Waking Up To Love (Lakeside Porches Book 4) (14 page)

“Kyle, it’s me, Lyssa,” she said, quickly before she could second-guess herself. “I care so very deeply for you, and I want to see you. Somehow.”

After a great, shuddering breath, he said, “And I as well. I’m working on it, luv, turning over authority to Geoffrey. You remember the nerdy guy who’s always after me to take a vacation?”

“He’s right, Kyle.”
Please come
.

“Yes, he is. And I need to be there with you so we can see what this is between us. I know I love you, and I can’t bear to be apart from you.”

Lyssa’s heart fluttered. “Please come, Kyle. I can’t just quit the job, but we can work something out, can’t we?”

“If this is the real thing for both of us, of course, we can. Is everything all right with you and with the job?”

“It is, yes. The students are the best part, and I love my apartment. I had lobster with Manda and Joel tonight. They adore you. Manda and I are going to make desserts and sauces and pies and butters and lots of stuff from the half-bushel of apples I picked this afternoon.”

“Did you climb to the top of the tree for the best apples?”

“I did.” She laughed. “How did you know that?”

“I wish I’d been there.”

“I do, too.” She closed her eyes. “I miss you, Kyle. Let me know when you’re coming.”

“Probably not for another month, but as soon as I can.”

“What was that?” A buzz had sounded on the connection.

“Another call coming in. Geoffrey wondering why I’m not at the office. We have a full day ahead of us. I have to dash, luv.”

“Go. I’ll get some sleep now.”

“Dream of me.” He broke the connection.

Lyssa cuddled a gray and a pink pillow and fell asleep on the sofa this time.

In the morning, she wondered if her conversation with Kyle was just another dream. Her phone log showed she’d dialed his number and talked for three-and-a-half minutes.

God, Bridey, help me not to be so afraid.
The porch door rattled, although there was no wind this morning.

Chapter 5

At five minutes to show time, Rand mentally reviewed the plan he and Pris had devised to bail him out after his failure to appear. Around midnight on Sunday, he had come to on his sofa with a throbbing headache after consuming a full bottle of riesling. That was on top of smoking a joint at Lyssa’s and another at home. In a panic that he’d blown it for good with Lyssa, he’d called Pris and reached her just after she’d said goodnight to Phillip.

“Relax, bro, we’ll figure this out. You have the golden tongue, remember, and I’m the master PR strategist.”

Their plan was foolproof. He checked the time again and puffed out his chest as students poured from the classroom building.

And there she was, looking fresh and curvy and leggy at ten on a Tuesday morning. Her blue eyes were bright with interest at whatever her student was telling her. When their conversation finished, the student waved and ran down the stairs with a grin on his face.

Lyssa checked her phone.

Rand moved in. “Got a minute?”

“One.” Her sharp tone and the hard planes of her face warned him not to mess around.

“Lyssa, I screwed up, and I’m deeply sorry.” When he put his hand on her arm, she glared at the point of contact. He withdrew it.

“Why did you stand me up for dinner after apple picking?”

“I barely made it home before I started throwing up. By the next morning I didn’t even remember we were supposed to have dinner together.” He kept his gaze lowered, as instructed by Pris. She was a stickler for body language.

“Didn’t my four messages on your voicemail serve as a reminder?”

“I couldn’t figure out what you were talking about.”

“Nor did you bother calling me to find out or apologize.”

“I was in bad shape.” He held up his hands, palms open, in a gesture that Pris said implored the woman to be reasonable. Or was it compassionate?

“And what do you think made you sick, Rand?” There was no missing the sarcasm.

“Probably those candy-coated apples they had at the orchard. I think mine was rotten.”

“I am not believing one word you’re saying.”

“That’s cold, Lyssa.”

“Do not make this my fault.”

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“You should be ashamed. And what was the point of leaving your reefer butt on my brother-in-law’s lawn? Did you hope I’d be evicted?”

Nothing in the script about that
. “Your brother-in-law is not going to evict you.” He snorted.

“Wrong answer, Rand. He doesn’t tolerate illegal substances on his property.”

“Keep your voice down, will you?” He sidled closer, and she stepped back.

“I will not. Take some responsibility here. You were doing fine with ‘screwed up’ and ‘deeply sorry.’ If you hadn’t piled on the cow dung, you might have preserved some dignity.”

