Mister Know It All: A Hero Club Novel

by Amélie S. Duncan

“Marrow sucking. We’re in Times Square.”

  “Sounds like Jasmine. Anyway, there is a severe thunderstorm that’s grounding flights. We can’t return tonight. Can Jasmine stay at your place for the night? A hotel seems so impersonal. I know I’m overprotective, but I don’t want her roaming New York City until she has a few subway lessons. We both have the spare keys here. Graham still hasn’t hired his permanent assistant, my best friend has clients booked through the night. I don’t want to leave Jaz in a tattoo parlor. You could break in—”

  “No. It’s fine. Do you want to break the news to Jasmine?”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  I looked over at Jasmine talking to the naked cowboy—a man in a cowboy hat and briefs singing and strumming a guitar. “No.”

  “She’ll turn Soraya down if she asks her,” Graham’s voice came on the line. “Jaz is a harmless bookworm. You can just give her a book and leave her alone for the rest of the evening. I’ll owe you.”

  Graham spoke my language. I glanced over at Jasmine, swaying to the music. Cute. I don’t think it’s fair to just prop her away with a book.

  “Fine. I’ll keep Jasmine safe,” I said. A beep indicated a call was on the other line.

  “Thanks for this.” Graham hung up.

  I checked the other line. It was Minuet, my ex-best friend’s sister. Great timing. As usual. “Hello.”

  “We didn’t see you at the wake. Our dad’s will is going into litigation.” Andre Roche, Minuet’s brother, was a lazy, entitled asshole who believed he was due the world without lifting a finger. And somehow, he believed I cared about how the release of his dad’s estate affected him. We were done.

  “I’m no longer involved. You need to contact the estate lawyer or hire an accountant to handle the work for you.”

  “Andre can’t afford one, and you know it. You’re acting childish. All you need to do is sign the property over to him. If not, he could lose everything—”

  “That’s not my concern anymore—”

  “After fifteen years of friendship, he makes one mistake, and you can’t help him? You’re horrible. It’s no wonder you’re alone—”

  I hung up the phone before the rest of Minuet’s vitriol came toward me. I didn’t owe Andre anything. Not anymore.

  “Ford?” I heard Jasmine call, and when I looked over, I realized her face had morphed into concern.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I smiled and put my phone away. It was typical that Minuet was more focused on what was owed them than the loss caused by her father’s death. Enough. “Are you done dancing?”

  “For now. I saw that guy on television before. He’s famous,” she gushed.

  “You may see more personalities. By the way, Soraya and Graham can’t make it back tonight, so you’re with me.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll go to a hotel.”

  “You could, but anywhere decent is costly. If you pay less, it’s a gamble, trust me.”

  She frowned. “I’ve been camping. I can rough it.”

  “Roughing it in New York City means mold and a dirty bathroom.”

  I might have exaggerated, but it was better to encourage a choice she didn’t have. Even Soraya wasn’t keen on leaving her on her own. It was probably overkill, but bottom line, she was stuck with me.

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m allergic to mold.”

  “Then your choice is five hundred bucks or my place.”

  Her brows pulled together, and she placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t take me for a fool. I don’t believe you. Soraya thinks I’m sheltered or something crazy like that. I don’t need a chaperone.”

  “One night,” I said. “Gadgets and a clean bed.”

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. I’ll stay . . . I like gadgets.”

  “Then it’s settled. Where to next?” I asked.

  “More shops and maybe look at the Broadway theaters, please?” She drawled out “please” in a sweet tone that would have made me feel like a dick if I’d told her no.

  I had a marketing and team meeting this afternoon. While I rarely ever change my schedule, I took out my phone and sent a text message to my assistant, Jennifer.

  Ford: I’m not returning to the office today. Please change my meetings to conference calls this afternoon. I need you to sit in on the marketing meeting and send me a report afterward.

  She called before I had a chance to finish my list.

  “Are you feeling okay? I can make a doctor’s appointment for you—”

  “I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.” I ended the call.

