"Oh, shit, that's right."
Jasmine dropped to the sofa in a new fit of giggles and dragged Lexi down with her. I took a quick spin through the dining room to see if anyone needed anything. Conversations were relaxed, red plastic cups were full, the silver trays of food were still over half full, and everyone was engaged.
The tall, brunette economics professor broke from her department friends and strode across the dining room. She paused near the back hall, under the stairs, then turned around as if she had forgotten something. The other female professors fluttered when she returned and their heads bent together to discuss something.
One of the French professors watched with a frown as his wife took the long way to the bathroom by going through the back hall. I could t
ell from a few other glances that some gossip was centered under the stairs. I clipped across the hardwood floor to a better vantage point.
When I turned around, the room kept spinning. The man standing half in the shadows, leaned against the built-in dresser under the stairs, and stood out from the Landsman College crowd. Long legs in dark denim stretched down to artfully scuffed Italian boots. His crisp, white shirt stood out under a charcoal sport coat. A thick brush of dark stubble covered his square jaw and black, glossy hair rioted on his head despite the short cut.
He smiled and his metallic gray eyes touched me like a live wire. I hoped the jolt wasn't noticeable, but his smile widened and fried my circuits.
Alright—I see what the fuss is all about. I forced myself to turn back to the diminishing bar. There, I busied myself with unloading full bottles of wine from a box hidden in a corner cabinet of the dining room.
It was impossible to ignore the electric hum of him behind me. I caught myself glancing back under the stairs. He wasn't talking to anybody, but seemed content observing. Then his magnetic eyes touched me again.
Now I have to go talk to him, I prodded myself. I have to ask if he needs anything, that way he'll think I'm attentive, not attracted to him.
I determined the voltage that played along my skin had to do with not eating enough while playing hostess. It was not the direct effect of watching his white button-up shirt shift over a tanned chest.
"Can I get you anything?" I asked the sinfully handsome man.
He leaned farther back and scrubbed a hand over his chin as he looked at me. "How about your name? I'm Ford."
The texture of his voice played a line of shivers down my back. "Nice to meet you, Ford. I'm Clarity."
One thick, black eyebrow raised, but his lips curved in appreciation. "Just what I need."
"I'm heading to the bar; I'll bring you back a drink.” I fought off a rising blush.
I left before he could say anything. I'd seen his empty glass and decided to take a chance. For some reason, I wanted an excuse to pull myself together and talk to him again.
Jasmine's arm caught me around the kitchen door and hauled me inside. "Who was that you were talking to?" she asked.
Lexi's petite hands swatted Jasmine away. "I'm hoping he's a new student. Right? Why else would he be at the party?”
"He looks older than a student. More mature," I said.
My friends both bounced up and down. "Finally, someone more inspiring than journalism class," Lexi cheered.
"Oh, stop, he's just like any other guest," I lied and turned to kitchen island where a long tray acted as a casual bar.
I screwed up my eyes and fought past the image of his dark hair and shadowed jaw. There was no point in remembering the loose buttons down the neck of his crisp, white shirt, nor imagining the tanned, broad chest beneath. I couldn't remember what he was drinking, so I filled a lowball glass with Scotch. It was my father's favorite.
I wove through the crowd back towards the dining room. Jasmine and Lexi were wrong: I was interested in him purely in a journalistic way. He was the most intriguing lead so far and I wanted to practice my interview skills.
Running over possible questions in my head, I almost ran into a fellow student. Libby Blackwell's dyed-blonde hair fell over her brown eyes.
"Sorry, Clarity," she snapped.
"Are you okay?" I asked. Libby was not a close friend, but our schedules had overlapped here and there the past two years.
Libby tossed her hair back. "No. My ex-boyfriend is completely ignoring me. I mean, who ignores this dress?" she asked.
The deep V-neck she flaunted was unavoidable, but obviously it was not catching the attention she wanted. "That's too bad," I said.
She smirked. "Too bad for him. I love it when men play hard to get." She handed me her drink while she fluffed up her hair and yanked down the neckline of her dress. "As if he's going home with any of his stuffy colleagues."