Mister Know It All by Amélie S. Duncan

Ford

I’ll fix things

Soraya sent daggers my way. She didn’t invite me to come back later for dinner or stop to give Graham a kiss before she left the room with Jasmine. Of course, Graham was calm about it.

“What the hell did you do to Jasmine?” he growled.

“What she asked me to do.”

Jasmine came on to me. She batted her expressive hazel eyes and ran her tongue suggestively over her lips while giving me the lamest excuse I ever heard. “I want to mark the moment.” Bullshit. She wanted me to kiss her. And I played along with her game because I liked it. I enjoyed her awkward shyness. Her sexy, innocent vibe was like kryptonite, making me hard as fuck. Damn, right, I went in for a taste. I tried for just a kiss, but she kept pushing her perky tits into my chest. They were begging to be squeezed, so I obliged. And Jasmine moaned and squirmed. Then her conscience must’ve kicked in. But damn, she was hot. I want to fuck her and see how she comes. That was all my brain could think about now.

A hit on my arm broke my train of thought, Graham’s nostrils flaring.

“Get it together, man. Whatever you did, Jasmine doesn’t like it now. Soraya is upset—”

“Which means trouble for you,” I interrupted.

“And for you. Jasmine’s our guest. You stay clear of her. Besides that, Cecile . . . may return. Don’t complicate things for yourself.”

I understood Graham was upset, but the topic of Cecile wasn’t up for discussion. But he had a right to call me out for disrupting his home. I’d need to make things right.

“I’ll fix things.”

“You will, and thanks for letting her stay with you last night. See you at work.”

On the ride back to work, I thought about Cecile. She came into my life like a whirlwind and left just as abruptly. The night at Bryant Park’s Fashion week where we met, she stood out among the hostesses at the show. She had a wide-eyed freshness to everything around her I enjoyed. She instantly became my muse, and her images moved my photography from unknown to known. Those photos opened doors for her too. The wrong doors and that was my fault.

The least I could do was give her time. She needed to rehabilitate and recover, but it had been three months. Three months and only one message: I’m not ready.

I believed I could wait. I’d never been tempted or even allowed myself to be drawn until Jasmine. I was falling into old habits and on course for a repeat. Something I didn’t think my heart could take again.

Catching up on minutes from the previous day’s meetings, attending today’s, and considering proposals kept me busy, and before I knew it, it was seven p.m. I’d worked straight through lunch even though Jennifer had left food out for me on the side of my desk.

I sighed. Another day absorbed, and no time for me. It’d been the way I liked it, but that brief time-out with Jasmine had been fun. Kissing and touching her firm breasts even more fun.

I packed up for home and was about to put my briefcase in the passenger seat when Jasmine’s silk scarf caught my eye. I tucked it inside the case and allowed myself to muse over how excited she had been in Times Square. Two blocks from my building, I saw my friend Martin on the sidewalk. I hit the horn to get his attention, and he waved and stopped at the entrance. After parking in the underground, I met him in the lobby.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.

Martin lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, nowhere near the West Village. He was also an art curator for Zmirak Gallery, where I had my most successful photography exhibit.

“Scouting for something new?” I asked as we stepped inside the elevator.

“I also came to see how you’re getting on,” he said in a British accent.

I groaned. “Oh, please spare me the accent.”

Martin spent two years in London and came back sounding like Patrick Stewart.

He laughed. “It’s a part of me now. Make peace with it.”

Once inside my place, he made himself at home. Martin was my age, but his hair turned white young like all men in his family. I’d never seen him in anything but black clothing. Today was no different, except for his smile as he went through a group of proofs I had next to my portfolios. He also smiled when delivering his worst criticism. I wasn’t in the state to ask or even hover to look at what caught his eye. Most of my photos were of ex-lovers. My passion ran over into my emotions, and every one of them had been extraordinary. Every one of them also broke me.

“I hope you have something interesting for me, Ford. If I see another still picture of an arm or someone standing on the sidewalk, I’m going to lose it.”

“I don’t have anything,” I told him.

He peered through the shots on my camera. “Oh, who is this? Now this face is interesting, and I’m captivated. She wears her emotions. I can feel everything when I look into her eyes. She’s enticing and flirtatious. This is what I want to see—real feeling. It’s so much more than just a naked body, though I love that too. She’s fresh, playful, arousing. Any more pictures?”