  “You sound busy. I understand that. Honestly, you can leave me here.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll work later. Let me get my camera, so you can commemorate without throwing things at people.” I winked at her.

  She smiled. “You take photos?”

  “Yes.” She followed me the ten-block hike back to the parking lot where we left the car, pointing out buildings that caught her interest. I then collected my Nikon Z50 out of a locked custom case in the back.

  “Can you take one of me?”

  Jasmine took off her glasses and batted her long lashes. And everything stopped.

  Just as I thought. Behind those ugly frames was a beauty. Parts of her face were conventional, evenness in eyes, nose, and jawline, then came what I called a front-runner—the facial features that made my adrenaline surge and my hands desperate for my camera. She had high cheekbones, and her cat-like eyes were large and striking with hues of green and gold. They enthralled and mesmerized. Not to leave out her lips, they were a perfect rosebud pout that made me want to suck on them. Her face was a photographer’s dream. She peered around Times Square all dreamy, and a rush of excitement filled my chest. She was naturally emotive. Something all ad execs would die for. She held my interest. I needed to see what else she’d do.

  Photography was a side gig that was developing into a second career. I’d had a few successful gallery shows. I wasn’t that big yet, but I had positive critical reviews and several key art patrons following. I’d also been having a creative block, but I felt the rush of desire growing.

  I snapped picture after picture of her face. And each one made me eager to take the next.

  “Ford, come on, you took so many.” She blushed and laughed.

  “A few more,” I told her, hating to stop.

  The wind had picked up, so I pulled out a scarf I kept in the car and wrapped it around my neck.

  “You should bundle up.”

  Jasmine dug in her bag and pulled out a silk scarf that caught the wind. We both reached to retrieve it, causing our hands to brush against each other. Her hands were delicate and trembled in mine.

  “Are you cold?” I asked and watched her as I rubbed them, pretending to warm them up. God, she has soft hands. What other parts of her would be soft?

  She ran her tongue over her sultry lips, and my gaze went as hard as my dick.

  I inhaled sharply to calm my pulse and to still my impulse to run my finger over her mouth before I pushed in and made her suck on it.

  My eyes moved over her flushed cheeks. Pretty . . . fuck. What the hell am I doing?

  Cecile. I couldn’t go back on my word for her.

  I agreed to give her space and time, and I don’t go back on my promises. Never had. Never would. What I needed to do was cut this sightseeing trip short and remain focused.

  Thank fuck, Jasmine draped her scarf around her slender neck and took an exaggerated step back and laughed. “Let’s go.”

  Yes, let’s go. The sooner she was out of my hair, the better.

  JASMINE

  We could be friends?

  We walked inside Ford’s apartment in Washington Square in Greenwich Village. He took out the remote control for the window treatments, casting the living room area in a glow from the soft inset lighting.

  “Did you just move in?” I half joked.

  “No. I’m a minimalist. Clutter leads to a
cluttered mind.”

  His mind must be hollow.

  Ford didn’t have the problem I had with knickknacks and books filling up every space of his home. In fact, his place had an open concept with small groupings of furniture, and the more I looked around, the more I liked it. His decorative palette was muted. The stylish hues of champagne and chestnut brown went well with the oak and marble flooring. It covered most of the custom fabric and leather seating. Some vibrant colors and framed abstract images filtered seamlessly. On the wall to the left of the entrance was a large brick and slate fireplace. On the right housed a row of floor-to-ceiling casement windows that provided a breathtaking, picturesque view of the skyline, now softly darkening to the summer night. Beautiful.

  Next to his staircase was a panel with a light fixture with a red bulb.

  “You have a darkroom?” I asked.

  “Yes. The panel opens to my private studio. It’s not accessible,” he said in a light tone.

  After surrendering my shoes to Ford, I walked over to the windows for a closer view. And to my surprise, I found below an enclosed stone and Japanese garden in a greenhouse. “Is that yours?”

