Naughty Professor - A Standalone Teacher Romance

by Claire Adams

  "I think Michael Tailor had it planned all along. He knew his nephew, Brian, was smart. Much smarter than his own son. So, when it was time to start considering colleges for Junior, Michael Tailor brought him for a visit here. While he was here, he switched Brian's paper. Brian didn't notice until the plagiarism case, but his football coach warned him to stay quiet or he wouldn't play. My father noticed the discrepancy between Brian's other papers, his abilities, and the essay in question. He dismissed the case in favor of the student." I finished and pinned my gaze on Ford, though it hurt to look at him.

  In his apartment, in jeans and a tee-shirt, slumped on a saggy sofa, Ford looked like any other man. Gone was the stigma of professorship, and I felt closer to him than I had ever been before. Except for the solid wall of distrust between us.

  I wanted to scream at him about my broken heart. Bruised, I revised in my own head. Ford had bruised my heart, but, then again, that was my fault too. This was all my fault.

  "I'm sorry, Clarity," Ford said. "None of it can be proved."

  "What?" It took a moment to bring my head back around to the story. "But, you interviewed Brian Tailor. You know he didn't plagiarize a paper. He's too smart. And he admitted to me that he admitted to you about how the paper must have been switched during football practice. Maybe if we talk to his coach—"

  "We?" Ford asked. He sat up and shot me a dangerous look. "There is no we unless you want to make this whole thing worse."

  I fought the urge to stamp my foot. "But, it's the truth, I know it!"

  Ford stood up and walked to his apartment door. There he turned around and fixed me with a sorrowful look. "Sorry, Clarity, but it's not going to help. All of that is circumstantial at best, hearsay at worst."

  I tossed my hair. "Hearsay, rumor, gossip. Apparently public opinion is the only thing that matters at all at Landsman College."

  "Public opinion makes a difference everywhere, Clarity. It's one of the hard lessons of the real world that they haven't figured out how to teach in college. Congrats on learning it before you graduate."

  He turned to open the door and I stopped him cold. "When was I supposed to learn it? At my internship? Is that how you learned? I know Wire Communications fired you. You were discredited. Is that public opinion or the truth?" I asked.

  Ford shook his head and his voice was hard, though his shoulders slumped. "You wanted real world experience all wrapped up in a prestigious internship and you got it. Don't let your father's mistake be in vain. You take that internship. Just keep your eyes open at Wire."

  His hand was on the door handle again. I longed to tell him that I had already decided to turn down the internship. I decided as soon as I discovered that working at Wire had cost him his career. I didn't know the details, but, more importantly, Ford's silent opinion was enough for me.

  It hurt but I couldn't let him open the door, so I used the only leverage I had left. "You're going to help me write an article that exposes Michael Tailor's corrupt workings at Landsman or I will tell the Honor Council all about your affair with Libby Blackwell."

  Ford shut the door but, but when he turned to face me, his expression surprised me. Relief. It was written all over his face, from the relaxed furrow in his brow to the loosened pinch at the corners of his mouth. He took a deep breath and let it out, as if he'd been holding it for ages.

  "I'm sorry, Ford," I whispered, "but sometimes leverage is all journalists can use to get at the truth."

  "Don't apologize, Clarity. Never apologize to me." Ford strode across the room and caught both my hands in his fingers. He lifted my knuckles to his lips, then caught himself and dropped our contact. "What do you think I've been trying to tell you since we kissed?" he asked. His voice was rough with unreadable emotion.

  I fought as hard as I could but tears blurred my vision and a few slipped over and down my cheeks. "You slept with a student, Ford. You broke the rules. She was a freshman." My voice wavered when I spoke, then gained traction as my anger came through. "And, of all the freshman women at Landsman, you chose Libby Blackwell? You, you're not who I thought you were."

  "Who did you think I was?" Ford's voice broke over the question.

  I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The desperate longing I saw mirrored in his eyes wrapped us tightly in a bond I didn't know how to break. And I didn't know if I wanted it to break.

  I wasn't a silly, naive schoolgirl. I knew how desirable Libby was; anyone with eyes could see the reasons why men loved her. Ford was young, he was younger then, so why did the past affair make such a difference to me?

  "You were going to use me, just like you used her," I said. "It was just a casual kiss, no big deal, wasn't it?"

  Ford grabbed me by the shoulders and his eyes were fierce. "That's not how it was, Clarity. Please tell me you don't believe that."

  "How am I supposed to know what to believe?" I asked.

