Naughty Professor - A Standalone Teacher Romance

by Claire Adams

  "Better," I said. "Thank you."

  A rosy hue touched the top of Clarity's cheeks. "No problem."

  "Oh, darn, I bet there are more empty glasses in the living room," Patrick left again.

  I nudged Clarity. "It was really sweet of you to make those especially for me."

  "I didn't, I mean, I did, but I was trying to …" Clarity puffed out a flustered breath and tried again. "You're welcome."

  I looked at her from the corner of my eye and had to smile. "You're blushing," I whispered.

  Clarity's cheeks burned brighter, but she nudged me back. We pressed back and forth in a playful skirmish and my heart soared. Whatever strict lines she had drawn for herself shifted whenever we were together. The thought of freeing her from all her restrictions, seeing her shake off her inhibitions, was all-consuming.

  I wanted Clarity, all of her.

  "Careful, you're dripping soap on your shoes," Clarity whispered with one more flirtatious nudge.

  I flicked the soap off my hands and leaned on the counter so I could study her pretty face. Her wide, emerald eyes flickered with nerves but she didn't step back or look away. The look between us crackled with electricity.

  "I really am sorry for outing your writing. You came to me in strictest confidence."

  She smiled. "It's alright, you were nice enough to give me feedback."

  "So you didn't mind coming up to my office to, ah, discuss your short story?" I asked then held my breath.

  "Not at all," Clarity said. Her voice was like velvet. "Especially since you were so nice to walk me home under the maple trees."

  "I hope you'll let me read your writing again sometime," I said. I reached out to brush the soft hair from her neck and froze.

  Her father strode back in to the kitchen. "I'm so glad you convinced Clarity to start writing again. She used to write fairy tales and mysteries and all kinds of stories when she was a little girl, and I loved every single one of them," he said with a proud smile.

  Clarity straightened up and stepped away. She kept her back to her father and scrubbed at the next stack of plates. "That was back when I was a little kid, Dad. I'm twenty-two now, an adult."

  Her eyes flickered to mine and the heat went straight to my core. I tore my gaze away from her and cleared my throat. "I'm sure it's hard for you to see, Patrick, but your daughter is a very mature woman."

  Patrick chuckled. "A fact that worries me every day. I wish she could go back to being that carefree child making up stories for fun. She stopped writing after her mother left and it was such a shame."

  A plate slipped from Clarity's hand and disappeared back into the soapy sink. She plunged her hand into get it and I reached in to give her hand a hidden squeeze.

  Patrick puttered around the kitchen without noticing his daughter's sudden quiet. I spoke up to fill the void. "There's still a lot on that behemoth of a turkey. Any chance of leftovers for a starving, single professor?" I asked.

  Clarity gave me a grateful glance and pulled her hands from the soapy water. She grabbed a dish towel and dried them. "I'll pack up leftovers for you. We have more of everything, including your candied yams."

  "Excellent," Patrick said. "I'll go find a bag; I have a bunch leftover from the Landsman College food drive."

  He disappeared down the hallway to his office. I dried my hands and caught Clarity as she flitted back and forth, scooping up leftovers. "You know I wasn't just being nice, right?"

  "What?" she blinked up at me.

  "About your writing. It shows real talent. Wait, what did you think I meant?" I asked. I was suddenly aware of her silken skin underneath my fingers and the taut flex of her slender arm. Before I could think better of it, I pulled her closer.

  Clarity didn't resist, she looked at my lips and wetted her own. “Nothing. I just can't quite believe that you liked my writing that much."

  "I really did." My voice was rough, scuffed by my rising attraction to her. "Have you done any more?"

  "Any more ki—, writing?" Clarity stammered.

  I chuckled. "Yes, writing. You've been so focused in class, so rigid. Maybe I can help loosen you up, as a writer. Help you believe in your writing a little more."

  We broke apart but neither went far. I leaned on the counter by the sink and Clarity drifted over to stand near me. "I don't know if I'll have the time anymore. Remember that bombshell you dropped about my internship?"

