Mister Know It All: A Hero Club Novel

by Amélie S. Duncan

  He hung up on me.

  I narrowed my gaze at the phone. “This guy just corrected my Klingon. I’ve been out geeked. This is almost as bad as being cheated on.”

  “Sounds like a bit of an ass,” Tam said, having my back. “Don’t let Anakin Asswalker ruin your good time. If he’s rude, lose him and find a hotel, my treat. There are hundreds in the city.”

  Tam might have mixed up Star Trek and Star Wars, but I wasn’t too fussy about it. Besides, she gave me good advice.

  We hugged each other, and she promised to visit soon. I headed to the gate and my flight to New York where Mr. Asswalker would apparently be waiting for me at kiosk two.

  Farewell, Boston. Look out, New York City, here I come. Klingon correction ignored.

  JASMINE

  Fling-worthy

  A wild excitement grew inside me, stretching and encasing my body during the descent at LaGuardia Airport. The force had me buzzing in the queue with the other passengers huffing and staring crossly at the front, edgy to leave the plane.

  My shoulders smarted with the familiar pain of my laptop and books in my backpack. I now regretted it. Besides the clothing items, I had little time to think about the trip, not that it really mattered. I’d need clothes for work, exploring the city, and then maybe a dress or two should I venture to a bar. I’d spent a few moments on the plane considering Tam’s ridiculous Tinder idea. It wasn’t that I’d rule out a fling, but her suggestions were way outside my comfort zone. Although, if all the men in New York were like this Ford guy, I’d happily avoid dating altogether.

  No, I was here for a summer of hard work, new experiences, and healing from betrayal. Crappy jerky men could take a hike.

  It was too late to cancel without putting Soraya in an awkward situation. I’ll take the ride he insisted on, then check out the sights.

  The gate was close to arrivals, and I joined my fellow passengers crowded around the luggage drop. I hung back and turned on my phone to see if I had messages. One message from the number Ford had called me from.

  Ford: I’m here. Just come over to the row of chairs, and I’ll help you get your luggage.

  I scanned the crowd for him but only saw families, airport personnel, and a guy who had me doing a quadruple take. Hot damn!

  He was a Viking-looking designer-suited guy who looked like a model with neatly coiffured pale-blond hair. His facial features were heady in their impact: high, chiseled cheekbones, firm jaw, and wide, full lips. He was gorgeous and polished, from his crisp blue shirt tucked neatly into his perfectly pressed slacks down to his black leather shoes, though unprepared for the chilly weather here. Where’s his coat?

  And why was I already thinking of ways to fuss over him?

  I hate men, I reminded myself. Correction, I hated helpless men like Randall.

  However, I glanced over at Mr. Viking Hot Stuff again. He brooded as he stood there, posing, and perusing the crowd, obviously not pleased with whoever had him waiting. Or was this part of some photo op? Not sure. But then his laser focus spun on me, and he squinted.

  My lips pursed. If you don’t want to be checked out, stop posing, poser.

  The luggage alert horn sounded, notifying travelers their bags had arrived, and I went to join the other passengers in hauling the bag from the carousel. I saw my carpetbag with the Captain Picard nametag coming around my path. I pushed back my sleeves, poised to retrieve it, only to watch an enormous hand lift it effortlessly off the turnstile.

  I whipped my head around to see who I could yell at, and it was none other than the brooding Viking. He pulled the handle up and rolled it behind him and over to where I stood, stopping close enough to tower over me. Lashes darker than his hair surrounded his cobalt eyes. They stared with weight and mystery that had me looking away first, something I never do with a man. It was a war of wills and a tool to intimidate.

  I squared my shoulders and turned back to him with my lips pressed together firmly. Stay strong.

  “You’re Jasmine,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

  “You’re Ford,” I parroted back. Of course, that had to be him. “How did you know I’m Jasmine?”

