Read Online Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) by Claire Adams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claire Adams
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table.
"I
know, thanks." I gestured around the warm kitchen, " But why would I
want to leave all this?"
My
father snorted. "This isn't for everyone. Too boring. What's the word? Stodgy."
He
was talking about my mother and I felt a twinge in my chest. She had left when
I was too young to remember her in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, but the way
my father talked about her, she may never have sat there for more than five
minutes. When he talked about her, my mother was always in motion. Always going
somewhere, traveling, and very rarely returning. And then one day, she was
gone.
That
was why when my friends called to declare a Funday Sunday, I declined right
away. I couldn't bear to drop everything and leave my father alone. He needed
someone to grind the coffee to the right consistency for the French Press. He
never remembered where the honey was that he liked on his toast. If I wasn't
there to help him, sit with him, he'd be all alone.
I
would never hurt him like my mother did. If his heart felt an airless reaching
like mine, then how could I even think about leaving? I was determined to be
the opposite of my mother in every way. It's what drove me to shake off all my
silly fantasies and focus. My biggest worry was hurting my father someday, and
he was too good a man to deserve that.
So,
I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some
journalists used creative leads while most stuck to single-item or summary
leads.
The
newsprint blurred and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray
eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly and dried leaves
crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back
telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly
charged current leapt between us.
"Just
imagining things," I muttered.
"What
was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section
again.
"Did
you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.
He
gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I
forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to
write my own grabbers.
Not
touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.
I
jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back
to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a
pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all
at the same time when I was near Ford.
"Working
on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit
here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like
'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that
you're all grown up."
"No
one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're
describing pirates," I pointed out.
My
father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more
creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."
I
groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after
coffee."
"No
lecture, just an observation," he said.
I
folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well,
here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications
and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked
it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the
kitchen island.
My
father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work
there?"
"First
off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of
the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table
in exasperation.
"You
don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break.
Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father
folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.
I
held up a hand. "No.
"I
know, thanks." I gestured around the warm kitchen, " But why would I
want to leave all this?"
My
father snorted. "This isn't for everyone. Too boring. What's the word? Stodgy."
He
was talking about my mother and I felt a twinge in my chest. She had left when
I was too young to remember her in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, but the way
my father talked about her, she may never have sat there for more than five
minutes. When he talked about her, my mother was always in motion. Always going
somewhere, traveling, and very rarely returning. And then one day, she was
gone.
That
was why when my friends called to declare a Funday Sunday, I declined right
away. I couldn't bear to drop everything and leave my father alone. He needed
someone to grind the coffee to the right consistency for the French Press. He
never remembered where the honey was that he liked on his toast. If I wasn't
there to help him, sit with him, he'd be all alone.
I
would never hurt him like my mother did. If his heart felt an airless reaching
like mine, then how could I even think about leaving? I was determined to be
the opposite of my mother in every way. It's what drove me to shake off all my
silly fantasies and focus. My biggest worry was hurting my father someday, and
he was too good a man to deserve that.
So,
I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some
journalists used creative leads while most stuck to single-item or summary
leads.
The
newsprint blurred and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray
eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly and dried leaves
crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back
telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly
charged current leapt between us.
"Just
imagining things," I muttered.
"What
was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section
again.
"Did
you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.
He
gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I
forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to
write my own grabbers.
Not
touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.
I
jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back
to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a
pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all
at the same time when I was near Ford.
"Working
on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit
here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like
'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that
you're all grown up."
"No
one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're
describing pirates," I pointed out.
My
father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more
creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."
I
groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after
coffee."
"No
lecture, just an observation," he said.
I
folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well,
here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications
and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked
it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the
kitchen island.
My
father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work
there?"
"First
off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of
the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table
in exasperation.
"You
don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break.
Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father
folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.
I
held up a hand. "No.
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