  His grip lessened but did not let go. "I'll tell you the truth," he said. "And I want you to report everything to the Honor Council. I want to be held accountable for all of it. I'm not going to hide from it anymore."

  I closed my eyes because I felt myself drowning in his intense gaze. "Tell me the truth."

  "I was a different person when I started working here." I felt Ford lead me to the sofa and we both sat down. He moved his grip down my arm and held my fingers fast again. "I had been discredited as a journalist and my career was over. I never wanted to be a professor, but Landsman College made me an offer and I had no other course of action."

  "I don't understand, lots of people apply to work here. It's a dream job for most," I said.

  Ford brushed my hair back from my shoulder and silenced me with a shake of his head. "I wanted to be somewhere else. I wanted to be a journalist again, but that career door had been slammed shut in my face. So, I started work here and hoped it would save me from self-destructing."

  I looked up from our intertwined hands. "Self-destructing? How?"

  "I drank. A lot. All the way down to the cliché of the professor who tips a little whiskey from a flask into his coffee when the students aren't looking," Ford said. He tried to smile but it slipped away. "I tried to drink it all away but it didn't budge. So, I started making other bad decisions."

  "Were you trying to get fired?" I asked.

  He squeezed my fingers and nodded. "I think I was. I wanted a reason to fight for my old career, to face what happened at my old job, and I just couldn't do it myself. I needed the money."

  I blinked hard. "I wish you had known my father then."

  A real smile burned through the haze of Ford's torment. "Me too. He's too nice to kick my ass, but a few well-chosen words from a man of respect can cut through a lot of bullshit."

  My heart warmed as he referred to my father as a man of respect. Ford was keeping me and my father at arm's length and I didn't know why, but those words had me hoping he would help us when it came down to it.

  Ford cleared his throat and let go of my hands. "Libby expressed interest. She flirted. A few other students flirted too, but I never thought about it. I never intended to anything about it."

  "What happened?" I asked. Hope fluttered again in my chest.

  "The first alumni/donor dinner was a huge success for Landsman College. I was invited, but only stayed for a few minutes. I was blind drunk and lucky that no one noticed. Then there was Libby. She saw me, the state I was in, and she took her chance."

  Ford hung his head and took a few deep breaths. "I could have written it off as a drunk mistake, but that only made the connotations worse. So, so I tried. I tried to make something out of it. We saw each other a few more times, but Libby was not who I thought she was. When she saw how I lived, that I didn't own a car, or have a fancy condo, she demanded that I change. I pointed out we meant nothing to each other. I guess she rewrote it in her head since then."

  I edged away, uncomfortable with the mix of disgust and sympathy I felt for him. Ford had made a terrible, immoral, and reprehensible mistak
e, but there he sat telling me the whole truth of it. I felt like crying, but I also felt like comforting him.

  He looked up and pinned me with a stormy-blue stare. "You mean a lot to me, Clarity," he rasped. "It has nothing to do with who your father is or that my job is on the chopping block. It has nothing to do with your age, our situation, or anything else but this."

  He reached out and brushed a hand across my cheek. The searing undercurrents of his caress struck hotter than lightning. He felt it too.

  "I should have thrown it all away to be with you," Ford said. "But, now it's too late. The least I can do now is help your father and save you."

  "Save me?" I asked. I snapped out of the spell his confession had woven and stood up. "I don't need saving. I don't need protecting. As far as I can tell, between you, my father, and me, I'm the only one that can be trusted to seek the truth."

  "The truth is not so simple," Ford warned.

  "That's it," I cried and headed for the door. I had to escape before I gave into the urge to collapse in his arms. "I know you think I'm silly and naive but I can't help it. I prize honesty, I want the truth, and if you're not going to help me get it, then I will uncover it myself."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Clarity

  I collapsed on Ford's saggy sofa. From there, I realized the only real things of substance that Ford had in his apartment were all media. Two newspapers were stacked under his coffee table. Bestselling nonfiction books were in random stacks. Magazines were all dog-eared or folded open. His tablet was charging on the edge of the table next to me.

  "I wonder how many of these things tell the real truth," I sighed.

  Ford raised an eyebrow and sat down slowly on the opposite arm on the sofa. "What do you mean?"

  "Online media, print media, it's all just the same. The story is slanted no matter what. The only difference is some people make it go their way," I said.

  "Come on, you can't think like that. You're too young," Ford joked.

  I sat up and tossed the magazine next to me onto the coffee table. "So, what? That's it? The difference between being a child and being an adult is a working tolerance for dishonesty?"

