you don't have to pretend to be a cruel
ex-boyfriend anymore. You don't have to hide in the bushes just to get my
attention."

I
wrapped my fingers into fists. "I am not your ex-boyfriend, Libby. You
need to get that straight. We made a mistake. I was a new professor and you
were a wild freshman. Just because we slept together a few times does not mean
we had a relationship. It was a mistake, and it's time you let it go."

"Let
it go? I remember you really let go on the floor of your apartment. We couldn't
even make it to the bedroom. So hot."

I
stepped back before she could reach for me. "I was drinking too much back
then and I'm not proud of what I did."

"Lots
of professors would be proud to have such a hot, steamy, insatiable affair with
a student like me."

My
heart hammered as I looked to see if Clarity had overheard. She was preoccupied
with an approaching group of partiers, clearly on their way to the frat house.

Libby
followed my glance and her voice was sharp with jealousy. "You at it
again, professor? Seriously? You know her father is the dean of students,
right? Oh, it is going to be too fun to tell him what I saw."

I
forced myself to unwind my fists and take a deep breath. "Go ahead, Libby.
I'm not going to let you blackmail or bully me. I'll tell the dean the truth
myself."

"And
what about pretty Ms. Clarity over there? Are you going to tell her how you had
me over and over again?" Libby's narrow eyes were mean.

"Of
course I'm going to tell her. She deserves the truth." My throat
constricted but I forced the words out anyway. "I'll tell her right
now."

Libby
tossed her bleached-blonde ponytail and jogged over to Clarity before I could
stop her. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"What
secret?" Clarity asked. Her wide eyes shone wet under the lamppost. "It
was an accident, a mistake."

"Yeah,
I guess that's what some people call it," Libby's giggle was brittle. "Sometimes
people try to cover up the truth by calling it a mistake."

"Libby,
please, you don't understand," Clarity said.

"Oh,
no, I totally get it. Trust me I get it."

"Enough,
Libby," I said.

She
brushed her pointer finger across my lips. "Shhh, professor, don't worry
about it. As a favor to you, I'll keep your dirty little mistake a secret. You
never know when I might need one or the other of you to do me a solid in
return."

"That's
not how this works—"

"Thank
you, Libby," Clarity interrupted. "She's had run-ins with the Honor
Council and my father before. She knows what he can be like."

Libby
raised a dark eyebrow. "And just imagine what he'd say when it's his own
daughter. Don't worry, I'll keep quiet. For now."

She
ran off before I could stop her. The vacuum of her interruption left Clarity
and I alone on the sidewalk.

Clarity
did not meet my eye. She shivered in the cool air and wrapped her arms tighter
around her waist. Then she watched as the group of revelers approached. They
sang and danced and stumbled their way down the sidewalk, and when they were
close enough, we could hear the Landsman College fight song.

She
stepped off the sidewalk, her high heels sinking into the grass, and I reached
out an arm to steady her. Our eyes clashed and I felt the worry in her look
chill me to the bone.

I
didn't care about the rules. To me, the honor code was an administrative safety
net that kept the school from lawsuits. What killed me was the thought of
overstepping Clarity's personal boundaries.

It
didn't matter that she had reciprocated the kiss, that she had wrapped her arm
around me and not hesitated either. Any sign of regret would kill me.

Despite
the rowdy students on the path, we stared at each other in silence. I felt her
probing for my intentions, so I squeezed her arm gently. I had no regrets, only
longing for more.

When
the cheering crowd faded into the distance, Clarity clutched my sleeve. "I'm
so sorry, Ford, I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll tell my father I did
it. It was all my fault. A silly schoolgirl crush."

I
shook my head. "He won't believe you. You've never done a silly thing in your
life. I should have had more self-control."

Clarity
shivered again, and this time I insisted she wear my tuxedo jacket. She
shrugged into it and started slowly down the sidewalk. Then she stopped and
gave me another pained look. "I can't believe Libby would be so quick to
tell the Honor Council. Why was she so unreasonable? What did you say to calm
her down?"

I
resisted the urge to cup her cheek. "If you want to tell the Honor Council,
I completely understand, Clarity. I won't keep you from telling the
truth."

Her
emerald eyes flashed and she started walking again fast. "The truth. The
truth is we're two consenting adults, and so what if there's an age difference.
None of this would matter if we were on a normal street corner in a real city,
not on the suffocating grounds of Landsman."

Sweet
relief washed over me and I had to stop. I caught Clarity's arm again. She
swung back to face me and I took a deep breath. I needed to tell her the truth
about Libby. I needed her to know there was a difference between the drunken,
foolhardy mistake I had made as an angry first-year professor, and the moment
we had just shared.

