by Claire Adams
His narrow office was so warm that I immediately shed his tuxedo jacket and slipped it onto the hanger I found on his couch. Ford opened the small, ivy-covered window and let in a soft, autumn breeze to cool us.
"So you really liked it? You're not just being nice to me?" I asked.
Ford tossed me the short story and leaned against his desk. It took a moment before I could tear my eyes from the shirt that was tight against his muscles when he crossed his arms.
"I loved it," he said.
The words sent a honeyed delight over my body until I looked down at the pages. "There's so much red ink. Oh, my god, it's like a blood bath."
Ford chuckled as I sank onto the small sofa in his office. He stepped over and sat on the arm next to me. "Don't let that get you down. Most of my comments are about structure and clearing out the extra images. Your writing itself is impressive."
I gripped the pages and pored over each mark. Ford cleared his throat and went to reopen his office door. The breeze made it waver closed again, so he leaned against it. The faint light from the hallway cast him into silhouette, and I realized neither of us had bothered to turn on more than the small desk lamp.
In the dim light, he could still read my expression and chuckled again. "You have to think of all criticism as constructive or it'll sink you," he said.
"Do you mind going over it with me? I'm not sure I can interpret all of this as positive unless you explain it," I said.
Ford pushed off the office door and went to one of the sparsely occupied shelves. He pulled a bottle of scotch from behind a wide textbook. "Would my comments go down better with a drink?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I had champagne at the event," I confessed.
He smiled at me, then pried his eyes away and poured an extra finger of scotch. I tugged my thin dress strap back into place and wished the breeze would blow through the open window again. His office was getting warm.
"You seem used to events like that. Does your father make you go with him a lot?" Ford asked.
I looked up from the pages of my short story and met his eyes. In the dim light, the gray was shifting to a deeper, fathomless blue. "You don't like events like that, do you?"
"The event's fine, I just have a problem with a lot of the people there," Ford said.
I shrugged, and my dress strap slipped again. "My father is great at those events. Maybe knowing how to schmooze is an inherited trait."
Ford finished his drink and settled onto the arm of the sofa next to me again. His fingers plucked my errant strap and tugged it back in place. "You inherited that but not your father's passion for creativity in everyday life?" he asked.
My breath faltered. His fingers had left a brand on my bare skin, one that my body believed only his touch could sooth. "Creative expression has its place but, no, I think practicality should take precedent in everyday life."
Ford reached for the tendrils of hair escaping my messy chignon then pulled back. He rose, tossed himself into his creaky, old desk chair, and kicked his feet up. "You know, I think I might be starting to agree with your father. You are too practical. You know college is supposed to be a time to explore, right?"
I shoved away the blazing thoughts of what I wanted to explore. "Is that what you did?"
He shook his head. "I enlisted straight out of high school and had the Army pay for my education."
"So you were practical too," I said.
Ford trailed his eyes up to my face, and I realized how primly I was perched. "You know it's possible to be both. Like Hemingway," he said. He nodded towards the skeleton selection on his shelves. "Top, middle shelf."
I stood up, the swirl of my long black dress and the appreciative focus of his eyes like a caress against my sensitive skin. I hoped he didn't see the trail of grazed goosebumps. I had never felt a man's eyes on my body with such pleasure.
I wanted to linger along the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, but the book was easy to find. "Did you just move offices or something?" I asked.
Ford snorted. "I guess I'm just not your stereotypical professor."
My mind backtracked and played that thought over again. Ford was not a stereotypical professor. Maybe that was why I was having trouble thinking of him as off-limits. He was relatively young for a professor, more closely connected to a vocation than scholarly studies. Ford was also unmarried, single, and devastatingly handsome.
I was not the only student that thought about him, and that was a fact. My female classmates, and a few of the men, commented on his effortless attractiveness almost every day.
"Have you ever read A Moveable Feast? It's Hemingway's reminiscing about starting out as a writer in Paris." Ford continued to lounge in his office chair.
I blocked out the thousand nagging voices of my body that urged me to test the muscles of his thighs by falling into his lap or taste the potent scotch flavor that must have lingered on his lips.
"No, I haven't read it." I sat down on the edge of the sofa as prim as before. "You must have."
Ford smiled. "It's a favorite."
I flipped through the dog-eared pages and wished I could take the copy home with me. The pages he marked and the passages he underlined made me wonder more about him than the story of a young Hemingway in Paris. I imagined climbing into bed with a book he knew so intimately, and the thought fired another blush across my cheeks.
Focusing my eyes on the open page in my hands did not help. The passage spoke about settling into bed with his wife, their books, and the open window showing the stars outside. Longing was a sharp burn through my chest. The simplicity and peace of that scene and the loving way it was worded made me want the same with all my heart.
Ford had underlined it and bent the corner of the page. I wondered if he read it with the same ache. He said nothing and gazed out the open window of his narrow office. The last clinging ivy rustled quietly, and the faint scent of cold drifted in. The season was moving on to winter any day now, and it added to the bittersweet tone of the words.
