Waking Up To Love (Lakeside Porches Book 4) (4 page)

“I’ll bring up your meal and leave it on your dresser.” She pointed her finger. “So be sure to close the bathroom door. I don’t want to disturb your privacy.”

“You are an angel.”

Mrs. Granger waved her off with a smile.

Lyssa was sequestered in her frilly bathroom, up to her neck in rose-scented bubbles, when Mrs. Granger called from the bedroom, “Do you need anything else, Professor?”

“No, thanks,” Lyssa called back and heard the hall door click shut.

She closed her eyes and brought back the fantasy she’d been enjoying, about waking up next to Kyle on rose-scented sheets and making love with him. She just knew he’d be a strong, generous lover.

Her nose sank below the water line, and she sputtered.
Get real.
Kyle has sent you away to chase your dream
.
So do it.

Chapter 2

Professor Rand Cunningham rushed out of the Tompkins College administration building just as a curvy babe in a well-cut mid-calf gray suit hauled open the massive oak door. His momentum pitched him headlong into her arms with a startled
whoop
of delight.

“Ohmigod,” Lyssa yelped and clutched his silk sweater to stay upright.

“Don’t fight fate, pretty lady.” Grabbing her luscious body by the waist, he danced her across the terrace, until she was backed against a century-old marble column with his toned body pressed into her every contour. His fingers tickled across the skin where her blouse had loosened from her waistband. “You’ve come undone.”

She licked her lips as Rand favored her with a rakish smile and bent his head closer. He chuckled in her left ear. “I’d like to wake up like this every morning, whoever you are.”

She pushed him away with a laugh. “Lyssa Doughty,”
she said. “Promise me you’re not on the search committee for the Financial Literacy grant.”

Rand barked a laugh. “You have no idea how absurd that is. I’m Rand Cunningham, poet and communications professor.”
Doughty. Intense blue eyes. Knock-em-dead cheekbones. Undoubtedly related to the president’s nephew’s wife.
He made it his business to know who was connected to the power structure.

“Welcome to Tompkins College. I’m sure you’ll get the job.”
Probably through nepotism, but he’d check with his grapevine throughout the day and see what they thought of her credentials.

She could be my winning ticket
.

Lyssa stepped out of his reach and tucked the pastel-pink silk blouse back into the gabardine skirt. “Do I look a fright?” The touch of British in her accent suited her ridiculously conservative fashion statement.

“You look appropriately academic. And delicious.”

“You’re saying they’re going to eat me alive?” She wrinkled her cute, straight nose and tugged her jacket into place.

“Nonsense. They’ll love you.” He jotted his cell number on the back of his business card and held it up with the aplomb of a magician. “Listen, Lyssa Doughty—I like that alliteration—if you get a break from today’s ordeal and need an ear, call me.” He tucked the card in the pocket of her laptop case. “And good luck,” he shouted as he ran down the granite stairs.

Her terrace romp with Rand Cunningham was just a warm-up for the roller coaster ride of her all-day interview.
Am I being filmed? Is this a reality show?
Lyssa took on every dip and turn and mind-altering loop as though she’d been handed the script ahead of time and choreographed it to show off her savvy and her grace under pressure.

The dean of the business school expected her to have a fully developed plan for her three-year position, when she hadn’t yet seen the grant proposal. She scooted her chair closer, reached for his copy, and walked him through it.

The panel of faculty from Arts and Sciences dismissed the notion that Tompkins College students needed financial literacy, whatever that was, as part of their four-year college experience. She convinced them otherwise.

The dean of students grilled her as though she were a sex offender who’d been hiding out in the UK to avoid prosecution.
What’s up with that?
She invited him to do a background check.

For a refreshing change, a group of students took her to a very late lunch at Ralphs Burgers and Shakes and, once she’d told them her areas of expertise, pleaded with her to take the job. “You’re exactly what we need.” “Totally.” “Absolutely.”

After lunch, the new director of the state-of-the-art media center dazzled her with a tour of the facility and shared his innovative ideas. She tagged him as an ally. They brainstormed beyond their allotted time, all the way to the provost’s office, where the assistant told Lyssa, “Don’t worry. She’s running a few minutes late, too. Have a seat, Dr. Doughty.”

