by Claire Adams
“So, you already knew when I called you? Why did you scream like that?” Anna asked her mom as we waited for the check.
“Well, I knew he was going to ask you, but I didn’t know you said yes until you told me,” Millie said.
I leaned into Anna. “I even asked your dad for permission when I first started planning this.”
“Seriously? How did you get his number?” she asked.
“Remember when I told you I took a trip to visit a possible new client?”
Her mouth dropped open. “You went to visit them?”
I nodded my head. “I discussed the whole thing with them. They both gave me their permission and said that my ideas sounded perfect for you.”
Anna leaned over and kissed me.
“Let me see the rock!” Ally said from her seat across from Anna.
Anna held up her hand.
“Holy rock. Good job, Justin,” Ally said.
“Thanks,” I smiled.
When dinner was finished, we made our way back to Anna’s house. We already had plans to move in together at the end of the month when my lease was up, so that was one decision already checked off the list.
“I can’t believe everything you did for me today,” Anna said after we put Margie to bed in her princess bed that Anna bought a few months back.
I gave her a kiss. “I wanted to do so much more, but funds and timing were both a little short.”
“This was perfect, Justin,” she said. “Thank you.”
Anna and I sat down on the couch. She put her head on my shoulder, and I held her left hand. We both stared at her ring.
“I hope you like it,” I said,
“I love it. And the necklace. They’re both perfect,” she said.
“You know, when Tammy passed away, I couldn’t even picture myself ever dating again. And then I started fighting, and I was having problems with my back muscles. I had appointments with three other massage therapists the day I met you,” I said.
“You did?” she sounded surprised.
“Yeah, but I canceled them after I met you. There was something about you that just made me want to get to know you better. Then, I had to make the hard decision of cutting our sessions out. They were too expensive, and I had other priorities. It hurt me to have to walk away from you like that, but then you approached me about your plan to play boyfriend. I couldn’t pass that up. It gave me the opportunity to play the role that I knew I already wanted. And it was then that I knew I was ready to move on, to date again, and possibly even get married again.”
I gave Anna a kiss.
“And now here we are,” she said and held up her hand.
“Yes. Here we are.” I gave her another kiss.
Margie came out of her room. “I can’t sleep,” she said.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Anna said and grabbed a blanket from under her coffee table.
Margie walked over and sat in between us. Anna covered the three of us up with the blanket. It was at that moment that I knew I could spend every single night for the rest of my life just like that.
“This was the best day of my whole life,” Margie said, sleepily.
“Mine too,” Anna and I said at the same time. We looked at each other and both smiled. I knew I made the right decision on that fateful day to play her boyfriend. Little did we know, the role would turn into something that would change both of our lives forever.
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BAD PROFESSOR
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Clarity
I heard my heels clicking fast across the foyer floor. The next song came over the living room speakers, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Addictive rhythms ran through the crowd and grabbed hold of both faculty and students. Other than the occasional tapping toe and slight bounce of the head, it was hard to see, but the party hit the right tone.
Maybe ‘party’ wasn't the right word. There was plaid tweed, too many khakis, and a wide array of sweaters. It was definitely an official Landsman College sanctioned gathering. The Dean of Students tried every year to introduce the Honor Council nominees to the faculty in a fun way. This year, fueled by a joke list of movies he was told to watch over the summer, Dean Dunkirk had announced a house party.
Students snuck beers or spiked lemonades in the prerequisite red plastic cups, while faculty drank aged wine or fine spirits out of the same style cup. The music was a mash-up of classic acoustic guitar rock and toned-down student favorites. I had even moved some of the furniture aside and made hang-out spots with over-sized throw pillows. Ping pong was a big draw on the back, three-season porch. Mason jars of tea lights added a simple elegance, and the food was easy, grill-inspired finger foods.
Everything was perfect, and I searched for something to do. I imagined being a full-blown journalist and swept the collegiate crowd again in search of headlines. As I smiled and mingled, I wrote leads in my head.
Cut from the same cloth, student and coach wore the same sweater.
Endless summer, English professor returns from California vacation and continues her taste for Napa wines.
"Is that her bored smile?" Jasmine asked the petite girl beside her.
"I can't tell; I think it's pasted on." Lexi's short brown curls bounced as she tipped her head, studied Clarity, and flipped to the other side.
"Very funny. Where have you two been?" I asked my best friends.
"A little pre-party with some football players." Jasmine's tall, willowy figure shuddered with delight. "Looks like it's going to be a good season."
I couldn't fault my friends, but I focused on the house party. "You were supposed to be here helping me."
Jasmine tossed her blonde hair. "Like you needed us. Everyone's having an honorably great time. More importantly, have you decided what you're doing for Thanksgiving break? I vote we stay on campus and enjoy some of the real parties. No offense, Clarity."
I laughed, "None taken. I'm sticking around for break so I can get a head start on some of my journalism classes. Intermediate News Reporting is going to be a big step up."
Lexi rolled on her tip toes to nudge Jasmine in the ribs. "We heard the one to look forward to is Multi-Media Production and Storytelling."