  "How was I supposed to know? Man, I really walked right in and stuck my foot in my mouth, didn't I?"

  Clarity laughed. "Is that why you had such a funny look on your face when you found out I was accepted?"

  "What? No." I turned back to finish the dishes but there was only one small saucer left. "Congratulations on that, by the way."

  "You don't think I should do it," Clarity leaned over the sink to look me in the eye. The neckline of her shirt hung open and I carefully kept my gaze on the soap suds. "Why not? What's wrong with working for Wire Communications? You did it."

  "I just think you're too young to get dragged into such a dirty, corporate world. It's more about politics and money than it is about journalistic integrity at Wire Communications," I said.

  "Too young?" Clarity's eyes flashed and she leaned closer. "You didn't think I was too young for other things."

  I smiled at her fierce retort. "We're done with the dishes. Time to say goodnight?"

  Her rose petal lips quirked in an effort to hide her smile. "How about I walk you out?"

  I loved when her uncertainty disappeared and I promised myself to rile her up in the future. It was hard to shake off the thought and follow her into the dining room.

  There Clarity snuffed out the candles but glowed herself in the dim light. I stepped closer to her and reached to extinguish a far candle just so our bodies could brush.

  "So is this why you were so nice about my short story?" Clarity asked.

  An avalanche of snow couldn't have been more effective in freezing my fantasies. "Oh, my god, please tell me you don't think that could be true. It's not." I took her by the shoulders and spun her to face me. "I see more in your writing than puff pieces and articles. I don't want you to be restricted. You should be free to write whatever you desire."

  "I wish I was free in my desires," Clarity muttered and the words were like hot magma melting the ground between us.

  She swayed closer, and I couldn't find the strength to step back.

  "Ford," Clarity's father called from the hallway. We jumped apart, startled, and he called again. "Go ahead and leave the rest of the dishes. Come join me in my office."

  "Don't worry," Clarity said, "you're not in trouble."

  I scoffed at her. "As if you've ever been in trouble with the dean before."

  I found Patrick leaning on his desk. As I walked in the door of his office, he pulled out two cigars and offered me one. "Care to join me? I find it helps with digestion."

  "Is that the Landsman College logo? I had no idea the gift shop sold those," I said.

  Patrick grinned. "No, these were specially made. A gift from one of our largest donors, Michael Tailor. I think you met him at the donors’ dinner." He held out the cigar again.

  I shook my head. "No, thanks. I was never very good at it."

  "Suit yourself. Do you mind if I do?"

  I nodded and took the seat he offered me. The dean's home office was simple but elegant, with a large, hand-carved desk and luxurious, leather chair. Patrick took the hard-backed chair next to me and lit his cigar.

  "You know, I'm impressed with you. I think it's great how you can see past the narrow confines of your classroom," he said between puffs.

  "I'm afraid other people think I'm not suited to academia for that very reason," I said.

  Patrick shook his head. "I suppose it helps that you are closer in age to your students, but I think it's great how you get involved in their personal lives. Especially Clarity."

  My eyes flared wide. "Especially Clarity?" I asked with my heart hammering.
Had her father picked up on my feelings of attraction for his daughter? The thought horrified me and I could barely keep it from my expression.

  "Yes, by encouraging her creative writing. I am so happy that she took it up again. You have no idea how many hours she spent writing stories as a child."

  I leaned back and relaxed my shoulders. "Well, that would explain why she's very good at it."

  "It nearly broke my heart when she stopped." Patrick puffed on his cigar. The smoke drifted upwards in three wobbling rings. "Clarity is still so affected by her mother leaving. She's driven by the idea that she has to be the complete opposite of her mother to be a good person."

  "Hmm," I said and wiped my palms on my knees.

