Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance)

by Claire Adams

  He hesitated to squash my hope. "The competitors weren't interested; it showed I would bite the hand that feeds me. My only choices were to bow out or get sued for more than I will ever have in eight lifetimes."

  "Then a good attorney would have noticed the discrepancies and looked for another motive," I said.

  Ford stood back and laughed. He chuckled all the way across his small living room to lean against the kitchen island.

  "What's so funny? I'm trying to help," I snapped.

  "I know, I know," Ford held up both hands. "It's just I wish you would realize the complete about-face you've had in the last few minutes."

  My mind ran in a panic over why I had let Ford hold me. "I, I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

  "A minute ago you were saying how you hate messy motives and you just wished people would stick to the facts. And now you're telling me a lawyer could have built a case for me based solely on motives." Ford chuckled again. "See? You are going to make a great journalist yet."

  He meant it as a compliment, I could tell by his easy smile, but my shoulders were stiff with indignation. Ford was laughing at me again like I was some kind of entertaining child. I wondered if he laughed about his students with his other professor friends.

  "You keep saying I'd make a great journalist," I said. "Why don't we test out your theory?" I started to circle Ford's apartment. "There might not be a lot of stuff here, but I think that means there's a story here instead."

  Ford straightened up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I already told you more about my story than I should have said. It all boils down to the fact that I am a boring college professor with very bad interior design instincts," he said.

  It was my turn to laugh, but a thought struck me. "You live like you don't make any money, but you are a college professor. I know you have a decent salary, so the money must all be going somewhere."

  "Gambling," Ford muttered.

  "I don't believe that for a second," I said. I glanced at the secondhand dresser Ford used as a combination entryway table and television console. "I'd think you are saving all your money for something big, except you have no motivation. No pictures of fancy sailboats or brochures for fancy vacations."

  "Guys don't really make vision boards," he grumbled.

  I turned and crossed my arms in triumph. "I think you're sending all the money to your family. The only family you mentioned at Thanksgiving was your sister, so you must be helping to support her."

  Ford's stormy eyes flew to a framed photograph on an otherwise bare shelf. "So what if I send a little money my sister's way? That doesn't really tell you much about me. Lots of people feel beholden to the bonds of family," Ford said. "Like you."

  I scowled at the reminder of my father's situation. It was much easier to focus on Ford. "Oh," I said as I did the math in my head. "You were forced out of Wire Communications right when your sister was considering medical schools. That's why you didn't put up a big fight. That's why you settled for the job at Landsman College. You wanted to make sure that your sister got to go to the medical school of her choice without having to worry about money."

  Ford paced into the kitchen and then back to the living room. "I get that people like to figure me out like a puzzle, but it's really not all that interesting," he snapped. "I did what any other person would do for a family member. I did exactly what you are thinking about doing for your father."

  "What? Lying low? Just taking the hit and crawling away?" I asked. "I'm thinking about exposing the people that are trying to trick my father into helping them. I'm thinking that no matter what the consequences are, I want the truth to be known and I want to be the one to tell it." The volume of my voice dropped away when I saw the angry set of Ford's jaw.

  "I took the hit so my sister wouldn't have to," Ford bit out. "For the same reason that you are not already running all over campus raving about donor corruption. You don't want to do more harm than good. You're hesitating because you are just like me and, no matter what, you want to make sure you do what is best for the people you love."

  I sank back down on the edge of the sofa. "I just don't want to make things worse. I'm not going to give up, though."

  Ford sat down on the coffee table directly in front of me. "The best thing you can do is continue on your life just like you were before. Don't give Michael Tailor a reason to target you or squeeze your father anymore," he said.

  I held my breath and looked at Ford. It was amazing how in a few short months, he had become entangled in my small family. I trusted him with thoughts I had not yet voiced even to myself.

  "There's nothing else they can do to my father," I said. "Actually, losing his position at Landsman might be the best thing for him. You know how much he goes on and on about painting. Surely Michael Tailor is not going to be able to stop him from retiring and taking painting lessons."

  Ford frowned. "That's not your father's worry and you know it."

  I threw my hands up. "No. He's worried, like you, that I have enough room in my life to stand up for the truth. My future, my career, everything is flexible. If you think about it, and stop thinking about me as a child, then you'd see that I'm the only one that can take down someone like Michael Tailor. There's nothing he can do to me that I can throw back at him or recover from."

  One corner of Ford's mouth quirked up. "Even if doing so is directly against your father's wishes?" he asked.

  I sprang off the sofa again and marched over to poke him in the chest. "If I'm the only one that can protect my father, I'm not going to let anyone talk me out of it. Not him, not you!"

  Ford caught my accusing finger and held my hand. He chuckled again and then laughed out loud when I tried to yank free of him. "I'm not laughing at you. I just love how you are defying and protecting your father all in one breath."

  "Isn't that what family does?" I snapped.

  Ford held my hand with both of his and a quiet sadness settled over him. "Yes, but you shouldn't have to deal with any of this. Can we, just for a minute, regret that you have to be involved?"

  "What good is that?" I held still as each brush of his fingertips sent tingles up my arms.

  He didn't lift his eyes. "You should be studying, going to parties, making plans for winter vacation, and flirting with boys," Ford said.

  "The last thing I need right now is some 'boy' trying to take me out to dinner, as if this isn't way more important," I said.

  Ford tugged my hand and brought me closer. "You deserve to have a normal and easy life. Especially when you're in college."

  I leaned back an inch, overwhelmed by the magnetic pull of Ford's body. "I like this. I mean, my life. I like my life, complications and all."

