“That’s awful,” I had to admit. Although at least he didn’t lead her on by fucking her and then ghosting her. I couldn’t even imagine Ford with this woman. Geek shit?
“It was awful. Mr. Lingren is horrible, and not just to me. He never speaks to anyone, and he’s always critical of everything handed to him. He’s still hung up on Cecile Arpin, the poor woman.”
“What do you know about Cecile Arpin?” I asked.
Her smile turned mischievous. “Gossip’s not so bad when you want to know something, is it? We have drinks tonight at the Black Bull. If you come, I’ll tell you. Lots of hotties there too.”
“Thanks. Maybe,” I mumbled.
I finished up Priscilla’s profile and handed her a raffle ticket that she dropped into her purse. “May the odds be in your favor.”
“Oh, I saw that movie. Hottie Hemsworth. That lead chick was too intense.”
“Yeah. Katniss was too worried about dying, eating, and freedom.”
She smirked and fastened the new ID card to her lapel. “I understand worrying, but she didn’t have to be that extreme. Anyway, are you up for joining us at the Black Bull tonight? I’ll stop by your office at five thirty, and you can walk over with the group.”
“I can’t tonight. But maybe next week?” I said. I already had plans to go to the 91st Y for Bob Dylan’s lecture on the Politics of Song. His music was always on growing up. And I hoped to gain new insight into what I could do for my paper that seemed to ping-pong from one idea to the next from all the stimulus surrounding me in the city.
“Next week then,” Priscilla said and eyed her photo on the screen again. “Send me a copy?”
“Wasting more company time, Ms. Yardley?” a woman’s sharp voice boomed behind us.
Priscilla stiffened. “Margot. See you later.”
Margot, the head of engineering in the art and marketing department, appeared, and for some unknown reason, George Washington popped into my head. Perhaps it was because the tight white curls on her head resembled an old-fashioned wig, and her red blush stood out against her powdery, pale skin. It was quite the contrast from her stylish designer pantsuit.
Priscilla exited, and Margot came over to stand in front of my table.
“Thank you for coming in,” I said politely and gestured toward the floor. “If you’d stand on the X, I can take your photo.”
She didn’t move. Her mouth shriveled like she sucked on a sour ball. “I hear you’re in charge of planning my retirement party.”
“Actually, that’s not official. Quinton had sent you a message about what you’d like to do. I’ve only been in charge of ordering the plaque—”
“But you didn’t bother to speak with me to find out what I wanted?” she interrupted. “Instead, you wait around for someone to tell you what to do. Use. Your. Brain. Is that too much to ask? Of course, what else could be expected from a nepotism hire.”
“She’s not a nepotism hire,” Ford’s voice cut in. I hadn’t known he’d come back, but now he came over to stand by my side and glared at Margot.
She snorted. “You can’t talk.”
“I can. Jasmine applied for an open position. Her references were checked like any other hire, but do go on with your unproven insults.”
She glared at him and me. “So, you’ve now moved on from Priscilla to this one.”
He narrowed his eyes. “My life is none of your business. Harassing another person will move your retirement up to today. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I should have fired you when I had the chance,” she countered in a sharp tone.
“You can’t and you will leave her alone,” he told her.
“Are you replacing your photos or not?” I asked.
Margot glared at me. “I’ll keep the photo I have. What a waste of resources and company time.” She stormed out.
I glared after her. “She’s a piece of work.”
Ford touched my arms. “Are you okay?”
“I’m tougher than you think.” I winked at him.
He smiled at me. “You are. Let me know if anything else happens or tell Graham.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to report it.”
He let me go, and I ran my hands down my arms. Goose bumps.
Three new arrivals entered at once, and Ford winked at me as he walked out. Priscilla had him pegged so wrong. He had a good heart—like Graham said—but he didn’t suffer fools.
“Where’s the cake?” one of them asked.
“No cake,” I said, my voice strained.