Lyssa smiled happily and jotted notes in her tiny spiral notebook while she waited. By the time she met with the provost, whom she knew would make or break her candidacy, she had a detailed idea to sell and real enthusiasm for the opportunity.

“Your students are hungry for more than burgers,” she told the provost.

“They took you to Ralphs?” Dr. Miriam Sekora wore exactly the same shade of nail polish as Lyssa. “I suggested the Faculty Club.”

“Apparently it’s still undergoing renovation. Believe me, Dr. Sekora,” Lyssa said with a laugh, “I welcomed the excuse to eat a big fat burger with a chocolate shake.”

“I hear that,” the provost answered with a warm smile. She sat back, and her tone was all business when she said, “Tell me what our students need here at Tompkins College and how you can meet that need.”

Challenge on.

“I speak from the discipline of economics,” Lyssa said with a serious face and a voice to match, “with regard to money management, future perspective and career planning. Like many college students, the young people who had lunch with me are facing debt from loans and from the credit cards they overuse. Their parents have given them the best, but may not have modeled delayed gratification and financial planning. Suddenly they’re seniors—Jake, Lenora, and the three others who joined us—and they’re scared about the future.”

The provost huffed a laugh. “And they think nothing of inviting a few of their friends to a free lunch.”

Lyssa cited data about typical student debt and speculated about the factors that shaped student spending. She made a pitch for a two-semester course that would first introduce students to all aspects of financial literacy, and then focus on promotional techniques to showcase their new knowledge. “By producing public service announcements for young adults, they’ll improve their media literacy, demonstrate financial literacy, and highlight your spectacular new media center.”

As Lyssa continued, Dr. Sekora scanned the grant and interjected questions and comments. After five minutes of probing for Lyssa’s teaching style, her command of theory and current research, and her beliefs about how her proposal would make her students more marketable, the provost concluded, “I like your idea. It does, however, point out a disconnect in the spring-semester schedule, which I’ll fix. Tell me about your work in the UK this past year.”

With a proud smile and a courteous “May I?” Lyssa set up her laptop on the provost’s desk and clicked the play button on a YouTube clip of the public television series she had made through her post-doctoral fellowship. While the two-minute clip rolled, Dr. Sekora’s eyes sparkled.

Lyssa explained the purpose of the UK grant and her role as consultant and lecturer. “Of course,” she assured the provost, “with the Tompkins College grant, your students will be in the spotlight, not me, and the audience will be young adults.”

The provost’s mocha face relaxed, and her dark-brown eyes focused intensely on Lyssa. “Do you want the job, Dr. Doughty?

Lyssa sucked in a breath and closed her eyes.
Let Kyle go, Lyssa. Move on
. “I do.”

“That’s good, because my phone’s been busy. Everyone you’ve talked with today agrees you’re a perfect match.” She added in a wry tone, “Including the Humanities faculty who were, I gather, skeptical in the extreme before you educated them?”

“They were.” Lyssa’s face flamed at the memory. “It was a lively session.”

“And you think you can work with them?”

“Yes.”

“Welcome to the faculty at Tompkins College, Professor Doughty.” The provost held out her hand. “I will convey your thoughts to the president. I understand you’re dining with him in a couple of hours, and I trust your discussion will go well.”

As she exited the administration building, Lyssa rejoiced at having been offered her dream job, but her heart was still broken. Her excitement couldn’t compete with the ache in her chest.
Really, God? Is this where I’m supposed to be and what I’m supposed to do?

She crossed the verdant quad and passed between limestone buildings, golden in the late afternoon sun. In the shelter of her cozy rental car, as she fished in her purse for a tissue, the list of AA meetings peeked up at her. The clock on the dashboard told her it was nearly five o’clock, time for the Happy Hour group.

Tears spilled over as she entered the meeting room at the church on Adams Street. She appropriated a box of tissues and hunkered down in the last row of folding chairs. As she listened to the familiar words of the AA Prologue and the recitation of the Twelve Steps and Traditions, the routine calmed her. When she’d reached the end of her tears, she dried her face and set aside the box of tissues.

“If anyone has a problem they need to share,” the gentleman leading the meeting said, “this would be a good time to speak up.”

