SEAL's Technique Box Set (A Navy SEAL Romance)

by Claire Adams

  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 relief. 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 an
d 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."

  "What, like painting?" I snapped.

  Thomas shuffled his big feet, but my father took the outburst in stride. "My daughter knows I have a passion for art. There's nothing wrong with wanting a creative pursuit. Not everything has to be practical down to the last detail."

  "There's nothing wrong with focus and ambition," I said. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I have to check on the other guests."

  Thomas's big eyes beseeched me to stay, but I turned and wove my way through to the porch. Jasmine and Lexi were teamed up against two guys from the physics department. A few smiles and poses, and the ping pong ball seemed to defy the laws of gravity so the girls could win. They giggled, and the guys didn't look sad at all as they got conciliatory hugs.

  I stood on the top step but could not walk down and join them. I hung suspended between a room of cheering college friends and an interesting discussion on education funding. The conversations among the faculty were far more interesting, as they all came from diverse and distinguished careers.

  I would never fit in with them if I didn't concentrate on my own career path. Yes, declaring my journalism major as a freshman had narrowed my areas of study immediately, but it kept me focused. There was no way I could be accused of being flighty or free-spirited like my absent mother. She never held a job or relationship that kept her in one place, and the consequential loneliness of that choice drove me in the opposite direction. The straight and narrow was just fine.

  And that made it no less exciting for me. I turned back to the house and imagined a correspondents’ dinner. I'd get the scoop, I'd capture the perfect quote, and Ford would congratulate me on my keen observations again. No, scratch that. I kicked Professor Bauer out of my daydream.

  I couldn't wait to go to press conferences and listen intently to the hidden truths behind the spin. The idea of arguing over interpretations with Ford sent a zip of anticipation up my back. No, again, he was a professor at Landsman College, and I was a student. Not only a student, but the Dean of Students’ daughter. I couldn't be daydreaming about him no matter how those metal-gray eyes sparked something inside me.

  I pushed the handsome stranger out of my head. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough, and I could still get to know him. Then it would be easier to think of him as a stuffy, probably strict teacher.

  "Clarity, there you are. Professor Bauer, I'd like you to meet my prized assistant and the arranger of this successful party," my father said.

  Ford's lethal smile hit me full force. "Nice to meet you, Clarity. Dean Dunkirk has been telling me all about how indispensable you are to him."

  He didn't realize I was the dean's daughter; his smile was too warm, and he held my outstretched hand a beat too long.

  My father didn't notice the caress or the misunderstanding. "Clarity is indispensable, but that doesn't stop me from wishing she would break out, see a little more of the world, get inspired. Perhaps you can help convince her that it's actually better to bounce around a little and try things out before settling down."

  Ford's smiled took my temperature up another five degrees. "She needs someone to bring her out of her shell?"

  "Exactly," my father said. "Someone to show her it's okay to bend the rules now and then."

  "Dean Dunkirk, should you really be talking about bending rules?" I asked.

  My father laughed. "Ah, Clarity. She's my voice of reason. I just want you to feel some passion. What kind of person plans so carefully?"

  "The person in charge of the desserts table. Please excuse me; there's an empty cookie tray I need to refill." I spun away from my father and Ford. I wasn't ready to see his gray eyes cool when he realized I was a student.

  Professor Bauer, I reminded myself as I ignored the empty cookie tray and slipped out the back door of the kitchen. I edged along the sidewalk underneath the kitchen windows. Risking being seen for a second, I dodged into the shadows of the small fruit trees that separated the house from the vegetable garden. The sounds and pressures of the party faded behind me.

  One of the few pieces of advice I remembered from my estranged mother echoed in my head. "You wanna know what love really feels like?" she had asked me when I had my first crush. "Imagine you're an outlet and your special someone is a plug. They come along, you realize how you fit together, and ding! The whole room lights up."

  It was an odd memory to surface as I hid in the shadowed garden. I was glad for the cool breeze. Now that the temperature was dropping, it was actually starting to feel like fall. A good time to be wrapped up in a blanket in front of a crackling fire, my cheek resting against a strong, steady heartbeat and my hair caught in the rasping caress of a stubbled chin.

  What was I doing? I paced around the four raised garden beds. A few stray plants hung on despite the coming frost, but even they could not keep Ford out of my head.

  Professor Bauer.

  I had to escape the party. Not only had my father neglected to introduce me as his daughter, but he had gone on and on about wanting me to do something reckless and passionate. Ford had listened politely, but the wolfish curve of his lips told me he approved of my father's out-of-character advice. I wondered how many glasses of Scotch my father had drank. Maybe I should have dragged him outside to clear his head too.

  It wasn't working for me. I paced one more lap around the raised garden beds then flopped onto our sun-bleached bench. Counting backwards was supposed to calm me. I took a deep breath and started at twenty. By fifteen, I was struggling to erase tall, dark, and handsome. By ten, my shoulders relaxed.

  At seven, I heard boots on the stepping stones. My eyes flew open, and Ford stopped just past the low branches of our old apple tree.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," he said.

  You have no idea, I thought. "Too stuffy in there?" I asked him.

  Ford laughed. "A little bit." He strode over and joined me on the bench. "Let me guess: you're escaping from your boss."

  "My boss? Dean Dunkirk?" I
knew I should correct him, but we were so separate from the party. There wouldn't be any harm in being my own person for just a few, quiet moments. "Yeah, he's a big talker about breaking out and bending rules, but what do you want to bet he'll have a dozen things for me to do when I get back?" I said.

  Ford leaned back and stretched his long legs out. He crossed his ankles casually and sighed. "I know it's just the beginning of the school year, but I keep thinking about grabbing the train and heading to the end of the line. Or just riding until I feel like getting off and not caring where I end up. That's bad, isn't it?"

  I hitched an elbow up onto the back of the bench and turned to face him. "I regularly dream about packing a bag, getting in my car, and just driving," I confessed.

  "Talk to me when you have that bag already packed," Ford said. "We could be past Chicago and on our way west in an hour. Not that I've studied the train time tables or anything." His smile flashed like lightning in the dark garden.

  "Why the train?" I asked.

  "That way I'm moving, but I can still enjoy the scenery." He looped an arm over the back of the bench next to mine. His hand brushed the ends of my hair. "There are lots of beautiful things I'd like to focus on for a while."

  His leg pressed along my thigh, and the autumn air couldn't cool me down enough. A blush rose on my cheeks, and I was glad for the shadowy garden. "Running away on a train sounds so romantic," I said.

  "Exactly," Ford murmured. "Do you think Dean Dunkirk would approve of you jumping on a train for a romantic getaway?"

  I pulled back and stood up. "Sorry, I really should be getting back to the party."

  Ford stood up. "So, Dean Dunkirk's right, huh? You're always so good?"

  "Good night," I said, and fled back to my father's house.

  Chapter Two

  Ford

  Clarity's dark-red hair was easy to spot through the windows. I wasn't ready to return to the party. I wasn't ready to admit that she was the reason I had stepped outside for some fresh air in the first place. It was all the professors, so noble in their pursuits, and the students, so fresh-faced and eager. It drove me crazy how the real world was pushed outside of Landsman College.