The sound of faraway laughter reached us, but we were both content to sit in the quiet of the top floor. I knew we were the only ones in the building, and even the light from the hallway seemed reticent to join us.
Foolish, romantic junk, I thought.
That's why I worried my writing was frivolous. My head was always filled with silly notions or daydreams that would never come to pass. Ford was just being polite, and he was probably counting the seconds until I woke up from my schoolgirl trance and let him go home.
Ford rocked gently in his office chair, his feet still up on the corner of the desk. He looked perfectly content until he caught me gazing at him again.
"I'd let you borrow my copy, but it's all marked up. I know it's practical to buy used books, but you really should take the chance to approach a book entirely from your own view." He sat up and clapped his feet on the floor.
"Doesn't that sort of negate the whole point of college lit classes? What would Professor Rumsfeld say?" I asked.
The teasing brought a deeper, sapphire blue to his eyes. "Students only get what they put in," Ford said, "so, by all means, if you want to skim the parts that touched me instead of letting the story reach you, then go ahead and borrow that copy."
I flipped through a few more pages and glanced over the marked passages. Ford leaned forward to crane his neck, and I wondered if he knew how romantic the lines he had chosen really sounded.
"I don't think it would distract me," I quipped. "You've underlined pretty much every word."
The corners of his mouth curved up. "If you don't have a book like that, then you need to spend a lot more time reading."
Our conversation faded to the background as I wondered how his lips could appear both hard and soft. The smile warmed them, while the hard line of his jaw promised a force that could crack inhibitions.
I couldn't breathe. "Sorry, I have plenty of reading for class," I said.
When I went to stand up, I tripped, and Ford shot
off his chair to steady me and we tangled together in the small space. I couldn't step back because the sofa edge promised to trip me, and Ford's leg was caught by his office chair. We teetered for a moment, arms clinging to each other, and then laughed.
"Hold on," Ford said, his breathless laugh near my ear. "Get your balance."
My balance was gone, along with clear thought, and any sense of control. Ford pulled me to him stronger than gravity, and I stepped closer. His quick intake of breath encouraged me to come closer.
My hands had flown to his chest, not to push him away, but to cling. Underneath one palm, I could feel his heartbeat galloping. All I could do was look up into his dark-blue eyes and let him draw me closer.
Ford's supportive arm around my back tightened, and I felt the hot pulse of his muscles flex as he tugged me gently against him.
The small office plunged into darkness, barely rebuffed by the small desk lamp and a digital clock that read midnight. Neither of us moved as our privacy was confirmed. No one else was in Thompson Hall anymore, and we were all alone.
Ford's lips parted, but he said nothing. His arm continued to press me in, and my fingers flexed on his hard chest instead of pushing him away.
A question appeared in his eyes and I nodded, more a reaching out than an answer. I found my footing and reached up on my toes with perfect balance.
Ford swallowed a frustrated groan and slipped his other hand around my waist. He pressed his lips together to wet them, then let out a surrendering sigh.
My hands inched up his chest to the bare skin at his unbuttoned shirt. Warning bells and worries sounded in my head, but a wildfire of desire pushed them away.
Just one kiss, I told myself.
One kiss would be enough to get rid of the pressure, to release the delicious anticipation, and leave me with clear thoughts. One kiss would snap us both back to reality.
Ford must have felt the same way because he bent his head, his eyes drifting to my eager lips. I felt a push and pull in his arm as he struggled. We were alone, cloaked in a silent building, in the center of a private campus, and the only light was blocked out by our joining bodies.
No! My mind cried frantically. I was seized with thoughts of my reckless mother and all the hurt she had caused our family. If I gave in to even one delicious moment, I was no better than her.
I caught Ford's eyes, and he saw them flare with worry. His only answer was a lost smile: we were both goners, and there was no going back.
When my body pressed against his, and we both felt the heat, it all felt inevitable.
Then he stopped, stilled his encircling arms, and caught his breath. A battalion of emotions charged over his face and for a moment, I hoped he would lose the battle. I wanted his lips on mine, I wanted the heat of his kiss, the assurance that he felt the same fiery longing as me.
Ford pulled away and cleared his throat. "I never understood how long dresses and high heels mixed," he said.
I forced a giggle. "The lights going out didn't help."
"I forgot they turn out the building lights after midnight, not that I'm usually here this late," Ford said. He turned and pushed his desk chair in. "Don't worry, there's enough light from the exit signs and windows to see our way down to the front."
I turned back to his nearly empty bookshelves and pretended I needed a minute to remember where his copy of A Moveable Feast was supposed to fit. It was a thin ruse but, then again, so was his rummaging around in his desk drawers as if his keys weren't in his pockets.
Ford opened another drawer and pulled out a small, laminated card. "I better call security and let them know we're still in here before they lock the doors. I don't think shimmying down a rain gutter is going to work in that dress."
"No, don't!" I cried. I spun from the bookshelf and dodged over to his desk to put both hands over his phone.
It took no more than a few seconds for Ford to catch my reason for panic. Despite the fact that the overheated moment we had just shared our office visit had been innocent, the likelihood of campus security seeing it that way was significantly less. I knew for a fact, from my father, that most of the campus-wide rumors flew from the mouths of the security guards. They saw everything and often drew their own conclusions, mostly for fun.