"Oh yeah," Jasmine's eyes sparkled. "The, uh, syllabus looks really, really good."
"Maybe that's why she's going to stay on campus with us during break," Lexi said. "You know, so she can attend her professor's office hours."
"Are you saying the professor is supposed to be hot?" I asked. "You know that little fantasy doesn't work for me. The Dean of Students is my father, remember?"
"All we're saying is take some good notes for us. We want to hear every detail," Jasmine grinned.
I rolled my eyes. "We're past junior high, right? Last time I checked, we were juniors in college."
Lexi collapsed against my arm and giggled harder. "Hey, we can't all be fulfilled by careers alone."
"Speaking of fulfillment, you should have seen the new quarterback," Jasmine said.
I sighed as I saw a guest empty a wine bottle. "Look, I've got to go restock the bar. Are you going to stick around for a while? Please?"
"Ooh, she wants to hear about the quarterback," Lexi winked. "I guess we can stick around for a while."
"You have to, Lex; you're nominated for Honor Council," I reminded her.
"Oh, shit, that's right."
Jasmine dropped to the sofa in a new fit of giggles and dragged Lexi down with her. I took a quick spin through the
dining room to see if anyone needed anything. Conversations were relaxed, red plastic cups were full, the silver trays of food were still over half full, and everyone was engaged.
The tall, brunette economics professor broke from her department friends and strode across the dining room. She paused near the back hall, under the stairs, and then turned around as if she had forgotten something. The other female professors fluttered when she returned, and their heads bent together to discuss something.
One of the French professors watched with a frown as his wife took the long way to the bathroom by going through the back hall. I could tell from a few other glances that some gossip centered under the stairs. I clipped across the hardwood floor for a better vantage point.
When I turned around, the room kept spinning. The man standing half in the shadows leaned against the built-in dresser under the stairs and stood out from the Landsman College crowd. Long legs in dark denim stretched down to artfully scuffed Italian boots. His crisp, white shirt stood out under a charcoal sport coat. A thick brush of dark stubble covered his square jaw, and black, glossy hair rioted on his head despite the short cut.
He smiled, and his metallic gray eyes touched me like a live wire. I hoped the jolt wasn't noticeable, but his smile widened and fried my circuits.
Alright—I see what the fuss is all about. I forced myself to turn back to the diminishing bar. There, I busied myself with unloading full bottles of wine from a box hidden in a corner cabinet of the dining room.
It was impossible to ignore the electric hum of him behind me. I caught myself glancing back under the stairs. He wasn't talking to anybody, but seemed content observing. Then, his magnetic eyes touched me again.
Now I have to go talk to him, I prodded myself. I have to ask if he needs anything; that way he'll think I'm attentive, not attracted to him.
I determined the voltage that played along my skin had to do with not eating enough while playing hostess. It was not the direct effect of watching his white button-up shirt shift over a tanned chest.
"Can I get you anything?" I asked the sinfully handsome man.
He leaned farther back and scrubbed a hand over his chin as he looked at me. "How about your name? I'm Ford."
The texture of his voice played a line of shivers down my back. "Nice to meet you, Ford. I'm Clarity."
One thick, black eyebrow raised, his lips curved in appreciation. "Just what I need."
"I'm heading to the bar; I'll bring you back a drink.” I fought off a rising blush.
I left before he could say anything. I'd seen his empty glass and decided to take a chance. For some reason, I wanted an excuse to pull myself together and talk to him again.
Jasmine's arm caught me around the kitchen door and hauled me inside. "Who was that you were talking to?" she asked.
Lexi's petite hands swatted Jasmine away. "I'm hoping he's a new student. Right? Why else would he be at the party?”
"He looks older than a student. More mature," I said.
My friends both bounced up and down. "Finally, someone more inspiring than journalism class," Lexi cheered.
"Oh, stop, he's just like any other guest," I lied and turned to the kitchen island where a long tray acted as a casual bar.
I screwed up my eyes and fought past the image of his dark hair and shadowed jaw. There was no point in remembering the loose buttons down the neck of his crisp, white shirt or imagining the tanned, broad chest beneath. I couldn't remember what he was drinking, so I filled a lowball glass with Scotch. It was my father's favorite.
I wove through the crowd back towards the dining room. Jasmine and Lexi were wrong; I was interested in him purely in a journalistic way. He was the most intriguing lead so far, and I wanted to practice my interview skills.
Running over possible questions in my head, I almost ran into a fellow student. Libby Blackwell's dyed-blonde hair fell over her brown eyes.
"Sorry, Clarity," she snapped.
"Are you okay?" I asked. Libby was not a close friend, but our schedules had overlapped here and there over the past two years.
Libby tossed her hair back. "No. My ex-boyfriend is completely ignoring me. I mean, who ignores this dress?" she asked.
The deep V-neck she flaunted was unavoidable, but obviously it was not catching the attention she wanted. "That's too bad," I said.
She smirked. "Too bad for him. I love it when men play hard to get." She handed me her drink while she fluffed up her hair and yanked down the neckline of her dress. "As if he's going home with any of his stuffy colleagues."