Lyssa balled her wet tissues and looked around for a trash basket. All eyes were on her.

“Oh,” she croaked. “That would be me. Hi, I’m Lyssa, and I’m an addict and an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Lyssa,” the twenty-or-so strangers replied in unison.

“I’ve been interviewing all day, and it looks like I got the job,” she told them, “which is a happy thing, except the man of my dreams is in London and won’t be following me here. I don’t have any desire to drink or use, but I need to hear about ‘Let Go and Let God.’ Or gratitude. Or something.”

“You’re in the right place,” the same man said with a compassionate smile. “Welcome.”

Others raised their voices, each in turn sharing a similar experience, along with how they stayed sober and dealt with it. By the end of the meeting, her heart still hurt, but Lyssa felt connected to some caring people in her new home.

After the close, she shook a few hands, thanked people for their warm welcome, assured them she was all set for dinner and had a nice place to stay tonight. A woman her age, with black curls and green sea-glass eyes, handed her a local meeting list and introduced herself as Bree. She and Bree chatted all the way to their cars and exchanged phone numbers.

“You’re a year younger than me and you have your Ph.D.? Wow.” Bree gave her a high-five.

“After my parents died, when I was a senior in high school, I didn’t have anything else going for me except that full scholarship to UT Austin. I didn’t dare quit. But once you get the doctorate, you’re done.”

“I’m taking online courses in business through Empire State College. I plan to finish in another year with my B.A.”

“That’s terrific. Do you have plans for a career?”

“I work at the Bagel Depot now. I’m not sure what it will lead to, but my boss keeps encouraging me, and my brother does, too. He used to want me to be a cop, like him, but now he sees how happy this makes me.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No boyfriend. I’m a little over a year sober.”

“Me, too. Coming up on eighteen months. No more boyfriend, as of yesterday.” She put on a shaky smile. “You and I have a lot in common, Bree.”

“I’m glad you got the job, but I’m sorry about the guy in London.”

Lyssa squeezed her eyes shut. “Thanks, but I’m done crying about it. I’m moving on.”

“Hey, big bro.” Pricilla Cunningham’s keen eye studied her brother Rand as he descended the steps of the Cunningham corporate jet. He looked tired and stressed. The chinos and blue polo shirt were his usual style, but the pinched face and matted hair were not.

Rand set down his leather suitcase with a sigh, as if he’d been carrying a terrible burden. “I need fun, sun, and saltwater.”

“We’ve got all of the above.”

The whine of the jet engine quieted behind them.

“Thanks for making the plane available.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “You look ravishing, Miss Pris.”

Pris swatted his arm. “Don’t call me that.”

He wrapped an arm around her slender shoulders, and they crossed the airstrip.

“Is it just the glowing tan, or are you getting some?”

A hot blush spread from her neck to her cheeks.

“I thought so. What’s his name?” Rand kept one hand at the small of her back as he dragged his suitcase through the compact, efficient terminal.

“Phillip.”

“Phillip, not Phil?”

She winked. “Not as stuffy as he sounds. He’s a creative genius, with a body to die for. I met him at a PR conference last winter. Sparks like the Fourth of July. We’re so compatible, Rand, it’s scary. We’ve been dating since February, and he’s been out to a few parties here this summer. Chrissie likes him.”

“Married?”

“Of course not.”

Rand pushed open the exit door and held it for her. “When did they name this ‘Gateway to the Hamptons’?”

She followed his line of sight to the sign on the lawn. “I think it’s always been there. Looks like they gave it some fresh paint this year.”

“Maybe.” They strolled across the gravel parking lot toward her Mercedes two-seater. “You’re
sure
Phillip-not-Phil isn’t married?”

He’d been burned a couple years ago by a gold-digging ‘fiancée’ who had a redneck husband on the side. Once she’d found out Rand had been cut off from the family fortune, she’d lost interest and told him her husband planned to kill him. She hadn’t been kidding.

The job at Tompkins College had come at just the right time. It hadn’t taken much to convince the provost and dean to credit his four years at Kansas State toward tenure. With one year at Tompkins College already behind him, he had only to keep his nose clean this year, and he’d be set.

Pris nodded once, firmly. “His divorce was final last winter. I made him show me the papers.”

Rand laughed.