Mister Know It All by Amélie S. Duncan

JASMINE

No cake?

Graham placed me in Morale and Hospitality, a department created to keep their low-level workers from leaving for greener pastures. As a temporary intern, I worked on things no one else wanted to do, like taking surveys on policy changes and inviting staff to participate in get-to-know-you initiatives. The work wasn’t much, but Graham, like Soraya, wanted me to spend more time vacationing instead of working. I enjoyed the job, and my laptop was full of ideas for papers, such as the pitfalls of social policy media posts. However, Quinton, my supervisor, who was not much older than myself, had a project for me today. He scheduled us to meet with Graham about it (for brownie points).

After a few quiet moments outside his door, we walked in, took the two seats in front of Graham, who had two screens running and was on a call while intermittently drinking a green smoothie from a glass. The drink instantly reminded me of Ford, who hadn’t returned yet from LA. He’d taken the time to send me a message every day. Sometimes, just a photo of LA or some artwork ideas. In turn, I’d sent questions about places in NYC to explore. He insisted on a photo in which he’d return a comment.

Yesterday was: Your smile made this meeting better already.

I hadn’t told him about Your Next Date or Rupert, whom I chatted with several times already. His most recent message stuck in my mind.

Rupert: I hug you. We’ll meet soon. Sorry, I travel a lot for work, and my job doesn’t allow public profiles. But I can describe myself. I’m over six feet, black hair, and green eyes.

Jasmine: We can still meet up for coffee? I’m not far from where you told me your office is.

Rupert hadn’t written back yet.

Quinton stood, and I regained my focus as Graham gave him the nod to start his pitch.

“How about we set Jasmine up to update the identification photos for the website and building?”

“Sounds good,” I said with a nod. This task fit well into the company’s distraction ritual, time away from their desk in the middle of the day.

“I’ll sign off on the budget. Just make sure you have a cake or something to eat, it’ll make it more social instead of work,” Graham suggested.

Quinton nodded, and that meant it was settled. That was until I raised my hand.

“There are way too many sweets given out all day. Instead of a cake, how about a raffle and gift card to win something like a dinner for two at a Zagat’s recommended restaurant?”

“That sounds more expensive than cake.” Quinton frowned.

“What about a gift voucher at Millie’s Bistro? I’ve seen people with to-go cups around the office?” I suggested.

“Okay. The employees love cake, but we’ll try it your way,” Graham said. He handed Quinton the sign-off sheet and asked me to stay a minute.

“How’s your first week?” he asked.

“It’s been okay,” I said. “I’ve gone to lunch with the hospitality team. I had cake for Tony’s, Rick’s, Mags’s, Hannah’s, and Denise’s birthdays. I’ve been taken to Bryant Park for a few exhibits. I guess that doesn’t sound like work.” I scrunched up my face.

He laughed. “You’re not supposed to spend all your summer working.”

I was supposed to be having the summer of me, and I was enjoying it. They were all nice enough, but I felt a bit lonely. With Ford, things had gone effortlessly. I didn’t need to come up with things to say to him. I missed him.

Knocks sounded on the door to the tune of Shave and a Haircut from Graham’s new temporary assistant, Tiffany, since his last assistant had been promoted. “Mr. Morgan, you have an important meeting in the fifth-floor conference room,” she announced and bowed.

I bit my cheek from laughing.

“I’m aware,” he told her. “Please don’t bow.”

Her face crumbled, and she ran away from the doorjamb.

My mouth opened. “What on earth was that?”

“Tiffany seems to have listened to rumors I’m difficult.” He furrowed his brows. “Unfortunately, it looks like she will have to go. I’ll transfer her to someone else in the office.”

“Or you could accept the bowing, maybe like you’re the king of your office?”

“No, thanks, I should go. By the way, I won’t be taking part. I like my company profile images.”

“Say no more, I understand,” I said and left his office.

Quinton handed me his company card to use, and I went to Millie’s Bistro. Along with the latte, I bought a voucher for a twenty-dollar gift card. I also added a reminder to my phone to use the company gym. It was the only way to keep up with all the sugar celebrations in the office. I hadn’t even made it back to my cubicle before a paper plate was thrust in my hand with a Bavarian custard pastry.

“Quinton got his first project approved.”

“I was there,” I said and handed my sweet puff to the next person who came up.

I hadn’t taken it seriously, and now I realized Quinton needed a win. I dived into preparing the mass emails, printing, posting flyers, and attended a training on making ID cards in the IT department. I was determined to make this the hottest morale lift this coming week.