The end of the day couldn’t come quick enough, although I chuckled. Because all I could hear in my head now was “No capes.” Thank you, Edna.
JASMINE
5k’s roller girl and tramp-over
“Woo, hips don’t lie,” Priscilla said and lowered her heart-shaped sunglasses.
“Don’t make fun. You look fabulous, darling,” Quinton said, adjusting his neon sweatband around his man-bun. “It’s too late to change your clothes. We need to head to Central Park for the race setup. Our volunteers are already there.”
I had been one hundred percent behind the seventies theme for Morgan Financial’s First Annual 5K Run—a fundraiser for computer equipment at local elementary schools. Themes made things fun, and making the company seem like a fun place to work was a part of my new job. However, I didn’t anticipate, when choosing sizes for the seventies-style running gear, my tank and satin shorts would transfer onto my curves as a crop top and satin boy-shorts. Instead of looking like a retro track star, I looked like a bad Boogie Nights Roller Girl Halloween costume. Boo.
We had only two hours before the start of our run, a full loop of Central Park, and I had no time for sulking. I picked up my clipboard and eyed the names on the sign-up sheet. We had forty-nine participants willing to leave work early, exercise, and go home with full pay—for a great cause, of course. Since my ID update initiative was a flop, I was keen on making the run a success, even if it meant wearing satin shorts with knee-high socks in public.
I put my work clothes in the bag and tucked my cell phone and small bottled water into a fanny pack emblazoned with a rainbow decal of our company logo on my waist. My phone chimed as I zipped it closed.
“Voicemail,” Quinton called, lifting the box of water bottles. “The van is out front.”
My phone and another one behind us went off at the same time.
We turned to find Margot. She had a pastel blouse on under her pants suit today. She’d removed the puffiness to her hair and had it slicked back into an attractive chignon. I’d have complimented her if she’d been anyone else.
Her lips curved upward. “Ms. Bisset. I’ve got ten minutes available to discuss my retirement party.”
“She can’t. We’re off to set up the 5K race,” Quinton told her. “Another time. Jasmine, meet you downstairs.” He added his box to a cart and wheeled it toward the elevator.
“I have no other time, I’m afraid,” Margot said in a light tone. “A few minutes and Jasmine can run off to play in the park.”
Priscilla shook her head behind me and picked up the second box of water bottles. And from her vibe, I got the impression I should abort going with Margot at all costs. However, I didn’t rattle easily. I’d dealt with plenty of ornery people at school. Margot wouldn’t shake me.
I squared my shoulders and attached my notepad to the clipboard. “Lead the way.”
I followed Margot down a row of cubicles to her office. Wow, impressive.
Graham’s was impressive, but Margot’s office was just as remarkable. Although sparsely decorated, it had a small conference table, two epic flat-screens, a sleek white desk, and a couple of drafting tables. Surprisingly, she had a Death Star on a shelf. A Star War’s limited edition Death Star?!
My brows furrowed. “Is this Ford’s office?”
“Yes. We changed offices two days ago. Isn’t it part of your job to keep track of office changes? Oh, here Ford is now,” she announced with a ti
ght smile.
Ford walked in, and like a magnet, I became rooted to the spot.
My temperature went up, and my tongue twisted in, rendering me stupid at just the sight of him—Ford’s superpower over me. I was butterflies and starry eyes for the gorgeous, glaring man in another dark gray suit made for him, gazing hard enough to make me feel naked. And he wasn’t alone. A group of his co-workers filed in behind him.
“They sure know how to raise morale.”
“Nice work if you can get it. Can I get it?”
My distraction wavered, and I gazed past Ford, glowering at whoever thought they were funny. But the only one laughing now was Margot. She chortled at what she believed embarrassed me. What happened to her that made her so awful?
“Enough,” Ford erupted, his tone sharp as a blade. “Ms. Bisset is here to remind you all of morale and hospitalities’ 5K run in the park. It’s for computer equipment for the elementary schools, which I expect you all to chip in for, or we’ll discuss harassment with human resources and see if you’ll keep your jobs.”