Too late, he remembered Pris saying, “If you don’t know what to say, just don’t be Alpha Male.” The rest of the script came back into his head. He tugged the cuff of each shirt sleeve to regain his cool.

“Look, I did screw up, and I am deeply sorry. I stopped you just now to see if we could have coffee together and start over. Start completely over from square one. I’ve misjudged you, and I’ve behaved uncharacteristically as a result. I’d like to win back your trust. Please give me another chance.”

“Rand—”

“Please.”

He gave her what Pris called the Gaze of Desperate Concern. Pris swore it would soften the hardest of hearts. He’d been practicing in the mirror. With his head just slightly lowered, he gazed up at Lyssa through his eyelashes, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks tense, as if his whole life depended on what he’d asked of her.

Her cheeks and mouth softened.

Yes
. The Rand Cunningham Golden Tongue would do the rest. “Let’s find a quiet table at the library café and just talk,” he said with a note of tenderness.

Lyssa opened her mouth, but he preempted with a pouty smile and pleading eyes. “If you still hate me after we talk, I’ll never bother you again, I swear.”

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. With a moan of surrender, she agreed.

“Let’s walk slowly across the quad and enjoy the sunshine.” Their gaits matched as they descended the stairs to the lush, green grass of the quad. His hand was on the small of her back, where it belonged.
She’s mine
.

“I thought we were past all this.” Professor Anton ended his complaint with a flourish of his elegant hands.

“What do you mean, Charles?” Miriam Sekora replaced the lid on a box of business cards that had to go back to the printer and scribbled a sticky note, ‘Provost not Prevost.’

“I mean, when so many faculty and staff were removed last year, we assumed part of the motivation was the widespread grade fixing that we all knew was going on. Some of us, well, most of us who are still here, take Academic Integrity seriously. And now to find that grade changes are still going on is disheartening. Unacceptable.”

“I agree, it’s unacceptable. And you’re saying it has happened to you in the past—that grades you posted were altered without your authorization? That is, prior to the incident you just brought to my attention. Correct?”

“Yes, Dr. Sekora, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I had hoped we were past all that, with the new staff and new policies under your administration.”

“I assure you, I expect nothing less myself. My career is grounded in Academic Integrity. You have my word I will get to the bottom of this and fix it. I appreciate your coming to me. You’ll tell me immediately if any other problems become apparent?” At his nod, she added, “And I urge you to have other faculty come forward if they see problems with the grades they’ve posted.”

“I will tell people what you’ve said, but I can’t speak for them.”

“Thank you, Professor Anton.”

He nodded respectfully and exited the provost’s office.

Miriam stood behind her desk, stretched her arms overhead, and took three minutes to work through a calming yoga sequence.

On her way out, she told her administrative assistant, “I’ll be right back, Ruth. And these need to be redone, please. Right away.” She dropped the offending box of cards on the desk.

Ruth glanced at the note and grumbled something about college grads that can’t spell.

Miriam marched down the hall of the administration building, her high heels echoing. The president’s assistant, Joyce, heard her coming and rushed to prepare the president.

Miriam barged past Joyce into Justin’s inner sanctum and stood with her hands on her hips. “Justin, you assured me the security holes had been plugged. I’ve just heard the second of two reports of grade fixing. What are we going to do about it?”

Behind her, Joyce clicked the office door shut. Miriam smiled inwardly as a light lit up on Justin’s phone set.
Good, the word is going out that we’re on it.

Justin pressed back in his leather chair and invited her to sit across from him. She declined, so he stood and walked around the desk to meet her on her own terms. “Evidently we have some very smart students who know how to get into the system.”

“Perhaps, but I’m inclined to blame our Chief Information Officer, Craig Marone.”

“Why is that?”

“When I asked him during my interview what steps he took to secure grades, transcripts, and student records, he immediately said there’d never been a problem. When I pushed him, using information the board had given me, he said he had, quote, misunderstood my question.

“His explanation of security measures was evasive and patronizing. I ran his statements by a systems expert whom I trust, and my expert scoffed, told me the terms were meaningless.

“I asked you to commit to the integrity of our systems, as a condition of accepting the college’s offer, and you did make that commitment to me.” She tipped her head. “And now this.”

“I see.”