  He picked up the Picard tag on my luggage. “Soraya sent a photo too. You were supposed to text me when you arrived. I saw you check your phone, but you didn’t text me back.”

  My cheeks heated. “You were watching me?”

  “Yes, I was. I figured you were going to try to give me the slip after I came to pick you up. But let me tell you now, you will see me while you’re here. I won’t avoid coming around, even if you choose to be awkward.”

  My mouth dropped open. “I’m not… I may have considered leaving, more so because I can take care of myself.” I may be only twenty-two, but it felt like I’d been looking after myself for more than the five years since I left high school.

  He smirked. “Somerville, Massachusetts, isn’t New York City. Look at you. You haven’t even closed your purse, and your phone is hanging out of your jacket.”

  I lowered my brows and snapped my bag back in place with my phone inside. “I’m just off the plane. No one would do anything here at the airport.”

  “Wrong answer. New York may have gone Disney family-friendly, but it’ll still swallow geeky little college girls who think they know everything.”

  I stretched to my full five-foot-four height and placed my hands on my hips. “I’m not some fragile little thing, and I don’t appreciate being reduced to as much, thank you.”

  “My friend Blair thought like you, and I went against my better judgment by letting her handle things on her own in a place she didn’t know. I’ll skip to the end, where she’s on her third surgery to reconstruct her face. So, I’ll keep things real with you. I’m not dropping you off anywhere. You’re not doing anything unescorted as long as I’ve agreed to watch over you, so you might as well make peace with that.”

  Viking or Neanderthal? And just how was he planning to make me come with him? Throw me over his shoulder?

  “I may be small, but I’ve taken Krav Maga at the gym for two full years. I bet I could take you down.”

  “I’d like to see you try. Ju-Jitsu and judo fifteen years.” Ford upped me with his fighting skills, and I was over him quick. But then he cracked a smile, and his face softened into exquisiteness. I mean, whoa. Hello, lust . . . but ick to his attitude. I thought Soraya surrounded herself with chill people. It made me wonder just what made her go for a stuck-up suit. Didn’t Soraya say he was a relative of Graham’s?

  I peered at him. “I didn’t see you at their wedding.” He had a face I would have noticed and wouldn’t have forgotten.

  “I couldn’t go.” He cleared his throat and looked away.

  A man walked up to us, and he handed him my bag.

  “Hey! Who was that? Is he driving?” I asked.

  “No, he’s helping with the luggage,” Ford said. “I’m driving.”

  “Oh,” I said, which was all I could think to answer.

  Ford placed his hand on my back, and I didn’t remove it. The press of his warm hand sent a curious zinging sensation down my spine. Apparently, Ford didn’t need to carry me away. I actually let him take me like someone hypnotized to fall in line. I noticed the attention he received as he guided us outside the building and over to a shiny black Mercedes SUV parked out front. I mean, who wouldn’t admire him? I did . . . until he opened his mouth.

  “I didn’t think they allowed you to park here,” I said to him.

  Without asking and with fluidity, he removed my backpack, handed over my luggage, and paid the man who helped us. “They don’t, but it worked out today.”

  The guy wasn’t above illegal parking. Hmm.

  The stairs to the vehicle’s passenger side were slightly obstructed by a cart return, and I hesitated because my stylish boots had a slippery sole. Ford took it upon himself to lift me by my hips into the seat with ease. I didn’t know why I held my breath, but I waited until he shut the door before r
eleasing it. Jesus, what was with the manhandling? And why did I quietly like that?

  I sank into the plush leather seats. Not bad. Ford’s car definitely beat my car that was full of books and empty latte containers.

  “You want to rest after your flight?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t long, but I want to take off my boots,” I said, wiggling my toes in the cramped space. Shopping for new shoes was now added to my plans for the visit. Along with a fling?

  I hadn’t completely dismissed the idea. As Tam said, I was young and single. Randall took a year and eight months, not all of my twenties. Maybe I should go for a one-night stand to start?