Ford’s speech left the room silent, but he wasn’t done. He turned to me, eyes blazing. “Is there anything else, Ms. Bisset?”
I jutted my chin. “Margot asked me to stop in for ideas for her retirement party.”
“I’d like a swan ice sculpture,” she mused.
I removed my phone and jotted it down with my e-pen. “Anything else?”
“A cake,” she said, and someone snickered.
I squinted at her. “You needed a meeting and interrupted our set up for the children’s charity race to ask for a swan and cake?” I asked, my tone incredulous.
Margot actually blushed. Good.
I walked out of the office. I’d reached the elevator when Ford caught up to me.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His tone said he wasn’t.
“Of course I am.” I pressed the down button.
“Margot just tried to humiliate you,” he said and cursed.
I shrugged. “I believe her target was you. I’m not easily embarrassed.”
His smile came out, and my heart beat faster. “You don’t easily embarrass. But it would help if you changed your clothes. That outfit is showing too much of your body.”
I had thought the same, but the feminist in me couldn’t help but challenge his opinion.
“We’re all wearing tanks and shorts. Why is it that curvy women are ‘obscene’ when we show a little skin?”
“When that skin she’s showing off belongs to me,” Ford said.
“You’re delusional. I’m not yours.” I cringed at my harsh tone, but at the same time, Ford’s teasing flirtation had crossed the line again. He wasn’t available.
“You’d like being mine, Jasmine. I can be very creative for brattiness. Your nipples won’t be the only part of your sexy body that’s sore when I’m done.”
“Don’t you ever stop?” I covered the goofy grin with my hand and pressed the button for the elevator again.
“You don’t want me to. What time is the race?”
“In two hours. Can I count on you showing up?”
“No, but a few of my co-workers are now considering it,” he said in a crisp tone.
I hadn’t intended to turn up to a meeting dressed like this, but Ford had no right to be jealous. However, I did know from the way co-workers gossiped at the company that I’d never date anyone at work.
“You can tell them it’s never happening,” I said. The relieved look on Ford’s face annoyed me. So I added, “I’ve met someone.”
He stiffened. “Where?”
“Online.” I stepped inside the elevator, and he followed me in.
“Have you met him?” he asked.
“Not yet. We’re taking things slow.”
He sneered. “You’re wasting your time.”
“You don’t know Rupert, and you’re already writing him off.”
“Rupert? Sounds uptight, but you like uptight guys.”
“He’s not uptight. He reads poetry and recites sonnets.”
“Sonnets? Bullshit. He’s using fake beta male antics to get into your pants. But I’ll tell you now, Rupert can’t fuck. He’s the first dud of your selfish summer.”
I crossed my arms. “You don’t know him, and even so, what I do is not your concern.”
“You are my concern, Jasmine.” His voice sounded hoarse and unlike him and had me turning my head for a look. His handsome face was as exquisite as ever, but there was a hollow look in his eyes. Even if he was behaving like a know-it-all and trying to sabotage my interest in Rupert, he had me alarmed as he always seemed so put together.
“Ford, are you okay?” I asked, softening my tone.
“I’m tired of my life,” he said, and his voice sounded forlorn. He tilted his head down and blew out his breath. “Never mind me.”
I worried my bottom lip. He seemed so upset that I didn’t want to leave him.
The elevator opened in the lobby, and he stepped out behind me.
“Jasmine, Quinton said move it,” Priscilla called out from the door. Her gaze shifted between Ford and me. Her lips turned downward.
I looked back at Ford, who had an expression I couldn’t decipher. I wanted to stay and talk to him.
“I have to go, but can we talk later? I’m good at listening too.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “I came with you to make sure you’re okay, not the other way around. I’m proud you don’t let the assholes bring you down.”
He winked at me, and my insides went warm and fuzzy as he disappeared back inside the elevator.