  “Yes,” he said and came over to stand next to me. “I may remodel the area to use for more than a garden, but I spend so little time here with travel and work. Come, let me show you something I think you may enjoy.”

  “Oh, and what is that?” I asked, intrigued, and followed him over to what had to be a geek and gadget person’s wet dream. He had cases of mint condition Star Wars and Star Trek items on display behind glass.

  “Is this actually one of the helmets from the battle scene on Echo Base from The Empire Strikes Back?” I asked in awe.

  “Yes. It thrilled me to receive it from Mr. Lucas when I worked as an art director for Lucas Arts before they closed. He also gave me this.” He took out a lightsaber, and I think I came.

  “I’m a Trekker at heart but not a purist. I have a love like crazy for Star Wars. I’ve spent hours dissecting Luke’s journey through the lens of social politicization and the religious themes of the force. Next to Star Trek: Next Generation Worf’s Bat’leth, this is by far the most amazing thing I’ve seen. Can I touch something? Or better still, could you take a photo of me feeling something?”

  A smile appeared on his lips but evaporated just as quickly. He moved close to me, and my body locked up, and my mind went blank for a few heart-pounding moments. His eyelids lowered, and he pushed his hands through his hair.

  “Did I overstep?” I asked and bit my bottom lip.

  He exhaled slowly. “No, I . . . I’ll let you touch the helmet if you let me take photos of you.” His eyes lifted to mine, and my pulse raced.

  “Um . . . okay. Can you send me copies?”

  “Yes.” His arm brushed mine as he stepped up to a hidden cabinet and took out another top-of-the-line camera. “Take off that jacket. Do you have something besides the T-shirt on?”

  “I do,” I muttered, removing my jacket and T-shirt. Then I remembered all I had underneath was a low-cut black leotard that was tight enough to show the outline of my nipples. Basically, something I hadn’t intended for anyone to see but me.

  Ford pulled off my hair tie and removed a few strands of hair from my face. Pushing my hair back over my shoulders. He took in the rest of me. His gaze slowed as he slid downward, pausing on my breasts that swelled.

  “You have nothing to be shy about. You’re beautiful.”

  I wanted to behave normally, but my body wouldn’t listen with him staring so intently at me. I crossed and uncrossed my arms. “Ready?”

  He chuckled. “Stop fidgeting.”

  “Stop making me nervous.”

  Ford tilted his head to the side, showing off his stunning profile and a handsome smile. “I don’t want you nervous around me. I’ll try harder.”

  He pressed in a code and took out the helmet and placed it on my head. I’ve touched where Luke Skywalker touched. I could die now.

  I was okay with the helmet shots and even did a few poses for him. The more photos he took and the way he stared at me had me equally confused and turned on. I tried to imagine myself in the world of snow on planet Hoth, but I felt like I was more under the two burning suns of the planet Tatooine.

  When he did tight close shots of my face, I asked him to stop.

  “You look stunning. The camera loves you. A few more, please, just for me, and you’re done,” he said in his deep smooth voice that made my chest flutter and my body tighten.

  Who knew that having my picture taken by a photographer could make me so horny?

  He’d taken way more pictures than needed, and when he finally stopped, I came to his side, and he showed me the photos on his viewscreen.

  “That was fun,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “See. I can be fun.” Ford winked, and my panties melted.

  “Are you hungry yet? What would you like to eat?” he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  I flicked my eyes at him and ran my hand along the edge of the glass case. “I’m up for a place that’s not stuffy, at least for today. A burger and fries, but something you can find on the menu too since I bet you don’t eat that.”

  “I have a healthy appetite for many things,” he said.

  That sounded like a line. Flirting?

  I peered at Ford, and he just stared back.

  “I’ll take you to Saucer Burger. It’s on Mars,” he said.

  “Get your ass to Mars,” I said in the worst Arnold Schwarzenegger’s accent and impression from Total Recall.

  He laughed with me.

  I grinned. “Glad you thought that was funny, or I’d die of embarrassment. I didn’t realize Mars has saucers now that serve burgers.”

