"Thank you, Mr. Barton."
"Please, call me Wesley," Barton said with a warm smile.
Jackson appeared before anyone noticed my clenched fist. I considered following through with the punch just for the hell of it, but remembered both my department head and the college president were present.
"Wesley Barton, this is my husband," Alice said. She threaded an arm through Jackson's and leaned into him.
Next to Alice's slim and compact figure, Jackson was too tall and gangly. Barton gave him a sardonic smile. "Nice to see you again, professor."
"Why are you here?" I asked.
Everyone blinked but Barton recovered in two seconds. "My friend, Michael Tailor, has a son starting here next year and I'm always willing to help a good cause."
"Does he have a nephew that plays football? Brian Tailor?" Jackson asked.
I scowled, wishing the conversation would end so I could get my friends far away from Barton. "The running back," I said.
Barton cocked an eyebrow at me. "You really do notice everything, eh, Bauer?" He smiled at Alice, though she had caught the grim expression of her husband. "The Tailors have a long history with Landsman College, and my friend makes many generous donations. Perhaps there is something the English Department needs? Do people actually read books anymore?"
Jackson lifted a foot to step forward but Alice steered him away. "How about a turn around the dance floor? Still remember those lessons we took before the wedding?" she asked her husband.
"I need to wait for a waltz or I'm lost," Jackson lied, eyeing Barton again.
Alice, tucked under her tall husband's arm, pulled him off balance so he had to move. "Too bad Ford's pretty partner is gone, otherwise they could show you how it's done."
"Dancing with a pretty partner?" Barton turned his narrow gaze on me. "And here I thought you were all work, work, work. Which lovely lady is it?"
"Back off, Barton," I snarled as soon as Jackson and Alice were out of earshot. "You've got a lot of nerve coming up to me here and acting as if everything is fine between us."
"But it is," Barton smiled. "It was just business. Ask anyone of the donors here: making money is a team effort and you just weren't willing to play."
"That bullshit doesn't make what you did right and I don't care who your friends are," I snapped.
"Oh, but you do. People like us run things and there is nothing you can do about it." Barton sipped his drink and smiled at the other guests. "The truth is that Michael's son, Junior, is dumber than a tree stump. He once almost drowned using a beer bong. But, because of who he is and who his father knows, he'll be accepted at Landsman College without a problem. Just wait and see. Maybe I'll suggest he look at a career in journalism."
"Just what you need: a reporter too dumb not to spew out the crap you pretend is the truth." I finished my drink and walked away.
I searched the dining hall for someone I wanted to talk to, but Jackson and Alice were still on the dance floor. Dean Dunkirk was surrounded by alumni eager to hear stories. It was also difficult to talk to him without feeling like I was just as low as Wesley Barton. He entrusted me with his daughter and he treated me like a friend. In return all I could do was fight off my growing attraction.
I turned and saw Clarity from across the room. From the distance, her eyes were a deep forest green that hid her thoughts. My heart pumped against my ribs as it occurred to me she was the only person I wanted to see.
She waited until I didn't look away and then she wove through the crowd to join me. Our eyes were still locked as she neared, a rosy hue warming her cheeks. Then she shook it away and put a polite smile in place.
"Do you have any ideas for an article?" she asked. "You look so serious. Like you overheard something big."
I considered telling her about the string-pulling donors but thought better of it. If I hadn't learned my lesson, I knew better than to drag Clarity into a similar situation. "Lady's choice," I said.
Clarity beamed. "Good because I have this great idea to write a story about the catering. Why would Landsman College spend so much money to pay servers when students could do it? It would be great networking for the students and a chance for the alumni to share wisdom with them."
"Wisdom?" I snorted.
"Fine," she swiped back an errant curl, "but I'm right about the networking part."
"I don't know. It just seems like another opportunity that would be rife with nepotism," I said.
Clarity's nostrils flared. "Landsman College does not have a problem with nepotism and I don't like what you are implying."
I held up both hands. "I'm offering the opposite viewpoint to make your core claims stronger. How about the fact that alumni and donors may not be able to relax and enjoy the bar as easily with students watching?"
Clarity put a hand on her hip and pointed the other at my chest. "Are you speaking for the faculty or for yourself personally?"
"I could use a drink. And I pride myself on treating my students as adults, not children," I said.
"That's the spirit I think this event could capture. Maybe students should be allowed to raise enough money to attend themselves. Different groups of students could band together and build up interest in specific funding." Clarity’s eyes shone.
Her enthusiasm made me smile. "Are you telling me you'd trade looking gorgeous in that dress for black pants and a white button-down shirt?"
She stopped and blinked. "Gorgeous?"
I felt a flash of heat rise to my ears. "I find it hard to believe you've never heard that before."
Clarity couldn't meet my eyes. "Um, thank you. You look very handsome tonight."
My burst of laughter cooled the conversation. "I wasn't fishing for a compliment, Ms. Dunkirk. Are you going to get all stutter-y if I tell you I like your story idea? Why don't you run it by some of your father's friends and see if you can get some quotes."
Her brow furrowed, but the polite smile slipped back into place. "Sure thing, Professor Bauer."
I stopped a passing server. "I'll tip you directly if you bring me a scotch." The server nodded and I shook my head. That was definitely not something I would say to a student.
Then again, I wouldn't normally compliment a female student on her looks. No matter how innocent it was intended to be, that just begged for problems.
I looked down at my scuffed shoes. My problem was the compliment had popped out of its own accord. Clarity had a way of eliciting responses from my brain and body that were not in any way appropriate.
That made me angry. In any other room, in any other place, she would just be an attractive young woman. Her maturity set her apart from other students, and the more times I talked to her, the more I connected with her on an intellectual level. But no one would ever see that, they would only see an old professor leering at a student.
Thirty-one was not old—I was practically a baby when it came to professors—but I felt old. I watched as Clarity joined her father in an animated and smiling conversation. That was the biggest difference between us—she was all hope and ideals while I was all cynicism and experience. The last thing I would wish on Clarity was a man like me.