We carried bags and a small folding table near the USS Maine National Monument at the Merchants’ Gate entrance of Central Park at Columbus Circle. From there, we planned to join Park Drive to take Central Park’s full loop, a six-mile path around the park. While the route made our race longer than 5K, the tree-lined drive was mostly flat with the least number of sightseeing tourists, joggers, and cyclists. It was also wide enough that we could keep everyone together.
Quinton put me in charge of fixing numbers to the back and crossing people off the list. I’d counted forty-two before handing my job over to Priscilla, who was organizing the volunteers so Quinton and I could run in the race. I ran pretty regularly with Tam in the mornings, but a new run always had challenges. The hot sun above was one of them. I drank a couple of cups of water at the table, then stretched my legs and arms before joining the staff group photos for the quarterly magazine. Afterward, Quinton used his megaphone to speak to everyone gathered for the run at the start.
“Thank you all for coming to our first annual 5K run for elementary kids,” he said. “Children are our future, and on this beautiful day, we are grateful for your participation. So far, we’ve raised thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
Quinton paused for our cheers and claps before continuing.
“The weather is good but may get hotter. Please take care of yourself. We have volunteers along the way to give you water, but if you are ill, please seek assistance immediately. Let’s have a great run.”
His last few words lost steam, but the runners still jumped up and down. I walked over to him.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He beamed. “Oh, I am. I just became distracted. Do you remember that scene from Grease where Sandra Dee shows up at graduation with a tramp-over? Give your eyes a feast.”
My mouth dropped open. OMG!
Not only had Ford shown up, but he also came wearing only running shorts and sneakers.
He had me hot and bothered before the run gawking at him, and I wasn’t the only one. Many admiring eyes were glued to his mouthwatering muscular form. Drool.
I grabbed a tank from the bag and marched over to him. “You need to put on a shirt so we can fix your number to the back. I thought you had a meeting?” I snipped.
Ford stretched the back of his toned legs, seemingly unaware of the stir he caused by showing up practically naked. “I deci
ded to skip it.”
“The rules state you must have your number on,” I pointed out.
He cocked a brow. “A stickler for rules now? You’re ogling. I guess curvy women aren’t the only ones who get sexualized for showing skin.”
“Touché. Now cover up.” I thrust out the shirt for him to take.
“I’ll put one on so you can concentrate on running and not salivating.”
He put on the shirt, and I heard a disappointed groan from the crowd behind us. Too bad.
“On your mark,” Quinton yelled.
“Catch my dust, Lingren,” I called over my shoulder, jogging ahead.
He chuckled. “Oh, it’s like that, Ms. Bisset? Game on.”
Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” blared at the same time a horn noise went off, and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I ran down the paved path with all my might.
We quickly morphed into a uniform line, letting Quinton take the lead spot to help navigate us through the slower walkers and tourists crowding the paved drive as bikers sped along on the right.
“Is that Daniel Craig running ahead?” someone shouted behind us.
Even if it wasn’t him, tourists heard the celebrity spotting and came out of nowhere, rushing into the path. Ford caught my arm just as a woman in an Iowa State jersey pushed through the crowd to catch a glimpse of 007.
“Wow. He’s just jogging. What does she think will happen when she catches up to him?”
“A photo to take home,” Ford answered. “He’ll cut his run short today.”
And sure enough, the man detoured across a traffic junction.
Quinton started singing Katy Perry’s “Firework,” and I joined in to liven up the run, which turned out to be mostly trees and grass with some skyscrapers in the distance. However, when we passed a cast-iron bridge, Ford did tap my shoulder so I wouldn’t miss seeing it.
According to my Fitbit, we’d already run two miles. A thin layer of sweat covered my body, and my heart pounded as I continued to follow the curves of the road. The canopy of trees provided enough shade to keep me out of the direct sun. However, we reached a section on the path that was less protected. The satin shorts seemed to work as a heat conductor and stuck to my skin, distracting my pace.
Mister Know It All: A Hero Club Novel Page 10