Miriam cocked one hip. “You were hoping I just didn’t like him because he’s gay? Justin, my brother is gay, but I wouldn’t introduce him to Marone. Nor would I hire Marone as CIO if I had the choice.”

“We need a full security audit? Would you agree?”

“Yes. An unannounced security audit.”

“Good thinking. And when I line up someone I trust, will you and your expert vet him?”

“I— Yes. Sounds like you have someone in mind?”

Professor Anton stopped Rand as he crossed the quad with Lyssa. “Professor Cunningham, have you checked your grades lately?”

“No, sir.” Rand’s voice cracked, and his forehead beaded with sweat.

“Better check, son. We’ve got more grade fixing to deal with. I’ve just told the Provost.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the heads-up, sir.”

Anton lifted his hand goodbye and hurried away toward the arts center.

“He made you nervous,” Lyssa said when Anton was out of sight.

“Uh, yes.” As they resumed their trek, Rand’s gait was almost too fast for her.

“Grade fixing, as in students suddenly getting B’s instead of D’s, that kind of thing?” At Rand’s nod, she asked, “Were students bribing or blackmailing faculty to inflate their final grades?”

“Exactly.” He answered quickly, as if seizing the explanation she’d offered.

“Except Professor Anton made it sound like the faculty weren’t even aware of the changes, like maybe someone had unauthorized access to student records.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lyssa.” His clenched fists and bunched shoulders didn’t match the message.

“Did it ever happen to grades you submitted?”

“Uh, no. You really shouldn’t worry about this. I’m sorry he interrupted our walk.”

So why did you break out in a sweat when you heard it?
“Except I’ll be posting midterm grades in another month. I guess I’ll have to keep an eye on them right through the semester.” She trailed him to the library.

“Yes, good thinking.” They entered the café, and he pointed to an empty booth a few steps from the door. “Why don’t you grab that, and I’ll bring our coffee? How do you like it?”

“Skinny cappuccino. Cinnamon sprinkles.”

“You got it.”

Lyssa set down her purse and laptop on the seat and slid in after them.
I should get a backpack
.

Rand palmed his phone on his way to the service window. He fidgeted while he waited in line. As soon as he’d placed their order, he speed-dialed and stepped out to the sidewalk with the phone to his ear. His dramatic arm waves and stormy gaze made Lyssa think he was still rattled by the grade fixing.

Or by its discovery?

With that thought, she realized she fundamentally didn’t trust Rand. Out on the sidewalk, he turned his back to her watching eyes.

Who is that on the other end? Jim Tully?

When the barista set their drinks on the counter, Lyssa retrieved them and stood by the door until Rand glanced her way. She signaled him by raising their cups. He smiled mechanically and continued his conversation.

Alone again in their booth, she dipped her finger into the cinnamon-covered foam of her drink.
He’s so engrossed he probably doesn’t remember why we came here.
The dream popped into her head, when Bridey had warned her that Rand was obsessed with status and . . . what else?

Money
. Was he getting kickbacks from the grade fixing? That didn’t add up, though, because Rand had never impressed her as having the necessary technical knowledge to hack into systems.

She drank a sip and smiled her appreciation when the barista caught her eye. The woman jerked her thumb toward Rand on the sidewalk, still immersed in his conversation, and lifted her hands as if to ask, “What’s up with him?” Lyssa shrugged and shook her head.

As she waited for Rand’s return, she asked herself if she was too quick to judge him. She and Manda had agreed she hadn’t been judgmental with Rand when she made her stand about pot, but her tone with him today had been nasty and cold. Rand was influential with the faculty, and the last thing she needed was him spreading around a personal condemnation of her.

She had nearly finished her drink by the time Rand came inside. By then, she genuinely wanted to hear what he had to say and to see if they could find some middle ground. If she could work out some kind of amiable relationship with him, she wanted to do that.

He settled across from her, his breathing strained. “Sorry about that. A text came in while I talked to Professor Anton, from a student of mine who’s been in crisis. I talked with him yesterday and thought he was on the right track, but obviously not. I’m afraid I was a little harsh with him just now. If I’d known it would take so long, I wouldn’t have called him back until later.”

“I understand.”
Though I don’t really believe you
. A student crisis would not have made him break out in a sweat
before
he’d gotten the alleged text from the alleged student.

Rand eyed her expectantly.

“Your lead,” she told him. “What did you want to talk to me about? I’ve forgotten.”