Beauty and the Billionaire

Ford sighed. "I do actually like it here. I know you think I should be off chasing big stories and being a hard-hitting journalist, but it's peaceful here. Beautiful."

Our hands had brushed at that moment and the memory alone caused a thrill to rush up my arm. I had to be a silly, delusional girl to think that last, whispered 'beautiful' was for me, but I couldn't help it. We were impossible, never going to happen, but at least I could hope he felt the same way I did.

My growing attraction to Ford was a problem. It was fine when it was just a crush on an attractive professor, but now it was pluming out like smoke and hanging like a deep haze on the majority of my thoughts.

"Clarity? Your toast popped up," my father repeated. He folded down one corner of his newspaper and checked on me. "Everything alright?"

I looked around the sunny kitchen and took a deep breath. Most of my friends made fun of me for living at home until they saw our house. The Craftsman was big, comfortable, and full of light. The original hardwood floors and crown moldings gave it a sense of maturity while my father's tendency towards bright colors kept it lively and fun.

"You know it's alright if you want to go out with your friends on Sundays," my father said. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the French Press on the 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 t

he 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. No talking about the holiday until you promise you will help me with this application. I need to pick the perfect cover letter, the best examples of my writing, and recommendations. And I don't want to wait until after break because everyone else will. I want to stand out and show them I'm dedicated. Besides, we never do anything for Thanksgiving."