What would they say when Ford and I sauntered out together in our formal wear?
He said nothing, but stepped back and crossed his arms. The look on his face was a choppy surf of frustration and fear. It was much more his reputation than mine at stake. I would only lose face while he could lose his job.
"Let me call them," I said. "I'll just tell them I was picking up a paper and didn't realize the time."
Ford leaned over to the sofa and picked up the forgotten pages. "That's the truth," he said.
He didn't meet my eyes, and I knew whatever we had felt moments before was gone. I picked up the phone and dialed. "Hi, sorry, I'm in an open office in Thompson Hall, and the lights just went out. Yes, yeah, I know. I was picking up a paper from my professor and didn't realize it was past midnight."
I hung up and trotted to the door. "Thanks for the comments on my creative writing, Professor Bauer," I said.
He followed me into the hallway and pulled his office door shut behind him. "I'll walk you down," he said.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
Ford scowled. "I've fallen asleep in my office once or twice. I'm sure the security guard will think nothing of it happening again."
The beefy security guard at the front door didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Student ID," he held out his hand to me.
Before Ford could say whose daughter I was, I lied. "It didn't match my dress for the donors’ dinner. My name's Trisha Maxwell."
The security guard rolled his eyes and opened the door for me. "Asleep at the wheel again, Ford?" he asked.
Ford scrubbed a hand over his face as if he'd just woken up. "Would have slept all night if I didn't hear her clattering around."
We stepped out into the cool night air, and Ford followed me down the sidewalk. I shivered, but refused to look back, afraid he would offer me his coat again.
Chapter Eight
Ford
"Hold on. Let me lock up," the security guard said. He rattled a large ring of keys and pulled the doors securely shut behind him. "You're sure no one else is rattling around in there?"
I shrugged but shook my head. "The School of Journalism doesn't really work late at night. Our department head likes everyone to stick to a strict schedule."
The guard rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. Last week, I was on my rounds, and she timed how long it took for me to check the first floor."
"Well, you can always blame it on me. Or just mention my name, and she'll move on," I laughed.
"She after you too?" The guard slapped me on the shoulder, then followed Clarity down the steps. "How about I give you a ride to your dorm?"
"No, that's alright, I live..." Clarity caught herself before she pointed in the direction of her father's house. "I'm just heading over there."
"Meeting your boyfriend, huh?" The security guard looked back at me and grinned. "Bet he opted for beer pong and the party at the frat house instead of wearing a tuxedo and being a decent escort for her. Charming."
"There's another party at the frat house?" I asked. "I thought the Dean of Students was telling them to make them less frequent."
The security guard heaved a big sigh as he hefted himself up into his campus pickup truck. "He couldn't tell them no after they creamed the Lawrence team. Looks like we've got a winning team this year."
Clarity had taken a few steps away but stopped. "Why isn't that a good thing?"
"More wins, more parties, those boys starting thinking they're big men. Someone's got to put them in their place, and you know how exhausting that is?" The guard shut his door and leaned on the window. "You sure you don't want a lift back to your dorm?"
"I'll walk with her," I volunteered. "Nothing kills a party like a professor.
"
"No offense, Ford, but you look more like a student than a professor. Get yourself a tweed jacket or something, for god's sake."
I laughed. "I'm in a tuxedo, doesn't that give me any gravitas?"
The guard shook his head with a grin. "Not even with that big vocabulary. Alright, miss, you let the professor there walk with you. And if those boys can't behave themselves, go straight for a knee to the groin."
"Sound advice," I agreed.
Clarity laughed but took off down the sidewalk without me. The campus pickup truck drove off. I caught up with Clarity, but couldn't think of a thing to say. We walked a few dozen yards in silence, just taking in the peaceful chill of the fall night.
Outwardly, the night was calm and quiet, but inside I was a riot. Clarity's creamy skin in the moonlight made it impossible for me to adopt the patriarchal professor role I had all but promised the security guard I could take on. All I could think about was the stumble that brought our bodies together, the lights going out and plunging us into an insulated darkness where anything felt possible.
Every fiber of my body still called out for her kiss, and my mind kept circling back to the memory of our lips only inches apart.
It sounded so wildly inappropriate, a professor lusting after a student, but it felt different. I knew from my first-year disaster what was wrong, and I couldn't help but wonder if this was right. Clarity looked at the world with clear eyes and was open about what she could and could not handle.
I was different too. It wasn't lust that drove me closer to her as we walked along the sidewalk. It was a magnetic desire to talk to her, to hear what was on her mind. She always surprised and inspired me, and I hadn't felt inspiration like that in years.
"You're shivering; here, take my coat," I said. I slipped off the tuxedo jacket again and swung it towards her shoulders.
Clarity ducked away. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
We rounded the corner and could see the frat house far in the distance. The raucous party was spilling out the front door and down the porch to the lawn. We had a dozen or so yards of peace before those drunken football players saw her and started their cat calls.