Clarity
stamped her heel against the sidewalk. "I can't stand when people are
hypocrites. For a second there I thought Libby was going to pretend that
everyone on campus hasn't heard the rumors about her."

"What
rumors?" I choked.

"She
seduced some poor sap of a professor when she was a freshman, then bragged all
around campus that they were in love. No one ever saw her imaginary boyfriend. No
one believes it was anything more than her trying to prove her worth through
sex." Clarity spun and walked towards her father's house.

"Don't
you feel bad for her?" I asked.

Clarity
shook her head. "I feel bad for the professor dumb enough to fall for her
cheap seduction. That's where the honor code is important. It's supposed to
stop less discerning people from making stupid mistakes."

I
reached out but let her keep walking. I had held on to my shame for two years,
but I had never gotten angry at myself until that moment. Sure, I was stinging
from being discredited as a journalist, and I was self-medicating my
frustration with too much alcohol, but I had never heard it wrapped up so
succinctly. I had been stupid and fallen for something cheap and meaningless.

Clarity
slowed and our steps fell into sync. "You don't think I'm stupid and
undiscerning, do you?" she asked.

My
head was reeling. "I think you're probably a lot smarter than me." It
was on the tip of my tongue to confess my terrible mistake, but her sweet smile
made me swallow hard. "And I think you shouldn't compromise any of that
ever again."

She
nodded and looked down to shuffle her feet. "I know. It won't happen
again. I understand that I'm just your student and there won't be anything more
between us. Besides," she brushed a hand over her nose and sniffed,
"the women you date are probably a lot more interesting than me."

I
shook my head. "Clarity, I'm not seeing anyone right now. I know men are
supposed to juggle half a dozen women a week, but that's not me."

"This
isn't me, either. I don't go around lying to security guards and kissing people
under campus trees. Can we just blame it on the full moon and forget about
it?"

She
was right. I couldn't burden her with my confession about Libby. Clarity didn't
deserve to have me heaping any more of my problems on her. I needed to reign
myself in, get myself under control, like I should have been from the first
moment I realized who she was.

It
felt good to put myself back on the right path, but as we walked up the front
steps and stood on the porch of her father's house, I felt a dull ache. Of
course the only woman who made me laugh, made me forget myself for long
wonderful moments, had to be completely off-limits.

She
handed me back my tuxedo jacket and gave me a brave smile. "Goodnight,
Professor Bauer."

"Goodnight,"
I said. I walked down the steps and felt like I was falling. Clarity could
never know how I felt about her and that realization was a painful, gaping void
in my heart.

CHAPTER
NINE

Clarity

Nine
was an awkward number to
fit around our long, oak dining room table. After shifting each plate setting
three times, I settled on my father at the head of the table and four people on
either side.

"Where
are you going to sit?" he asked, peeking in the door from the kitchen.

"On
your right hand side. Don't worry, we won't mistake you for any form of
royalty," I joked.

"People
are more likely to mistake me for the maid in this apron," my father
responded. "Oh, hold on, that's my oven timer!"

He
rushed back into the kitchen. I chuckled and walked around the long table
again, polishing wine glasses with a white towel. The center of the table was
scattered with dried, pressed leaves in deep autumn colors. Cream-colored taper
candles waited in silver candleholders and brass trivets waited for the bowls
and platters of our Thanksgiving feast.

I
had even broken down and put up the silly decals my father had purchased for
our windows. I skipped the goofy, smiling turkeys and artfully arranged the
stick-on acorns, gourds, and leaves. I looked around with satisfaction;
everything looked great.

More
than the decorations, the house was filled with the sounds and smells of
cooking. My father had gotten up early in the morning to wrestle the giant
turkey into the oven. I heard him whistling as I walked into the steamy
kitchen.

"Dad!
What are you trying to do, kill yourself?" I ran around the kitchen island
and pulled a wooden spoon from his hand.

My
father stood next to the oven and laughed. "I can mash potatoes with my
left hand. It doesn't necessitate a lot of finesse."

"Then
I can handle mashing the potatoes while you finish basting the turkey. You
don't need to be trying to do both at the same time." I traded out the
wooden spoon for our silver masher and put the heavy crockery bowl on the lower
kitchen table.

"Make
sure you add plenty of butter and milk and maybe a little garlic," my dad
reminded me.

"I
got it. I can handle it," I laughed.