"Wait, are you talking about a professor?" I almost sloshed her drink over. "That's totally against the honor code."
"Don't be so naive, Clarity. What do you think makes it so hot?" Libby asked with an unrepentant wink.
I handed her back her drink and slipped through the crowd. Libby Blackwell didn't hide her distain for the honor code even as she wanted to win a place on the council. That's why I didn't want to date—it distracted from the whole point of college. I wanted to be a journalist, not a conniving ex or a strategic flirt.
The strong whiff of Scotch reminded me of my errand, and a flurry of excitement blew around in my stomach. I was going to interview Ford and see what kind of story he would make. That way I would have something prepared on the first day of class.
All of my clever questions fled when I stepped under the wide archway and joined him in the small nook next to the back stairs.
Ford stood up this time, his glossy black hair almost brushing the wood-paneled ceiling. I tipped my head up and estimated he was 6'2" with a taut, muscular build. The charcoal sport coat clung to his wide shoulders and showed the sinewy stretch of strong biceps underneath.
"I thought you might like Scotch," I said.
"Good observation, Clarity," Ford said. He slipped his empty glass onto a shelf and took the fresh drink. "I'm impressed."
I made a note to clean up that stray glass later, then met his flint-gray eyes. "So, Ford, what do you do?"
Something flared in his expression, but he cooled it with an easy smile. "You're sharp. Want to see if you can guess?" he asked.
"Challenge accepted," I said. I walked a semi-circle around Ford and back. "You've got more confidence than a student, you're too bored to be a professor, and you can’t be an administrator."
He turned his back on the party and turned up the wattage of his smile. "Really? Then why am I here?"
"Oh no." My smile slipped. "Are you one of those reporters hoping for some big scandal on campus?" Landsman College was a highly ranked, private college, and there was always someone thinking its long-standing traditions were a rock to be turned over.
"A lot of us prefer the term journalist." Ford returned to lean against the built-in dresser by the stairs.
"Me too. I definitely don't want to be called a reporter, or worse, a cub reporter."
Ford put his glass of Scotch between himself and my gesticulating enthusiasm. "You know it's a dying art, right? Not many newspapers around anymore."
"But plenty of news outlets," I said. Before I could ask him which one he worked for, I heard the icy smash of a dropped plate. "Sorry, I better go help with that." In a polite reflex, I reached out and shook his hand.
Ford blinked in surprise then tugged me back as I turned. "Thanks for the drink, Clarity. I owe you one."
Each word was a balloon that buoyed me up as I went to help with the spill. When I saw that fast-moving Lexi already had it under control, I turned right around. I took one step back towards Ford and ran right into a classmate.
"Clarity, hi. Wow, you look beautiful. I mean, beautiful party. You've done a great job." Thomas gripped his red plastic cup with both hands. "I'm looking forward to Editing for Print and Digital Audiences; aren't you?"
"Hi, Thomas. Yeah, I'm taking that class too, but I think I'm more excited about Intermediate News Reporting. In fact, I've been searching for headlines this whole party," I said.
Thomas smiled in reli
ef. The gangly journalism major was glad for a game he could handle. Casual conversation seemed to be a challenge for him, at least around me. Now, he turned to stand next to me and scan the crowd.
"There's something." He nodded towards Libby's bright, brittle hair. "I heard she had an affair with a professor her freshman year."
"Really," I feigned surprise. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ford leave the shadows of the back hall. He moved across the dining room, dragging appreciative eyes with him, and touched one shoulder to the archway of the living room.
Thomas followed my eyes and frowned. "I'm not sure what his story is, but I'm sure there's something there."
"Do you know who he is?" I asked.
"Sure," Thomas's frown deepened. "That's Professor Bauer; he teaches Multimedia Production and Storytelling. We start his class in the morning. Want me to save you a seat?"
My insides smeared like soaked newsprint. Ford was a professor? The handsome man with electric gray eyes was completely off limits. I swore at Libby for being right; the thought of breaking the honor code with Ford, Professor Bauer, only made the currents of attraction spark hotter. I blushed as my body betrayed my rule-abiding mind.
"Is that your father?" Thomas asked.
"What?" My thoughts struggled back into linear fashion. "Dad! There you are," I called. My father joined us and automatically shook hands with Thomas. "Dad, this is Thomas; he's a fellow journalism major. Thomas, this is my dad, Dean Dunkirk."
"Nice to meet you, Thomas. I like getting to know my daughter's classmates." My father noticed Thomas's nervous sheen of sweat, so he asked an easy question to put him at ease. "How'd you chose journalism?"
"I tried advertising and copywriting, but my advisor helped me realize I'm more analytical than creative. Journalism seemed like the best fit," Thomas said.
My father nodded. "It's good to try things out before you decide what's really right. I keep trying to tell Clarity that, but she won't listen. She's got everything mapped out, always has."
"There is nothing wrong with having a career path," I said.
My father patted my shoulder. "Only if you keep it so narrow that you don't see any of the other possibilities."