What He Resists (What He Wants, Book Nine) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) by Hannah Ford Page A

expensive shampoos and conditioners that came with
the room, blasting Katy Perry’s Roar on repeat from the iPhone speakers that
wirelessly pumped music through every room.
    Then I dressed carefully for class,
taking my ruined dress and Noah’s sweater and balling them up before tossing
them into the trash.   There was
something satisfying about pushing his beautiful, expensive piece of clothing
into a hotel wastebasket.
    But just as quickly as the satisfaction
had come, it went, leaving me with a feeling of regret.   The sweater was the only thing I had to
connect me to him.   (The bracelet
he’d given me had also been lost at some point last night, a fitting metaphor
for everything that had happened.)   I resisted the urge to pull the sweater back out of the garbage, instead
turning my back on it and walking out of the room.
    For the first time since my decision not
to let him get the best of me, longing overtook me, threatening to pull me back
into the abyss of missing him.
    Keep
moving.   Focus on something else.
    The library.   I’d go to the library before class, I decided.
    Once I was there, I’d immediately get to
work on finding a new place to live.    It wouldn’t be easy – New York City real estate
was cutthroat even if you had unlimited funds, which I most certainly did not
-- but at least the process would be started.
    I didn’t want to stay in this hotel any
longer than I needed to.
    My decision made, I took the elevator
down to the lobby.   The city was
already bustling with activity, and as I stepped out onto the street, I took a
deep breath and told myself everything was going to be okay.
    I was halfway to the subway when my phone
rang.
    Noah.
    It had to be.
    He was calling to take it back, to tell
me what happened last night had been a mistake, that we needed to talk.
    But it wasn’t Noah.
    It was Professor Worthington.
    Calling me at 7 am.
    Whatever he was calling about, it
couldn’t be good.
    I cleared my throat before answering, but
even so, I could tell my voice sounded scratchy from lack of sleep.   “Hello?”
    “Charlotte,” he said.   “It’s Professor Worthington.”   His voice was more muted than usual,
almost like he was tired.   Usually
Professor Worthington was no-nonsense, barking orders and trying to get things
done.
    “Hello,” I said.   I gripped the phone in my hand, not
sure what else to say.
    “Are you able to stop by this morning to
chat?” he asked.
    “Of course.   I was on my way to campus right now, shall I come to your
office?”
    “I’m not going to be on campus today, I
have…” He trailed off.   “I’m taking
a personal day.   Is there any way
you could meet me for coffee?”
    “Sure.”  
    He rattled off the address of a coffee
shop on the Upper East Side, and I jotted it down dutifully on a pad.
    “Can you be there in an hour?”
    “Yes.”   I hesitated.   It
wasn’t that weird for Worthington to
be calling me -- after all, he’d done it before.   But still.   It
was early, and there was something off-putting about his call, something weird
about him asking me to meet for coffee instead of just waiting until he was
back in the office.   It felt like
something urgent and important had come up, but he didn’t sound   urgent or
hurried.   It was a strange
disconnect,and it made me nervous.
    “Is there anything wrong, Professor?” I
asked finally.  
    There was a pause on the other end of the
line.   “We’ll talk about it when I
see you.”
    “Okay.” I swallowed.   “I’ll see you in an hour.”
    “Good bye, Charlotte.”
    “Good bye, Professor.”

 
    ***

 
    The coffee shop Worthington had chosen
was one of those hipster places, the kind that served kale smoothies and
wheat-free, dairy-free, everything-free pastries.   I ordered an almond milk latte and found a seat by the
window.
    I was a couple of minutes early, and I
used the time to set my email up on my new phone, taking a certain pleasure in
the