Inside,
though, my stomach quivered. I wasn't sure I could handle Thanksgiving at all. My
father had invited an interesting mix of people but that included Ford. Ever
since the donors' dinner, we had kept things strictly student/professor, and I
was worried how it would feel to have him in our home as a guest.

Without
the regulated setting of the lecture hall or campus, I knew I would have
trouble seeing Ford as a professor. Too often he had been appearing in my
daydreams as the handsome man with midnight-blue eyes that had kissed me under
a maple tree. How was I going to keep that memory and the subsequent fantasies
at bay?

My
father had purchased plenty of wine and told me I was free to enjoy it as
payment for my holiday labor. I imagined pouring a glass for Ford, feeling his
gaze sweep up my arm to the outfit I had agonized over. Would he smile at me
the way he had before we kissed?

As
hostess, I was supposed to give each guest a tour of the house, and there were
too many nooks where Ford and I could be alone. The hidden space under the back
stairs where we first met, the alcove just inside the library doors, or the
narrow hall past the front stairs where the coat closet was tucked out of
sight.

Stop being so silly
,
I reprimanded myself.

The
twinges of excitement I felt in my belly were only anticipation of a cure. Ford
would be polite, cool, and aloof, even in the casual atmosphere. I hoped he
would pat my shoulder or talk about me to my father right in front of me as if
I was an insignificant child. That would wipe away all my schoolgirl fantasies
and cure me of my growing crush.

Even
as I thought it, I knew it was more, but the kitchen timer rang again and saved
me. "I got it," I told my father. I turned off our crockpot and
opened the lid. "I hope these are good."

"Put
those toasted mini-marshmallows on top and it'll be perfect. Spiced yams, what
an inspiration!"

I
neglected to tell my father the idea was not mine at all. I had overheard Ford
telling our class that candied yams covered with marshmallows was the only
Thanksgiving food he ever craved.

"I
think Ford should sit on my left hand side," my father said.

I
jumped and turned around. "What? Why?"

He
raised a red eyebrow at me. "The other six guests are couples. You and
Ford are the only singles at the table."

"What
about you?" I asked.

My
father chuckled and changed the subject. "You know, I've been thinking
about setting Ford up with someone. Maybe you can help me think of someone for
him?"

I
dropped a dozen marshmallows on the floor. "Since when are you into matchmaking?"
I asked.

"I
like Ford," my father said. "He's a good man. A little rough around
the edges and a little angry at the world, but that's nothing the love of a
good woman couldn't cure."

"Says
the confirmed bachelor," I snapped.

My
father laughed. "Now, Clarity, would you really rather talk about
potential dates for me?"

"I'd
rather make sure we don't get lumps in the gravy."

My
father chuckled and turned back to the stove. "Don't think I don't know
how much attention Ford gets from his students. He's young, he's very
good-looking, and that can only cause problems for a professor."

"There's
nothing illegal about it," I said.

"Illegal,
no, but inappropriate, yes," my father said. He stirred the gravy with a
thoughtful, repetitive motion. "If he had a serious relationship, the
girls wouldn't be nearly so gaga over him."

"You
know, most the women at Landsman are over eighteen years of age and perfectly
capable of handling relationships no matter what age their partner is."

"Clarity,"
my father said with exasperation, "you're the one that helped with the
wording of the honor code. Don't you remember?"

This
time it was the doorbell that saved me.

I
recognized the art professor's bright smile as soon as I opened the door. "Hello,
Professor Paulson, so good to see you again."

There
was a loud clatter from the kitchen and my father joined us in the foyer. He
tore off his apron, tossed it back in the kitchen, and rushed forward to take
both of Professor Paulson's hands. "Polly, I'm so glad you could make
it," he beamed.

The
art professor was a small, elfish woman with an infectious smile, bright black
eyes, and wild, wiry black hair. Seeing her with my father always gave me a
warm feeling even though the two were perpetually acting casual.

"Patrick,"
she said, "you were so good to invite us. Thank you! May I introduce our
newest artist-in-residence, Damien Baptiste? Damien, this is Dean
Dunkirk."

"Please,
call me Patrick," my father said. His smile slipped slightly when he shook
the artist's hand.

Damien
Baptiste was stocky and muscular with sun-kissed hair and twinkling, hazel
eyes. "Ah, the dean, I've heard so many good things about you. I love that
you have managed to pen an honor code that your students both despise and
respect. That is quite an honorable accomplishment."

"Thank
you, I think," my father chuckled. He led the way into the living room.

"Your
home is beautiful, such order, such lovely straight lines," Damien said.

"That's
me," my father admitted. "I admire the artist's life, the passion and
chaos of creativity, but I'm strictly by the books, myself."