  "Oh, she wasn't how she sounds, not exactly. Clarity's mother and I were a bad match from the beginning and I knew it. When she left I wasn't all that heartbroken, but it killed me to see what it did to Clarity." Patrick slapped my shoulder. "Take a little advice from an old man: it's not your heart you should follow when you fall in love, but your gut."

  "My gut?" I asked.

  Patrick returned my skeptical smile with a vigorous head nod. "I knew in my gut that Clarity's mother and I were never going to be able to make a serious go of things, but my heart wanted it to be true. I hesitated to make plans with her even from the start because I knew I couldn't rely on her, I knew she'd be gone sooner than later, but I tried anyway. Go with your gut."

  I shrugged, uncomfortable. "My hunches have never really been that good," I said.

  "Now, see, I can tell when someone is lying," Patrick sat forward and studied my face. "In fact, I think you might have already gotten a hunch about someone but you're holding back."

  There was a loud clatter from the kitchen and Clarity's faint voice called, "I'm alright. Everything's fine."

  Her father stood up. "I better go help dry the dishes. Help yourself to a glass of scotch. It'll warm you up before you head out in the snow."

  I stood up as he headed out the door. It felt awkward to be alone in his office, but a moment later, I heard laughter in the kitchen. Patrick was a genuinely kind and generous person and his daughter ... I needed a drink to think about Clarity.

  On the far wall of the office was a built-in cabinet and shelves. I took a lowball glass from the shelf and turned the scotch bottle to admire the vintage before I poured a drink.

  "Thanks a million, Michael Tailor?" I looked at the small, handwritten tag two more times before I put back my glass and backed away from the cabinet.

  I paced back and forth and read the tag a few more times. Why was Michael Tailor giving the dean custom cigars and expensive scotch?

  The short stretch between the cabinet and the opposite wall was not enough area to help me think. I expanded my pacing and took a lap around behind Patrick's desk. On the second lap, I felt the hardening cement in my stomach that meant I had a hunch.

  A manila folder was open on the dean's desk, I didn't even have to touch the spread out pages to see what they were. Test scores from Michael Tailor Junior. Terrible test scores.

  "Ouch, that's not going to get you into Landsman," I muttered.

  Junior's application essay lay closer to the dean's computer. I stepped forward to read the ridiculously bad opening lines and accidentally bumped the desk.

  The computer screen glowed to life and showed two documents. The one behind was a template from Landsman College entitled Acceptance Letter. The other was a new version of the application essay, or rather, a loose interpretation of what the young man must have meant.

  Clarity's father was rewriting the essay and preparing to send Junior an acceptance letter.

  The implications froze me to the spot, and that's where Clarity found me. She bounced into the door frame and laughed. "I hope you're not looking at those terrible pictures of me. He insists on keeping them on his desk even though they're almost a decade old."

  Words couldn't escape around the wedge in my throat. Clarity took a step in the door and locked her eyes on my face. I cleared my throat but no words came out.

  "What's the matter? What is it?" Clarity rushed across the office.

  I stopped her at the corner of her father's desk. "It's nothing."

  "No, I saw the look on your face. What's in the folder?"

  I caught her arm and tried to steer her back towards the door. "How about we go for a walk in the snow? I need to burn off some calories from that feast."

  "Stop trying to stop me," Clarity snapped. She pulled her arm back. "If my father left something out on his desk, I have more of a right to see it than you."

  I let my hands fall and Clarity pushed past me. "It's probably nothing," I said. "It's not what it looks like."

  She glanced at the computer screen first. "Why is he retyping the essay?" She popped her mouth closed as she saw the acceptance letter and then she picked up the original essay.

  "We're not going to jump to any conclusions," I said.

  Clarity flinched away as I tried to put my hands on her shoulders. "His test scores are terrible. I mean, really subpar. Landsman College doesn't discriminate against people of different abilities, but this shows a complete lack of effort."

  "Maybe your father is giving him feedback so he can try again and be successful in the future."

  Clarity's eyes were glass hard. "So how do you explain the acceptance letter?" Then she stumbled and gripped the leather chair for support. "Oh, god. That explains the sudden friendship and all the nice gifts. My father only just met Michael Tailor."

