Daddy Ivy League: A Second Chance Professor Baby Romance (Private School Bad Boys Book 2)

by Holly Jaymes

  Finally, I was alone in my house, and I felt relief. I would have to come up with a plan to deal with Clarissa. I’d have to let her down gently. I also needed to change my patterns. I needed to stop sleeping with girls who could potentially harm my career. But old habits die hard. I knew that too. All I could do was hope for a miracle.

  Chapter 2

  Margo

  I stood outside the revolving glass doors of The Boston Herald’s offices. I hadn’t been here in over two years, not since I left for my stint in South Africa.

  I was back in the city now. I was forced to be here. A decade’s worth of professionalism had come crashing down around me, because of one stupid mistake.

  I wasn’t naive. I knew it was a big mistake, one that a journalist of my caliber shouldn’t have committed. I should have known better. I should have been professional. The work I was doing in Pretoria was important. I was the official political correspondent for South Africa and adjoining African countries for the Boston Herald.

  It was a prestigious position. I’d fought my way to the top of the ladder, and there were many more senior reporters who hated me for getting the job. But I was good. I was fierce, no-nonsense, and a crisp writer. There was no denying that I was the best for the job.

  This assignment was supposed to be my stepping stone to greatness. I was living the dream. I was a journalist, a political correspondent, doing important work and I screwed it up.

  Sleeping with a South African politician was never my plan. People knew me in the industry for my professionalism. I was also known for not having a social life, not being involved in scandals, and yet, for some reason, I had fallen for William Nkosi.

  He was a charming man, handsome and in his forties. He was popular in his country for his liberal views and his capacity to make moving political speeches. I’d been shadowing him for a report, working closely with him over the course of two months and at the end of that, I was sleeping with him.

  William Nkosi was in the public eye, and I should never have crossed that professional line and created a scandal for my company.

  Me, who had never been in a serious relationship in her life. Me, who used to be too shy to speak to boys in college. I had to sleep with the most controversial man in South Africa. It was exciting and exhilarating, and even though I was sleeping with him, I wasn’t looking for more. I thought it would only last a few weeks and then I could forget about him. Instead, it lasted for seven months. Then the public found out.

  One evening, I turned on the local news and saw that someone spotted us together and took pictures as evidence. My career meant everything to me. I never expected for this relationship to go this far. I never spoke to William again. I didn’t answer his texts or his calls. It wasn’t even difficult. I wasn’t in love with him. I thought I was just having fun.

  It was fun until I thought about the consequences.

  Word spread about my relationship with William Nkosi. My offices in Boston found out. They sent me back to Boston immediately. One of their prized reporters was sleeping with a high-profile South African politician. I was sleeping with the man I was supposed to be reporting on. The Boston Herald couldn’t afford a scandal like that.

  So, here I was, standing in front of the offices and hesitating to go in. I couldn’t even comprehend the shit-storm that was awaiting me on the other side of that door. Was I going to lose my job? Was I even a journalist anymore?

  I had degraded and embarrassed myself. Keeping my head down, I entered the office. I didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as I took the elevators to the top floor. A meeting had been set up with Lionel, my Editor.

  He was waiting for me in his office. I knocked before entering.

  Lionel looked up from his computer, over his half-moon shaped reading glasses.

  “Margo, please, have a seat,” he was speaking to me from a distance. We used to be friends. Even though he was senior to me by several decades, he had seen potential in me. Now, he was speaking to me like he didn’t know me at all.

  “Lionel, I should explain,” I stepped towards his desk hurriedly, with my hands clasped nervously together.

  “I don’t know if there is any explanation here, Margo. Things are obvious to me. You have acted unprofessionally so you will have to face the consequences,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  I licked my lips, hanging my head down.

  “I know I have, and I deserve everything you’re going to throw at me. I know I’ve embarrassed you,” I mumbled.

  “Sleeping with William Nkosi? What the fuck were you thinking, Margo?” he raged, banging his fists on his desk.

  I kept my head down, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. I was an idiot,” I mumbled again.

  “Out of all the thousands of men in Pretoria. You had to sleep with him? Then you were foolish enough to get caught!” Lionel continued to rage. I continued to listen.

  I dared to look up at him. My cheeks were burning red.

  “I’m willing to do anything to redeem myself, Lionel. Where do you want to send me? Ethiopia? Alaska? Pakistan? I’ll go. I’ll do my job,” I pleaded with him, but he was already shaking his head.

  “You’re going nowhere, Margo,” he said, while his nostrils flared.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re staying right here. You will stay in Boston right under my nose. And you’ll be writing about rescue dogs and celebrity birthday parties if you run out of stories to cover,” Lionel clenched his jaws as he spoke.

  “What is that supposed to mean? I’m a political correspondent, Lionel!” I shrieked.

  “You should be on your knees, thanking me that you still have a job!” he growled.

  “I don’t feel fortunate right now,” I hissed, meeting his eyes.

  Lionel stood up from his chair with a jerk.

