Mister Know It All by Amélie S. Duncan

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.”

He ignored my snark but rose without hesitation. “Or maybe you haven’t found the right natural combo to change your mind.”

I laughed. “Perhaps I haven’t, but seriously, you’re just going to stop everything to wait on me?”

I don’t think Randall bothered to ask if I wanted anything from the kitchen since the first time I cooked. And I still hung in there? I cringed. But I soothed myself with a reminder I worked for him as a teaching assistant too. Not that I was a fifties housewife serving him with slippers and scotch.

“You’re my guest,” he said and went to the kitchen.

We both settled into our work, though Ford seemed distracted. He grunted in displeasure when I placed the smoothie he insisted on next to the coaster. But he did offer a refill of my glass when it was half empty. He even went as far as to point out a pillow on the couch when I rubbed my neck. Observant. Attentive. Fussy. He wasn’t as bad as I initially thought, or maybe he wanted to make up for insulting me earlier.

After a while, he asked, “Are you hungry now?”

“Yes.” I sprang to my feet and stumbled into Ford.

He immediately reached out for me and grasped my waist, giving me more time to balance.

Had he liked the way his touch felt oddly comforting? I was more for a get-to-know attraction than a visceral reaction to a man. For some reason, Ford touching me felt primal. My body leaned in, wanting his hands to linger.

“Steady now?” he muttered.

No, keep touching me.“I’m fine now, thanks,” I said, rolling my shoulders back and tilting my head upward for added effect.

He smiled. “You make me crave my camera to capture your expressions.”

“Is that something you do often?” I asked.

“Yes. My hobby has turned into a side profession. I show at one of the local galleries now.”

“So, the photos you take of me could end up in a gallery?” I half joked.

“If the images are selected by an art curator, they could be. If you’re really interested, I’ll take a shoot.”

My face heated under his apt attention as his piercing blue eyes stared intently at my face.

I glanced away. “Do you do more than people, like landscapes?”

“Only women. My photos usually encompass the fragments of the worst kind of pain, love.”

Deep.I wanted to ask more, but he had already opened the door and turned away from me. I understood the pain of love. But what was a little odd was that Ford had already seen that. Did he know I’d been in pieces too?

How is this the same man I spoke to on the phone this morning?

How was this man someone I could imagine becoming a dear friend to me?