  I leaned on the desk and tried to get Clarity to look at me, but she was lost in a whirlwind of worry. "Don't jump to any conclusions."

  She looked up at me and I saw the first wash of tears. "Do you think that's why I got the internship?"

  I tugged her away from the desk, but Clarity wouldn't leave the office. We stood on the plush rug in the center of the room and I squeezed her fingers. "You got the internship on your own merit. How could you possibly compare yourself to Junior? All your father did was mail in your application and you did the rest. Never doubt that, Clarity."

  She shook her head. "You heard my father. His friend Michael Tailor has an 'in' at Wire Communications. I may never have been considered if someone didn't put my application on the top of a pile."

  I rattled her hands gently. "You don't think I would have told you if you didn't qualify for the internship? You're probably the best candidate they've ever had."

  Clarity sniffled. "How can I believe you? How can I believe you if I can't even believe my own father?"

  The look of grief on her face fizzed like acid in my stomach. "A good journalist doesn't jump to conclusions. You need hard evidence to be corroborated."

  She tugged her hands free of my grip and headed for the door. "I have to turn it down. I can't take that internship."

  I followed her to the door and jumped back as she wheeled around to face me. "What? What did I say?" I asked.

  Clarity clapped both hands to her mouth and struggled to get a deep breath. Her eyes were wide with fear. "A good journalist. You're a good journalist."

  "No one ever said that. Just calm down, we can figure this out."

  "That's it, don't you see?" Clarity cried. "You uncovered corruption at Landsman College. It's your journalistic duty to pursue the story and find the truth."

  "Clarity, I didn't see anything. Your father invited me to his office to smoke a cigar," I said.

  Her tears overflowed. "You didn't do anything wrong. He invited you into his office, he left the test scores and essay in plain view, and his computer was still on. You can't just walk away from a story like this, no matter who’s involved."

  "I'm not a journalist anymore, I'm a professor," I said.

  Clarity shook her head. "The first principle of journalistic ethics is to seek truth and report it. And you're the editor of the Landsman College newspaper. You have to report it."

  I took her by both shoulders and pulled her close, then I leaned down and made su
re she saw me. "Clarity, I will have seen nothing and I will do nothing, if that is what you want."

  Her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. "My father may be guilty of corruption; please don't make me doubt your integrity too."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Clarity

  I took items at random from the cafeteria line. It didn't matter so long as I wasn't having breakfast across from my father. He was acting as if nothing was wrong, but not in a normal way. My father's school spirit seemed strained for the first time ever. At least I knew he wasn't comfortable with what he'd done.

  I stared blankly at the dry cereal choices. Had my father really ignored an applicant's test results? Michael Tailor Junior's scores were not only poor, they were deliberately bad. How could my father doctor an entrance essay in order to justify letting such a determinedly defiant student in to Landsman College?

  The most logical explanation made me sick. Despite the sweet smell of the buttermilk pancakes, I knew I wasn't going to be able to eat a thing on my tray. I had only come to the cafeteria to avoid my father.

  At least my misery did not stand out. Everywhere students were struggling to adjust to classes as usual. The first day back after break and most students shuffled through in pajama pants and collegiate sweatshirts. Messy hair and blurry eyes were everywhere.

  I just wanted to be alone.

  "Student ID?" the cafeteria worker asked.

  I winced, but handed him the card. The last time someone had asked me that I had lied. It had been so easy to tell the security guard a false name. I had been thinking about saving my father the embarrassment. And I had been thinking of Ford.

  Looking back over the Thanksgiving holiday, Ford had been my only bright spot. Now all the happy moments with my father were tarnished by the major infraction he had committed, probably while the turkey was baking in the oven. I squeezed my eyes shut for just a moment and conjured up Ford's stormy gaze again. He had stood in front of me, steadied me as I reeled in disbelief, and Ford had promised he saw nothing.