  I glanced over at Ford, who was focused on the road. I’d been taken aback by how gorgeous he was. I wasn’t usually attracted to pale-blond, blue-eyed men. They reminded me too much of the jocks in high school. The ones who made fun of me for blooming early and not losing my panties over sports. Ford seemed more sophisticated and refined. Was that what happened to the jocks when they got older? Did they grow hotter and suit up?

  “Is my driving more interesting than the city?” he asked with amusement in his tone.

  My head bobbed toward the window to look at the cars speeding along the highway.

  “I’m not staring at you. I was thinking in your direction.” I cringed at my lame excuse for staring at him. Then I fiddled with the channels and turned on his stereo. A cheesy love song came on, and we both laughed.

  “My . . . friend chose the music,” he mumbled before switching on talk radio.

  “My ex claimed he loved classical, but whenever I was in his car, the Dave Matthews Band came on.”

  Randall was a fraud, even when it came to his own taste in music, which I tolerated. The more I thought about his betrayal, the angrier I got. I made myself completely available to that man. I listened to him, supported his work, and helped him achieve his goals. Did he even care about me, or was he always after sex and a built-in servant? I know I dodged a bullet, but the sting lingered. Stop thinking about him. You’re moving forward.

  A lump lodged in my throat.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Um . . . yeah. I feel bad that I’m putting you out. Sorry you had to come and collect a complete stranger.”

  “I know Graham, and I’ve known Soraya for a while. They vouched for you, or should I be worried?”

  “No, but I mean, you’re working, right?” I fiddled with the button on my jacket to avoid seeing my hands tremble like a starstruck teen.

  “From the heaviness of your suitcase, you are too. Studies?” Ford asked.

  “I’m actually finished for the semester. Just working on an extra research paper and maybe getting a head start on my courses for next semester. You mentioned you’re in business?”

  “I’m an associate art director of software engineering at Morgan Financial Holdings.”

  “Oh . . . yes,” I said. His title was quite the mouthful.

  “You can adjust the seats, and they have a built-in massage.” He switched it on, and I purred.

  He laughed, and I couldn’t help but look over at him and that sensational smile. It made him look warmer, happy. Sexy. Tam would definitely think Ford was fling-worthy. But then he asked in a snobbish tone, “Is that patchouli oil I smell?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I didn’t realize patchouli made a comeback.” I could hear the humor in his tone, but my snooty meter went off.

  “I love it. A lot of people do.”

  “It was only a passing observation. You like it. That’s all that matters.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “So, after ten minutes of knowing me, you tell me I smell, and it’s cool that I don’t care that I do?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Patchouli oil is popular in Sommerville. We’ll leave it at that. How about we just listen to music?”

  He switched to a rock station and increased the volume, which was fine by me. I didn’t want to talk to an opinionated, arrogant jerk, no matter how good-looking he was.

  Ford Lingren was definitely off the fling-worthy list.

  FORD

  Starry-eyed wonder

  “Have you visited the city before?” I asked, turning the music down. I also turned on the heater to warm up the car’s chill and the coolness between Jasmine and me. We were almost to Midtown, and she hadn’t said a word.

  “No,” she huffed, folding her arms and staring out the window.

  Shit. I put my foot in it and said what I really thought instead of being polite. At work, brutal honesty is an asset. I’m an asshole there—and I love it. But it didn’t transition well with most women.

  Why couldn’t I say that I could only tolerate patchouli’s earthy musk for a short time at a health food store? Because Jasmine loved it or hadn’t tried something better? She reminded me of myself. I’d thought flannels and cords year-round was a good look until I modeled ten years ago. The ruthless eyes of the fashion industry woke me up to style. Not that I didn’t appreciate Jasmine’s nerdy-earthy vibe. Although her style blocked everything that I’d like to see. Her face was pretty from what I could see around her large, black frames. She had the don’t care messy bun, oversized blazer, and ankle-length pilgrim skirt.

