"Wait, are you talking about a professor?" I almost sloshed her drink over. "That's totally against the honor code."
"Don't be so naive, Clarity. What do you think makes it so hot?" Libby asked with an unrepentant wink.
I handed her back her drink and slipped through the crowd. Libby Blackwell didn't hide her distain for the honor code even as she wanted to win a place on the council. That's why I didn't want to date—it distracted from the whole point of college. I wanted to be a journalist, not a conniving ex or a strategic flirt.
The strong whiff of Scotch reminded me of my errand and a flurry of excitement blew around in my stomach. I was going to interview Ford and see what kind of story he would make. That way I would have something prepared on the first day of class.
All my clever questions fled when I stepped under the wide archway and joined him in the small nook next to the back stairs.
Ford stood up this time, his glossy black hair almost brushing the wood-paneled ceiling. I tipped my head up and estimated he was 6'2" with a taut, muscular build. The charcoal sport coat clung to his wide shoulders and showed the sinewy stretch of strong biceps underneath.
"I thought you might like Scotch," I said.
"Good observation, Clarity," Ford said. He slipped his empty glass onto a shelf and took the fresh drink. "I'm impressed."
I made a note to clean up that stray glass later, then met his flint-gray eyes. "So, Ford, what do you do?"
Something flared in his expression, but he cooled it with an easy smile. "You're sharp; want to see if you can guess?" he asked.
"Challenge accepted," I said. I walked a semi-circle around Ford and back. "You've got more confidence than a student, you're too bored to be a professor, and you can’t be an administrator."
He turned his back on the party and turned up the wattage of his smile. "Really? Then why am I here?"
"Oh no." My smile slipped. "Are you one of those reporters hoping for some big scandal on campus?" Landsman College was a highly ranked, private college and there was always someone thinking its long-standing traditions were a rock to be turned over.
"A lot of us prefer the term journalist." Ford returned to lean against the built-in dresser by the stairs.
"Me too. I definitely don't want to be called a reporter, or worse, a cub reporter."
Ford put his glass of Scotch between himself and my gesticulating enthusiasm. "You know it's a dying art, right? Not many newspapers around anymore."
"But plenty of news outlets," I said. Before I could ask him which one he worked for, I heard the icy smash of a dropped plate. "Sorry, I better go help with that." In a polite reflex, I reached out and shook his hand.
Ford blinked in surprise then tugged me back as I turned. "Thanks for the drink, Clarity. I owe you one."
Each word was a balloon that buoyed me up as I went to help with the spill. When I saw that fast-moving Lexi already had it under control, I turned right around. I took one step back towards Ford and ran right into a classmate.
"Clarity, hi. Wow, you look beautiful. I mean, beautiful party. You've done a great job." Thomas gripped his red plastic cup with both hands. "I'm looking forward to Editing for Print and Digital Audiences; aren't you?"
"Hi, Thomas. Yeah, I'm taking that class too but I think I'm more excited about Intermediate News Reporting. In fact, I've been searching for headlines this whole party," I said.
Thomas smiled in relief. The gangly journalism major was glad for a game he could handle. Casual conversation seemed to be a challenge for him, at least around me. Now he turned to stand next to me and scan the crowd.
"There's something." He nodded towards Libby's bright, brittle hair. "I heard she had an affair with a professor her freshman year."
"Really," I feigned surprise. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ford leave the shadows of the back hall. He moved across the dining room, dragging appreciative eyes with him, and touched one shoulder to the archway of the living room.
Thomas followed my eyes and frowned. "I'm not sure what his story is, but I'm sure there's something there."
"Do you know who he is?" I asked.
"Sure," Thomas's frown deepened. "That's Professor Bauer; he teaches Multimedia Production and Storytelling. We start his class in the morning. Want me to save you a seat?"
My insides smeared like soaked newsprint. Ford was a professor? The handsome man with electric gray eyes was completely off limits. I swore at Libby for being right; the thought of breaking the honor code with Ford, Professor Bauer, only made the currents of attraction spark hotter. I blushed as my body betrayed my rule-abiding mind.
"Is that your father?" Thomas asked.
"What?" My thoughts struggled back into linear fashion. "Dad! There you are," I called. My father joined us and automatically shook hands with Thomas. "Dad, this is Thomas; he's a fellow journalism major. Thomas, this is my dad, Dean Dunkirk."