I rubbed the hair on my chin. “Not exactly.”

“Give me a taste of what could come,” he said.

I showed him the photo of Jasmine on my phone after we kissed.

“She looks darker here. The way she tears up, her lips part, she’s tempted like Eve in the Garden of Eden. I’d love to see her face when she’s naked.”

I shook my head. “She would never agree.”

“She will once she’s yours. The break with Cecile was bullshit anyway,” Martin said, staring at the image. “This image has an enticing contrast, innocent and sensual. Honestly, the camera is in love with her. I think I am too. There’s a story here I want to know. You should play it out.”

“Another tragedy,” I murmured.

“Art is life, and life is torture. We all live in agony. We endure. I can sell more of whatever this is. So, do more of it. Go to therapy like the rest of us after she breaks your heart.”

I put on a smile. Martin had his own pain after his messy divorce, and he saw mine after Cecile left. She sure enjoyed the commission from her photos, and I’d been the one blindsided by what she did with the money.

“Still not speaking to Andre?” he asked.

“Best to stay out of that.”

“He’s full of regret.”

“After he fucked me over,” I pointed out. That had Martin running for a change in subject.

He and I talked shop for a bit between eating brunch leftovers for dinner and phone calls we both had to take. Soon he was gone, leaving me to think about how to navigate what to do about Jasmine. First, I needed to resolve things with Graham and Soraya. I wanted to wait until she was alone to discuss things with her. But I had put it off for as long as I could. I took out my phone and sent a text.

Ford:I’m sorry if I upset you

She responded almost instantly.

Jasmine: You lied. You said you were on a break, and it turns out, you’re actually engaged.

Ford:I’m not. I asked. She turned me down.

Jasmine:Why?

I grimaced at the question. But I typed out what I knew was Cecile’s answer.

Ford: Because my proposal came when things were bad. I asked after she asked for a break.

Cecile thought I only asked her to marry her because of the accident. And the other things that happened. She wasn’t entirely wrong. All I knew at the time was that I didn’t want to lose her.

Jasmine: Are you in love with her?

Ford: I don’t know.

Jasmine: If you want to be friends with me, that’s fine with me.

Ford: I don’t want to be friends. I want to fuck you.

Jasmine: Keep your dirty talk to yourself. I’m not getting involved with a man in

love with another woman.

Ford:You said you were only looking to hook up.

Jasmine:I won’t knowingly help a man cheat. It’s unethical.

Ford: Our relationship is open. She’s been gone for three months. I don’t know how I feel or even if she’s coming back.

My hands tightened my grip on the phone. That was the truth. I may never see Cecile again. Something I hadn’t been willing to admit to myself up to now. Why? Because I felt something today. Jerking off was just fantasy, but my body came back to life when I kissed Jasmine. I didn’t think of Cecile. Hell, with Jasmine, I talked, joked, and laughed, and it felt good. Something I hadn’t felt even before Cecile left.

Ford:What about the curved pipe ex-boyfriend?

Jasmine:Randall? I don’t know how I feel about him. I just know when I saw him fucking Angelique on his desk, I couldn’t forgive him. Or become the other woman.

She was right. Even with an open relationship now, I was crossing a line. One that could end up hurting both of us.

Ford: I’ll leave you alone. Do me a favor and tell Soraya and Graham you don’t hate me now.

Jasmine:Fine, I will. I feel kind of out of sorts, away from Boston. Soraya is madly in love with Graham and has a beautiful baby boy. She cooks, and you wouldn’t believe the grilled fish she’s making for dinner.

I could because I’d tried it before.

Ford: I’m envious.

Jasmine: We’re off boot shopping now.

Ford: Send me a picture.

Jasmine: Of the new boots?

Ford: No. I want to see your face and your body. I’m particularly fond of your tits.

Jasmine:Keep dreaming.

I hesitated. Should I mention a photo shoot? Martin wanted more photos, but I wasn’t sure Jasmine—or myself, for that matter—would be ready for that. Still, I stared at the photo I took on my phone.

Beautiful.

Keep dreaming? We’re inevitable.

As will Martin’s prescribed therapy be afterward.

Shit.