  "I just hope you know that you don't have to face this alone," Ford said. "I know you have your father too, but, if you need someone else ... I'm here for you."

  Our faces were inches apart. My hand was still captive between in his fingers. My whole body cried out to nestle into the spot against his chest where I had hugged him before. My shoulder fit just underneath his arm, my head cradled between his taut chest and strong shoulder. One step and I could slip back against him and feel our bodies align.

  "Thank you," my voice came out breathless. "Thanks for being here for me. Even if your advice is condescending and full of male ego. I appreciate that you're trying to protect me, and my father."

  Ford shifted towards me and my heart leapt with joy. Relief, I told myself, it was just relief. Clearly Ford felt the same magnetism that I did. I wasn't just a foolish schoolgirl flirting and floundering her way through a difficult situation. I wasn't just imagining things.

  He brought my hand up and pressed it to his chest. I slid it over to feel his heartbeat, and Ford jerked back. He shook his head and looked around as if snapping out of a dream.

  "Alright." Ford dropped my hand. "No more trying to stop you. It's time I start helping." He paced a semi-circle around his small living room. "We should start by cornering the
football coach."

  "He's not going to tell us anything," I said. I shivered in the cool vacuum his absent body had created. "But I'm sure we wouldn't have to look very far to find more of his team members that have cheated on tests and plagiarized papers."

  "Already planning to put the screws to someone else to get at the truth?" Ford asked. "I like it, but, I think you're right. The football coach won't talk easily. Maybe we should start with the professor that filed the complaint."

  "Wait," I said. "Does this mean that you are planning to go after the story? I know it seems ridiculous for me to flip roles so soon, but don't you think the worst thing you could do right now is get involved in a story like this?"

  "Maybe I should take up painting so I can join your father," Ford joked.

  "I'm serious! If you're attached to this story at all, then Michael Tailor is going to come after you too. You might lose your job. I don't want you to lose your professorship because I needed help," I cried.

  "I'm not along to help," Ford said with a wide smile. "I've seen your killer instinct and heard your plans. I'm just along for the ride."

  I smothered my smile with a serious look. "This isn't like that train you've always wanted to catch," I said. I held my breath and wondered if he would remember.

  Ford's eyes twinkled and he stepped forward to capture my hand again. "That's right. We talked about just wanting to pack a bag and get a change of scenery."

  My eyes misted. "Only this change of scenery isn't so fun."

  "That's okay," Ford said. "There's only one view I'm really attached to."

  His eyes swept over my face and made me dizzy. I wanted to ask him thousands of questions, questions I would never dare voice, but that looked seemed to answer them all. I slipped my hand free and looked around the room for anything that could ground me again.

  "So, we've already decided to leave the football coach out of it, right?" I asked. "Brian's not talking and we can't really blame him about that because it's family. That leaves the professor. He's gotta be innocent, don't you think?"

  Ford watched me with a cryptic smile then his brow cleared. "The professor that turned in the paper? Why do you think he's innocent?"

  I paced to the kitchen and back, hoping the air flow would cool my cheeks and clear my thoughts. It was hard to keep my mind on the details of our complicated story when Ford smiled at me like that. My heart wouldn't stick to a regular rhythm and my thoughts spun out of order.

  "The professor's innocent because ..." I avoided looking at Ford, but felt his smile instead. "The professor's innocent because he wouldn't need to be pressured to turn in a plagiarized paper," I said.

  Ford's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "True. I didn't think of that. But, that means we're stuck."

  "No, there's one more piece of evidence we haven't looked at from every angle," I said. I retrieved my purse from the floor by the sagging sofa, and tossed the long strap over my shoulder. "I'm going to make sure we get it. Maybe there's a way to trace it back to Michael Tailor."

  "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.

  "How can you stand looking at these quotes every day?" I asked.

  Jackson didn't even look up. "The students like them," he said.

  I paced to the narrow,
lancet window and back. My students were taught to research the full motivational quip and read the quote in context. I wondered what would happen if my students did that with Jackson's literary gems.

  "You know, you could put all that nervous energy to good use," Jackson said.

  Clarity's image jumped to mind, her long arms bare in the formal dress. "What? What do you mean?"

  He looked up and gave a dry laugh. "Obviously not what you were thinking about. I just thought you could run down the hall and get us some coffee. Make yours a decaf."

  "Very funny," I said. Then I whirled around and hammered both hands onto the end of the tables. "How can this not bother you?"

  "I don't know. I think it's disgusting, but people of privilege have always secured the education of their offspring no matter if they are deserving or not," Jackson said.

  I growled. "It's obvious corruption. It drags down the student population. What if you have Junior in your class and the only thing he can contribute is juvenile heckling?"

  "Then I follow protocol," Jackson leaned back in his chair. "Once this kid is at Landsman his father won't be able to save him from academic probation."

  I stalked around the long tables but stopped before I left the classroom. "Dean Dunkirk isn't totally innocent, but he doesn't deserve to be used just to get some unmotivated student into a good school," I said.

  Jackson hooked his hands behind his head and leaned back farther. "Can you imagine what it must be like to be Junior? Being an unmotivated student is the least of his worries. Living the rest of your adult life knowing that daddy had to buy your place in college is going to leave some damage. Ugh, and imagine if his peer group found out."

  "Are you done feeling sorry for this over-privileged, spoiled, and most likely uncaring kid?" I snapped.

  "You want me to worry about Dean Dunkirk," Jackson said. He loosened his hands and sat up. "I do feel bad for the guy. He's between the figurative rock and hard place."