Billionaire's Vacation: A Standalone Novel (An Alpha Billionaire Romance Love Story) (Billionaires - Book #13)

by Claire Adams

  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-mar
shmallows 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. She immediately held out her 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.

  "Heavenly," Ford said. Then he amended his comment. "The dinner. Everything smells heavenly."

  He put the bowls and gravy boat down on the table and reached out to help me with the turkey. When our fingers brushed, I felt like a jolt of electricity scrambled my muscles. The turkey tray wobbled again, and between the two of us, we set it down with a heavy thunk at the head of the table.

  "Everything alright in there?" my father called from the living room.

  I looked up to see everyone watching us with curiosity and amusement. Lexi wore a dangerous, calculating smile, and I flashed her a warning look that she ignored. "Yes, fine, I think you might have underestimated the turkey this year, Patrick," I said.

  Everyone laughed, and my father gestured for our guests to file into the dining room. "Go big or go home. I hope you've all brought your appetites," my father said.

  "Wow, Clarity, you and your dad really outdid yourselves this year," Lexi said with a speculative twinkle in her eye.

  My father beamed. "It's been a few years since we did the full Thanksgiving spread, so I'm glad you think it looks good. Clarity's been working hard. She even tracked down a candied yams recipe for Ford."

  My cheeks flared. "You mentioned it to our lecture class one day before your presentation," I said.

  Ford smiled at me. "I'm glad to know someone is listening," he said.

  "Clarity's good like that," Lexi said. "When she is interested in someone, she notices everything."

  Ford cleared his throat. "Well, she hasn't noticed that I've been trying to talk to her since I arrived, but now that I have her attention, I can finally say it."

  My vision clouded and closed in around the edges. "Say what? Now?"

  "I have a letter for you," Ford pulled a narrow, white envelope from his pocket and addressed the entire table. "It's from Wire Communications. My teaching assistant opened it, but I promise I did not read the contents."