“Where’s the cake?” Beatrice from marketing growled at me. She’d been the third person to come into my Update Your Company Profile in conference room three. One hundred emails and only ten show up—all asking for sweets.

“Sorry. I have stickers and mints.” I held up the “I updated mine” smiley-face stickers I had made up and gestured toward the bowl of peppermints on the desk.

She gave me a resting bitch face. “That’s it?”

“You can also enter the raffle.” I tore off a ticket.

“Next time, don’t send out an email saying you’re offering snacks.” Her voice sounded like an extra in a demonic horror flick. She crumpled up her sticker and raffle ticket and tossed the mint in the wastebasket.

I pursed my lips. “Lunch was only two hours ago. We still have cake leftover from Roman’s birthday in the kitchen.”

“No, we don’t.” She turned on her heels and stormed out of the room.

“Hey, what about the updated photo?” I sighed heavily and crossed Beatrice Blackwater’s name from the employee list. She shouldn’t have left. Her hair looks like a tumbleweed on the website.

“No cake?”

My head turned to glare at the person coming through the door, and instead, my stomach fluttered. Ford Lingren strolled in. I couldn’t contain the excitement at seeing him. The man was stunning, and he looked impeccable in a tailored navy suit today. His profile didn’t need updating either, as his picture was flawless—the best one on the website (next to Graham’s, that is).

“Et tu, Brute?” I asked, fidgeting with the roll of raffle tickets in my hand.

He grinned and took the tickets and placed them on the table. Dazzling.

“Any work after three p.m. must include sugar.”

I hunched my shoulders. “I’m sugared out. I don’t know how you do it, and I can’t believe how few of you even bothered to show up at all.”

“The word has already spread. No food or even drinks. Cheap goods for labor.” Ford wrinkled his nose but popped a mint into his mouth.

I scoffed. “Labor? I’m asking them to stand for two seconds and choose a photo for their own benefit. Hell, I’m even offering a raffle for a gift card at Millie’s.”

He shrugged. “Honestly, who cares? No one looks at the photos on a company website. They care about the work, not like it’s Your Next Date or something.”

My face heated. Did Ford know I had a profile?

I glanced at him, and his brow rose, and he grimaced. Well, he does now.

“Have you met with someone?” he asked, his tone crisp.

I adjusted my glasses and lifted my chin. “We’re meeting up soon.”

Ford’s gaze turned hard. He stepped close enough for our clothes to brush against each other. And like some type of magnetic pull, I rooted to the spot, unable to move away. My body tensed in anticipation as his hand trailed down the side of my face.

“Look at me, Jasmine.”

I shivered and peered up at him, my pulse speeding up. “Yes?”

“Let me take you out.”

“We’ve already covered that. You’re taken.”

His square jaw flexed. “It’s more complicated than that.”

A throat cleared loudly, breaking the spell. I stepped out of reach and waved in greeting. “Please come on over this way.”

A pretty redhead in a suit approached. Her eyes fixed on Ford, who wouldn’t look at her.

“I’m Priscilla Yardley, Marketing.” She shook my hand.

She stood on the tape mark on the floor in front of the camera and smiled brightly.

After pressing the camera, I checked the computer screen for the image and turned the monitor toward her to review. “What do you think? I can take another.”

“What do you think, Mr. Lingren?” she purred at him.

Ford snorted and strolled out and didn’t even say goodbye to me.

I stared after him because I couldn’t stop myself.

“That’s odd,” I muttered.

“Not really. The ice king cometh, if you know what I mean,” she said and snickered.

“I don’t, actually. Care to explain?” I asked.

“Mr. Lingren doesn’t like me because we went on a date, and I know stuff about him.”

The glee in her eyes made me instantly dislike her. Still, nosy will nose. “What do you know?”

“He looks hot, but he’s a big-time nerd. I went to pick up stuff at his house, and he had geek shit in cases.”

I lowered my brows. I actually like that geek shit. “To each their own.” I also didn’t appreciate her gossiping about him.

“I saw naked photos of women, and we’re talking graphic naked photos,” she said in a muffled tone.

Ford liked to take photos. I didn’t see anything wrong with it, but I hadn’t seen any naked images when I was over. “You went through his personal stuff?”

“They were in an album out for anyone to see,” she said and lifted her chin.

“And gossip about?” I added.

“I’m not gossiping. He’s kind of a dick. We were out together, and he announced in the middle of dinner, ‘This isn’t going to work.’ Who does that? He ghosted me after that.”

“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.