  “You have no rights here, Margo! I had so much riding on you, and you’ve ruined everything. I’m hanging on a thread here. I had to beg corporate to keep you still,” he scowled as he spoke.

  I gulped down my retorts and held my head high.

  “So now you’re going to assign me fluff pieces? Soft stories nobody else wants to fucking write about?” I asked. He sighed as he sat back down again.

  “You were going to go places, Margo. I was going to make sure of that, and now, my hands are tied,” he spoke more softly.

  I could sense a cry rising in my throat. I knew he was right. Lionel wasn’t the one to blame here, I was. I was responsible for all this. Because of a man who was great in bed.

  I said nothing while we glared at each other.

  “You still want the job or not?” Lionel asked. He looked exhausted now.

  What else was I supposed to do? I was damaged goods. If I left The Boston Herald, I would have nowhere else to go. I wasn’t going to get the job of a political correspondent anywhere else in the country. The only thing left for me to do was to keep my head down and wait for the tide to pass over.

  “Yes, I want it,” I murmured.

  Lionel looked relieved. He rubbed a hand over his face with frustration and then nodded his head.

  “That’s a good decision, Margo. Just lie low for a while, hope that everyone forgets about this. It’ll take some time, but hopefully we’ll both get out of this alive,” he said and rummaged around on his desk for a file.

  I kept standing there, with the back of my neck burning up.

  I was being demoted. I went from being a journalist to nothing but a Page Three reporter who followed celebrities around. This wasn’t my plan.

  “Here, look this over. It’s your first assignment.” Lionel handed me the file.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to him as I took it and he shook his head.

  “It’s a shame, such a shame,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  Isaac

  “To my knowledge, Plath never scrapped any of her poetic efforts. Maybe there are a fe
w exceptions, but more often than not, she brought every piece of her work to some final form of poetry that was acceptable in her eyes. She may have rejected the odd verse or a false tale, but that was it.”

  My voice boomed in the lecture hall as I stood in front of the massive screen, delivering my final lecture of the day. Dotted around the theater, on the seats, were about twenty of the brightest young minds in the country. They were hanging on my every word. Most of them had signed up for American Poetry because of my reputation. They were here for me, and from the satisfied looks on their faces, I could sense that they congratulated themselves for their wise decision.

  I felt most accomplished in a classroom like this when all eyes were on me, and all I had to do was spill my thorough knowledge on the subjects I knew so well.

  “Her attitude to her verse was that of an artisan,” I continued, banging a fat collection of Sylvia Plath’s poetry on the desk beside me. “If she couldn’t manufacture a table from her work, she tried to design a chair instead,” I said. A few giggles broke out among the students.

  My train of thought was interrupted by a door opening and closing at the back of the lecture hall. A woman had stepped in. I didn’t recognize her as a student, although this was a new class and I wasn’t great with faces. I looked at her, up and down, as she lingered at the back. Something about her was familiar, but I couldn’t put a finger on what.

  “Her aim was not so much as to procure a brilliant poem. It was more along the lines of exhausting her poetic capabilities.” I continued, but I sensed that I was distracted.

  The woman was moving along the back seats now, trying to find an empty chair.

  She had luscious red hair that fell like a curtain around her shoulders. She was small, but buxom, in a pair of tight dark jeans and a black leather jacket. Even from this distance, I could see the way her t-shirt stretched over her ample breasts.

  I couldn’t remember what I’d last said. Instead, my eyes remained on the redhead at the back. Something told me that she wasn’t a student. For starters, she looked older than the others in this class, and she didn’t dress like them either. She had a self-assured, confident gait. Her shoulders were straight, and when she looked at me, she didn’t shy away from my gaze.

  As I tried to continue with the lecture, I saw that she was pulling out a notebook. Was she taking notes? I was mildly annoyed by her presence now, but only because she was distracting me from my work.

  Somehow, I managed to get through the rest of the lecture, but my eyes and all of my senses remained on the mystery-woman at the back.

  When the lecture came to a close, students swarmed me, as always. I put my books away, while bright-eyed young girls and boys thronged me, asking me a million questions. The girls gravitated to me, suggesting drinks later at the students' bar. I fielded their questions, kept my distance and glanced from time to time at the woman. She hadn’t left. Instead, she remained seated on her chair, staring at us with a slight grin on her face.

  I felt self-conscious under her steady glare and tried to get away from my students. My experience with Clarissa that morning was a firm reminder of how out-of-hand this could get. I was determined not to lead any of my new students on.

  Slowly, they began to leave. One by one, they trickled away and finally, the beautiful redhead, and I were the only two people left in the lecture hall.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, pushing my hands in the pockets of my jeans. She finally stood up and slipping her notebook in her leather handbag. She walked down the steps toward me.

  “Professor Parnell, I hope I’m not taking up your time,” she said.

  The closer she came, the stronger my attraction to her was. I quickly realized that this woman was gorgeous. She had an extraordinary face, with a mixture of determination and softness in her large green eyes. Her red hair bounced with every step she took in my direction. Despite what happened with Clarissa, I quickly forgot to keep my desires in check.