  “Shakes too,” he said. He opened the drawer to put his camera away, and I looked in. There, hidden in plain sight, was a photograph of a pretty, windswept woman, whose face he encased in an expensive frame.

  “The ex with the poor taste in music?” I joked, cocking a brow.

  “Cecile,” he mumbled and closed the drawer without another word.

  Cecile. Even her name sounds beautiful. And by the look of it, even though Cecile wasn’t on the wall of Ford’s apartment, she still had a place in his heart.

  Ford had work to do before we could go to Mars, so I showered and braided my hair into a loose braid over one of my shoulders. Everything in my suitcase smelled of patchouli oil, not that I cared what Ford thought. Patchouli was recommended as an alternative to aspirin to treat the headaches caused by my working a packed academic schedule and assistantship. Its use had become a part of my daily routine, and I hadn’t thought much about it until now.

  I changed into a Bluegrass Festival T-shirt, brown corduroy skirt with printed flowers, and tights.

  Everything in the guest room was so neat and orderly, like Ford himself. He was a bit of a dark horse. Confident and direct when asked questions, and I had more.

  He told me we would be around each other even after today because he worked at Graham’s company, Morgan Financial, and he’s a part of his family. Ford and I liked the same things. We could be friends. We should be friends even though I was caught up in his sexiness. Not to mention, he was surprisingly nerdvana. I couldn’t deny my attraction. But windswept-hair-Cecile still had a photo around and made Ford look sad. That meant he was still emotionally caught up in her. I wasn’t ever going to waste my time with a man who wasn’t all mine again.

  Thinking of the devil seemed to conjure him up. Randall left yet another voice message on my phone when I plugged it in to charge.

  “You’re emotional, and I understand that. I never knew your depth of feelings for me. I believe that’s what drove me to Angelique. Honestly, it was body over mind. I didn’t think; I acted. I’m at the age where my sexual potency has passed its peak. I’m acting out to cling to my base nature, but this isn’t me. I don’t want a relationship with her. She’s mediocre academically. If I’m perfectly honest, I am
baffled by how she got into a master’s degree program. She knows nothing about social policy. I can’t spend the rest of my life with someone so unconscious. I don’t know where our relationship is heading, but you and I work well together. Now, Jasmine, stop this nonsense. I need my—”

  The message cut off. Apparently, even my voicemail had a limit for bullshit. I glared at the phone. Nonsense! I pressed delete.

  Equipped with two books, freshly applied gloss, and clean glasses on the bridge of my nose, I headed to the living room.

  Ford was absorbed in a phone call when I returned. He had his laptop open and an iPad in his open briefcase next to a small desk on the end of his couch.

  I tried to settle on the rug next to him, using the couch as my back and spreading my work around me. As I typed with a pencil between my teeth, I couldn’t shake Angelique hanging with Randall after what they did. After all he’d said and done, he was still arrogant enough to make demands of me? How many times had I compromised myself?

  I always prided my feminism, but how could I hold my head up when I let a man completely humiliate me? I dropped my face in my hands. Get ahold of yourself.

  “What’s wrong?” Ford asked, his tone gentle.

  I put on a smile. “Nothing… just something I read.” I lifted a book. “I’ll try not to disturb you, and really, this is entertainment for me. I’ve been thinking of a cultural migration sociology research paper.”

  His gaze was shrewd as he studied me. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. You can just be honest. Would you like a drink?” he asked, closing his laptop.

  I raised my brows. “Coffee?”

  “Coffee has caffeine that could upset your stomach and cause restlessness.”

  “That’s the whole reason I love coffee. I want that restless buzz. Are you a health nut?” I asked.

  “How about an energy-stimulating smoothie?” Ford offered, not exactly answering my question.

  A sarcastic comment rose in my mind, but I was his guest, and my summer plans still included a commitment to try new things. “Fine. I’ll try your energy-inducing fruit juice. But I highly doubt it will live up to your description.”