  Of course, Jasmine wasn’t here to impress me.

  I wasn’t number one on Graham’s list. Nor was I someone he’d call for help unless in a pinch. I’d only agreed because Graham mentioned expanding the art technical engineering division in a recent quarterly review. We were related, but he didn’t do me any favors. If I played my cards right, I could take over as art and design director from Margot when she retired. Besides that, Jasmine’s attitude amused more than irritated. I liked how she bragged about Krav Maga and the starry-eyed wonder she had when looking out at the city.

  “That was a record for me. How to lose a girl in ten minutes,” I joked, breaking the silence.

  She cracked a bright smile for a few seconds before she returned to pouty lips. “You never won me.”

  “You’re talking instead of short answers. I won the cold shoulder standoff.”

  “I bet you don’t get those often,” she said and covered her mouth with her hand to stop another compliment from escaping.

  “I don’t, at least not at first. I didn’t mean to insult you personally, just the scent. I think much better scents exist for pretty women.”

  Her dazzling smile returned. “You don’t have to lay on the compliments to get me to talk to you again. You were honest even though I didn’t ask for your opinion. Truce?”

  “Truce,” I agreed. “Since I have some time, how about a quick look at Times Square?”

  She bounced in her seat. “Oh, yes!”

  “Boston isn’t far from New York City. Why haven’t you come down here before?”

  “I’ve been to New York City once with my parents and a couple of times for college conferences. But this is my first time as an adult outside of a lecture hall visit. I’m also from the West Coast wing of Soraya’s family. My parents are alpaca farmers in Washington State.”

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  She laughed too. “Yep. They traded in their careers in academia in San Francisco to raise alpacas. I left for the opposite coast and Radcliffe then to Boston College’s sociology master’s program.”

  So she is smart and pretty.

  “Do you miss the West Coast?”

  “No. Not really. It’s not . . . my home anymore if that makes sense.”

  “It does.”

  We drove around for a while, and I pointed out the Empire State Building, Macy’s, and Bryant Park before finding a parking lot.

  When we reached the neon billboards and crowds, Jasmine spun around in a circle, swinging her arms playfully, and I couldn’t look away.

  “Do you have a hat?” she asked.

  I frowned but then saw a vendor selling hats on a table nearby and bought one. “Here you go.”

  “Great! I always wanted to do this.” She
threw the hat in the air and screamed, “I have arrived!”

  The hat landed. But it was immediately kicked into the gutter by a frowning woman who looked directly at me but kept talking on her phone.

  “Hey! You kicked my hat,” Jasmine called out.

  The woman rushed off, and we went over to the soggy, sad cap already covered in grime.

  “Sorry.” Jasmine reached to pick it up, and I blocked her path.

  “I’ll get it.” I dumped it in a trash bin.

  “You didn’t need to throw it away. I could’ve cleaned it,” Jasmine said, her brows pulled together.

  “I’ll get you another hat. I don’t want a mess in the car.”

  “You’re a bit uptight, but I’ll pay you for the hat.”

  “No, I don’t want money.”

  She reached in her purse anyway and stuffed money in my coat pocket, then moved out of reach.

  I removed the crumpled bill from my jacket and sighed. “It was nothing. If you want a hat, we’ll find you something much better.”

  “No, but I am planning to go shopping later. I just thought this is a great moment. I believe life is made up of many significant moments. These moments turn into memories. If you want to keep it in your consciousness, you must commemorate them.”

  “By throwing a hat?” I said.

  She adjusted her glasses. “Yeah, well, I guess the moment linked to the memory will not include the hat ruined in less than a minute. I’m off to the worst start for the summer of me.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the summer of me’?” I asked.

  She grinned. “I’m planning to make this the most selfish summer ever. I’m sucking the marrow and living life to the fullest.”

  My phone hummed with a call from Graham, and I answered.

  “How are things going?” It was Soraya.