Beauty and the Billionaire

"What are you talking about?" Ford asked. He followed me to the door and put the flat of his hand against it to stop me from leaving.

The position left me between the door and Ford's leaning body. My ordered thoughts scattered again. While I tried to piece them back together, my eyes traced up Ford's body. My hands itched to test out the contours I saw. He was fit and muscled for a journalist that had been languishing in academia for years.

"What piece of evidence are you after, Clarity?" Ford asked.

My eyes flew to his and I laughed when I managed to remember. "The plagiarized essay, of course!"

His brow furrowed. "You think the writing can somehow tie Michael Tailor to this?"

"Sure, why not? If we're right, then Michael Tailor himself created the plagiarized essay. Do you think he actually sat down and wrote it?" I asked. "I'm guessing he just cut and pasted from the internet."

"Fine, alright, it's a long shot but it makes sense," Ford said. He tugged me away from the door and stood in between me and the exit. "You can stay here while I go and get a copy of it."

"You?" I snapped. "How do you suppose you're going to get into my father's files? As his daughter, I've gone into his office to pick something up for him dozens of times."

Ford crossed his arms. "How do you think you're going to when your father's files are under review?"

"I'll figure it out." I tried dragging Ford away from the door but he was too solid.

"No," he said. "You haven't thought this all the way through. People are going to stop you all over campus to ask about what happened with your father. The president of Landsman is still looking for you too. Let me go for you."

It was too much. I couldn't leave it alone and pretend it meant nothing. "Why do you care so much?" I cried.

"You don't need to be bombarded with questions or good wishes or whatever. You should call your father and tell him that everything's alright. At least tell him we've been talking it out. He's probably worried sick about where you are," Ford said.

"So you're doing all of this because you like my father? I know you chatted and he invited you over for Thanksgiving, but now you're willing to risk your job and run all over campus just so I can call him and he won't have to worry."

Ford leaned back against the door and let his hands fall loose at his sides. "I like your father. It's been awhile since I've had anyone like him to talk to. He's a good man and he doesn't deserve to be routed for a mistake. Especially when he only made the mistake in order to help you."

"Are you sure that's it?" I asked.

I couldn't believe I was so bold. The heat and the connection had been surging between us since he answered the door, but I had no idea if I was reading any of the signs right. Ford wasn't just a college boy with underdeveloped conversation and over-eager hands. Just one glance from him could tumble my heart while I couldn't be sure what I read in his fathomless eyes.

Ford stood up and rolled his shoulders back. "No. There's more to it than that," he said.

I crossed my arms and eyed the door. I couldn't back down because behind him was the only exit to his apartment.

He saw my nervous glance and took a deep breath. "There's more to my feelings for this, for you, than the honor code allows. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if I got a new job. One less complication to something that seems so obvious."

I readjusted my purse on my shoulder and then dug through the contents to find my keys even though my car was blocks away.

"Clarity, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Ford said. He stepped aside and open his front door.

"No, it's not that," I said. My cheeks flared but I raised my eyes to meet his. "This is just a little detour. They don't have those on trains, you know."

"Who knows," Ford smiled, "maybe I like road trips better."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ford

By the third inspirational quote, I lost my patience. Jackson's students took a long time to leave his classroom. The smaller, more intimate room featured two rectangular tables of dark wood pushed together and ringed with chairs. Jackson sat at the head of the immense table and the students filtered by and asked for feedback. I prowled the far wall of the classroom and ground my teeth, but it didn't hurry them along.

I paced back and forth at the foot of the tables as the last student asked if she should change the tense of her story. "Readers are most comfortable in past tense, but if you feel the need to highlight urgency, go ahead and try present tense," Jackson said.

"Oh, yeah, I hadn't thought of the readers," the student blinked a few times, then she walked into the hallway in a daze.

Jackson shuffled the papers in front of him into one large, neat stack. Then he began perusing the first one, his hand reaching for a red pen.