"Damien's
a sculptor," Professor Paulson said to me. "Damien, this is Patrick's
daughter, Clarity."

"Enchanted,"
he said with a flourish.

"Well,
hello," Lexi crooned from the doorway.

I
swatted my friend, then dragged her into the living room. Behind her came her
running back boyfriend. Carl was the opposite of the small, pert, and
boisterous Lexi. He was beefy, tall, white blond, and said next to nothing.

"Everyone,
I'd like you to meet Lexi and Carl," I said.

"Of
course, welcome, Lexi, you know a holiday wouldn't be the same without
you," my father hugged her. "And, Carl, congratulations on helping
your team to victory this year. Carl's our star running back."

I
introduced Professor Paulson and her date, Damien. Lexi frowned. "I really
wish you had let us set you up with a date, Clarity. There are plenty of guys
that wouldn't have been scared off by dinner with the dean."

"Adam
still asks about you," Carl said.

"Sorry,
but I'm too busy helping my father tonight to handle a date," I said. Before
my father could protest, two more guests arrived.

"Professor
Rumsfeld," Lexi grinned. I immediately held out my hand to his wife. "I'm
Lexi, I took your husband's course freshman year. I would never have gotten my
English credit if he didn't know how to make Shakespeare understandable to
normal people."

"Nice
to meet you, Lexi. I'm Alice," the professor's wife said.

"Please,
can we just be normal people today? Call me Jackson."

"Excellent
idea," Polly agreed. "After all, you're not children and conversation
will be a hell of a lot more interesting if you don't hold back because of
arbitrary titles. Right, Patrick?"

My
father couldn't refuse her. "Fine, though I hope, perhaps my daughter will
refrain from calling me Patty. She used to do that when she was three and it
was flustering."

"Really,
Patrick? They haven't even made it in the front door and you're already telling
toddler stories about me?" I asked.

My
father grinned. "Oh, my dear, you always fit in easier with an older
crowd. One of those darling children that would rather talk to teachers than
classmates. It's no wonder you're not interested in dating a college boy."

As
if on cue, Ford stepped in the front door and my heart flopped into a puddle on
the floor. "Sorry I'm late. I was just finishing a phone call with my
sister," he said.

He
shook my father's hand and jumped right in to meeting everyone. When he finally
turned to me he held out his hand and then chuckled. "Hey, I know you from
somewhere, don't I?"

I
rolled my eyes, "Yes, Professor—"

"Wait,"
Polly caught me, "we've decided we're all equals today, so you should call
him by his first name."

"Nice
to see you again, Ford," I said and prayed that no one noticed the blush
creeping up my cheeks.

Lexi
stared at me for a moment then batted her eyelashes. "Your class is
Clarity's favorite," she said.

Instead
of hoping the floor would open up and swallow me, I focused on my hostess
duties. "Who would like a glass of wine before dinner?"

Everyone
except Carl said yes, and I dashed into the kitchen. The turkey cooled on a
large cutting board and I tried to assure myself that everything was going to
be perfect. Except all my hopes for a cure were dashed—as soon as Ford's deep
blue eyes swept over me, I felt as if I'd already drank half a bottle of wine. My
thoughts and daydreams reeled and there was no way my best friend was not going
to notice.

Luckily,
by the time I returned to the living room, the Thanksgiving holiday had put
everyone at ease. Damien was choosing records to play, assisted by Lexi's
assertive expressions. My father was enraptured by Polly's descriptions of her
latest painting and Jackson was getting a play-by-play from Carl of the last
football game he missed.

"Need
any help in the kitchen?" Ford asked.

"No,
thanks, we've got it all under control. I'm just going to grab the cheese
tray," I slipped away as fast as I could.

Ford
seemed eager to tell me something, but I knew if we were alone, the volcanic
attraction I felt could overflow at any moment.

Everything
was fine until Ford noticed me. He stood in carved archway of my father's
living room, partially in and partially out of the foyer. While he leaned on
the wooden post and listened to Jackson's summer plans, his eyes followed me
across into the dining room. I tried to tell myself it was just a
self-fulfilling prophecy; I had daydreamed of feeling the caress of his grey
eyes and now any glance made that feeling possible.

The
trouble began when he offered to help me.

Ford
slipped through the narrow hallway and met me across the kitchen island. "Need
any help brining dinner to the table?" he asked.

"No,
I've got it. Easy," I said, but the turkey platter wobbled in my hands.

He
smiled and stepped around me to gather up the big bowl of mashed potatoes and
another of stuffing. He hooked the gravy boat with two fingers and carried it
all like it was nothing.