  “I have a lecture to go to soon, but I’d gladly stay here and talk to you instead,” I said, smiling at her, and she arched her perfectly shaped eyebrows on her forehead.

  “You don’t need to flatter me, professor. I checked your schedule. You don’t have another class for the next two hours,” she said as she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.

  “You seem to know my schedule better than me,” I remarked with a laugh. She was smiling, but not laughing. It seemed like she didn’t think I was funny at all.

  I stared at her, trying to keep my itching desire for her under control. I still couldn’t shake off the feeling that I’d seen her somewhere. Was she an old student of mine?

  “I’m Margo Clarke,” she said, cutting through the silence and extended her hand to me. We shook, and when I touched her, I felt the shockwaves in my spine. There was no denying that there was a strong physical attraction between us. I knew she could sense it too, as much as she tried to keep herself calm and neutral.

  “I work for The Boston Herald. We’re doing a piece on Harvard. I’ve already been granted permission by your offices to interview you and a few other professors on campus for my piece,” she informed me.

  “You’re a journalist?” I asked.

  “Who did you think I was?” she said. There was a challenge in her eyes.

  “An old student, I wasn’t sure. You look familiar,” I told her, and she smirked.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be your student, professor,” she replied.

  “Please, call me Isaac,” I told her as I reached out to touch her shoulder.

  The smile dropped from Margo’s face. She gently pried herself away from me.

  “So, do I have your consent to interview you, Isaac?” she asked.

  “Here? Right now?”

  “Yes, it will only take half an hour. It’s just a quick interview, nothing in-depth,” she said, reaching in her bag for her notebook again.

  “I would prefer if we set up a meeting and met tomorrow. You’ve caught me by surprise here, I have other things to do,” I told her.

  I didn’t. The truth was that I wanted to see her again. I tried to find a way of prolonging my time with her. Half an hour right now, in this classroom, was very short notice.

  Margo scrunched up her nose as she thought about it.

  “Okay, we can meet tomorrow, I guess,” she said.

  “At four? We could go for a coffee. I know this place. Talisman. It’s right outside the Harvard gates,” I suggested. Margo shrugged, then nodded.

  “Sure, I can meet you there.”

  I was already excited to see her again, even though I could sense that she had no opinion of me. My usual charms and effects on women weren’t working on Margo for some reason.

  “It was nice meeting you, Margo,” I extended my hand to her again, and this time, she hesitated before shaking it.

  “You were right. You have seen me before,” she granted.

  That was surprising. It had taken her too long to admit it.

  “Where?” I asked. I had a sudden thought. Had we slept together? Was she one of my drunken one-night stands which I didn’t remember?

  “We were in college together. We took some of the same classes,” she told me.

  I was thinking, racking my brain to remember her face in my classes. I couldn’t recall her at all. It seemed impossible that I would forget a face like hers, or a body like this!

  Margo was smiling now. She could see the confusion on my face. It amused her.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I was quite forgettable in college. I don’t blame you for not recognizing me,” she said as I clenched my jaws.

  “I don’t buy that. There is no way I could forget you,” I said. Then I glanced over her body, drinking in the shape of her breasts, her long delicate neck, and her tight jeans.

  The tops of her cheeks had turned red now, and she kept her head up.

  “I was a nerd. Not worth your time,” she snapped. I detected a so
ur vein in her voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Isaac,” she added quickly. Before I could say anything, she’d already left the classroom.

  Chapter 4

  Margo

  Unlike the disastrous dorm party from twelve years before, today, I arrived late to the cafe. It was already fifteen minutes past four, by the time I walked through the busy doors of Talisman, the cafe Isaac had chosen for our interview.

  If I was completely honest with myself, I didn’t want to be there. For starters, this was not the kind of work I saw myself doing. I should have been interviewing lawmakers and crooked politicians. I should have been questioning complicated laws and attending White House Press meets. Instead, I was stuck here in Boston, trying to write a human interest piece on the most popular professors at Harvard.

  Secondly, and this might have been the more important reason of the two, I did not want to spend any time in the vicinity of Isaac Parnell. A part of me was relieved that he didn’t recognize me. That meant that he didn’t remember how I’d made an utter fool of myself at that party. However, another part of me couldn’t get rid of that nagging feeling of being ignored. Those harrowing and embarrassing years of college came back to me like a flood. I wasn’t the same person anymore. I wasn’t shy, and I wasn’t nerdy, but that was exactly how I felt in Isaac’s presence again.

  He hadn’t changed either. He was the same larger-than-life personality he used to be in college. I’d attended some of his lectures the previous day. I saw the way his students reacted to him and how closely they paid attention to his every word. I wouldn’t have put it past Isaac to be sleeping with his students too. He was still as intelligent, and just as charismatic. The trouble was that he might be even more handsome now.

  I saw him at the cafe, the moment I walked in through the doors. He was sitting in the corner by the bay windows at a small table. He had an old, well-thumbed book in his hand. He was reading and holding a cup of coffee.