  "Things just get complicated. The older you get, the more demands there are on your time and money and ability to believe," Ford said. He scrubbed a hand over his chin and frowned at his own statement. "What you lose in believing in honesty, maybe you gain in insight to other people's motives."

  I groaned and flopped back again. "I don't want messy motives. They're never easy to understand. I just want the facts to work, to tell the truth, and for the people who are wrong to be punished instead of the ones who are trying to do good."

  Ford slid onto the sofa and nudged me with his elbow. "The best articles always reveal or hint at the subject's motives. People are interesting but mostly static, motives shift and move. Motives are action."

  I leaned away from his elbow, but the sag in the couch brought us closer together. I fought off the gravity that pulled me towards Ford and said, "I'm glad I have a reason to turn down that internship at Wire Communications."

  "What reason is that? You're not going to actually list this sideline private college corruption as a reason to decline one of the most prestigious internships in media arts, are you?" Ford leaned in to study my face.

  "Why not?" I asked, "Then they won't have to guess my motives. Maybe it'll make a great subject for whomever takes my place."

  Ford scrubbed his stubbled chin again in a sign of exasperation. He was so close I could smell the faded traces of his cologne. "Don't give up the internship," he said. "I'm not saying that success is better than honesty, but don't you imagine that sticking with this internship is the only kind of revenge your father really wants?"

  In order to push my shoulder away from his, I had to press my knee against Ford's thigh. Immediate heat flooded from where our legs touched all the way up to my cheeks. "I don't want to be there," I said. "No matter how far the internship lets me go in my career, I'll always know where and how it started."

  "No." Ford turned to me, our legs pressed tighter together. "You're a great journalist. You can make it there without letting it taint you. Just let things like this slide right off of you. They won't be able to touch your integrity unless you let them, and I don't think you will."

  His words set fire to my mind as his proximity was heating every inch of my body. I forced myself to inch away and shook my head. "I'd make a terrible journalist. I'm not willing to play games or spin the truth. Let's be honest, I should quit pretending," I said.

  The thought of quitting was an ice cold bath over my senses. I jumped up from the sofa and squeezed my eyes shut. My whole carefully planned life had a fatal flaw. One little thread got pulled and the whole thing came apart. Without a career in journalism, I didn't have a writing career based in current events, facts, and concrete styles. Suddenly I was completely at a loss and the feeling overwhelmed me.

  A gentle hand reached out. "Clarity?"

  I pried one eye open to look at him. Ford was hesitant, leaning over the coffee table, but he brushed his hand up from my arm to my shoulder. This time I did not flinch or pull away. I felt like any movement might cause me to fall over into a deep abyss.

  Ford must have felt it too because he cleared his throat. "Clarity, you don't have to rethink your whole life. Everything will work out the way it's supposed to," he said. He came around the table and cupped my cheek in his hand. "You're taking too much of this on yourself. Your father didn't want you burdened with any of this and everyone would understand if you took a step back from it. Your life is allowed to go on."

  He dropped his hand as I met his gaze. Ford's movements were jerky, as if he were unsure of every millimeter he moved. Then I saw his eyes. Ford's stormy-blue eyes were deep with concern, but his face was rounded in an expression of restraint. He wanted to comfort me but knew I might think his physical touch inappropriate.

  I glanced around the empty, Spartan apartment, then threw myself into his arms. "I just feel like everything has changed," my voice wavered as I pressed my cheek to his strong chest.

  Ford's arms closed around me. One hand trailed up from my waist to smooth down my hair and the repetitive motion lulled me to peace. "I know how you feel," Ford confessed. "When I had to leave Wire Communications, I felt like my whole life had been stopped and rerouted."

  I nestled closer in his arms but couldn't help my question, "why did you have to leave?"

  "I found out a truth that no one wanted revealed. When I threatened to publish it anyway, I was discredited." Ford gave a self-deprecating laugh. "By the time they were done making their point, it was a definite rout."

  I leaned back and look up at Ford. "That's what I don't understand. You keep talking about retreating and playing it safe, but nothing about you personally tells me you would do that? Why? Why did you give up in your fight?"

  He traced a finger down my arm and then clasped his arms around my waist again, not ready to release me from the hug. "I tried at first, but there was no way around it."

  "Couldn't you have pushed the story to light some other way? Did you consider taking it to a rival media outlet?" I asked. My ideas made me step back, anxious to see if there was a way out of the situation that Ford had not noticed.

  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 do
n'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."