What do I want now?
My phone vibrated across the desk.
Mom?
My stomach knotted. Just answer the call. I put Mom on speakerphone as I packed my bag for work.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing in New York City?”
“Visiting and working, Mom,” I answered, adding notebooks and pens to my backpack.
“No, you’re messing up when you’re right on the verge of your greatest achievement. Randall’s the head of your department. The most decorated academic in the whole school. A top scholar who could open all the doors for you. He told me that you left him in a bind all because he has fallen in love with someone else?”
Bile rose in my throat. He called my mom and told her he loves Angelique? “It doesn’t matter if he is . . . in love. He cheated. The relationship made it impossible to work with him again.”
“You haven’t even tried, Jasmine. Your dad and I accepted your relationship because you convinced us he was good for your career. We both thought you were too immature for an older man. Now, you throw a tantrum and throw your entire career away.”
“I’m still graduating, Mom. The only thing different is I’m not working for Randall,” I said hoarsely.
“You have a job. What are you going to do? We are already helping with the taxes on your house and with the farm. We can’t extend any finances right now.”
“I know. I’m working. I’ll take a roommate or Airbnb—”
“A stranger? What if they damage everything? Leaving a prestigious job, how will you explain this on your Ph.D. applications? That’s not how academia works. Randall holds your recommendations for scholarly advancement. In Boston, his say matters. He is in the inner academic circle. Once you’re out, you won’t get back in. One more year, that’s all you have left.”
Her perfect plan for her creation has gone off course. My heart was trampled, spat upon, and she didn’t even care.
“All the sacrifices your dad and I made to get you into an Ivy League school—”
“I competed for every award and scholarship, participated in every activity, studied every day for years,” I said through gritted teeth. “I worked like a dog for Randall.” When did my life become mine?
“We gave you the tools to succeed. We made you a strong woman who wouldn’t fall apart over a man. He’s moved on. Get over it, Jasmine, and return to work. Please, don’t make the same mistake I did. I left the inner circle to write, and now no one knows who I am.”
I pressed my lips together. Now she’s trying to make this all about her.
“I have to go to work. Goodbye, Mom,” I said, picking up the phone.
“Don’t hang up, please. You owe me that. Do what Randall needs and when you’ve reached a few years after your Ph.D. and become a junior professor, then you can be the one in charge—”
“I said I have to go. Goodbye, Mom.”
I threw the phone on the couch and buried my face in my hands.
A cough startled me. I quickly wiped under my eyes and smoothed back my hair as Graham stepped the rest of the way down the stairs to the apartment, dressed for work. From the soft expression on his face, he heard enough of my conversation with Mom.
“I’m ready to go. But if you’d prefer to stay here today—”
“No,” I said and plastered on a smile. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“She’s wrong,” he said in a gentle tone. “Soraya wouldn’t agree with her either.”
I sighed heavily and put the bag on my shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Are you excited about going to see Hamilton?” he asked.
I grinned, appreciating the change in the subject. “Yes. The tickets surprised me.”
“Ford’s idea. You told him you were interested in seeing a Broadway show.”
“Yes, I did,” I said. Only once. He seemed to remember everything I told him.
“He’s sent something else for you too.”
I raised my brows, and we walked up the stairs to the main house. An enormous bouquet of white roses sat on their front mahogany table. My hands touched one of the blooms. Soft. Like the way his fingers felt when he stroked my breasts.
I froze in place, forgetting Graham was standing there.
“Where did Ford go?” I asked, averting my eyes.
“LA. I get the flowers and chocolates, but what’s with the socks?” he said in a light tone.
He had a basket of chocolates and three Star Trek socks with writing printed on them:
“If Mr. Spock has pointy ears, what does Mr. Scott have? Engineers!”
I burst out laughing. Okay, Ford’s an art director and software engineer. Cute reference.
“Illogical reality is for life forms who dismiss Star Trek.”
Completely agree.
“Vulcan in the streets and a Klingon in the sheets!”
My mind filled up with images of Ford and me engaged in combative Klingon sex—the two of us tearing passionately into each other, and my body melted. Ford sure knew how to turn me on. If only he was serious and available.
I glanced up and saw Graham studying me. Shit.
I lowered my head and averted my eyes, placing the sock back in the basket. “Great socks. Oh, he left a note.”
“Is he bothering you?” Graham asked.
“No. He’s . . . friendly.”
“Ford doesn’t do friendly with a woman he’s interested in.”
“I know he’s still waiting for his ex to return.” I raised my brows.
He sighed. “Soraya and I hoped he’d move on, and in a way, he seems to be trying. I know that’s not fair to you, but I do know him. He’s a good man.”
We walked out and climbed into his Bentley.
“Do you think she’s coming back?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I only ask you to be careful.”
I turned my head toward the window and rested my cheek against the cold pane. Graham didn’t push me to talk again, and I was grateful.
Ford affected me in ways I never experienced before. It was maddening. I wasn’t the type to lust after someone or covet what someone else had. Cecile had Ford waiting for her. Why won’t she come back? Three months? She must have a reason. The truth be told, I didn’t want her to come back. Even worse, since his lurid text messages about wanting to fuck me, a single thought had been repeating in my mind, and I wasn’t proud of it.
One night wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’m leaving town anyway. Ford could return to her, and no one would ever get hurt.
But no. If Cecile still loved Ford, and if Ford still loved her, then the idea of even one night was wrong. I would be no better than Randall’s skank. I was better than that.
I shook my head and touched my warm face. I needed to stop this flirtation, and if I couldn’t be friends with him, I needed to stay away. Millions of men lived in New York City, and I had my new job and my paper to write. I would move forward, reclaiming my pride.
A notification chimed on my phone. I took it out, and Your Next Date came up with more answers to my new profile.
Rupert Simmons. His current occupation listed was CEO of a casino gaming company. He wrote that he loves poetry, picnics in the park, dancing in the rain, and romantic comedies. No photos.
Rupert seemed nice, sounded romantic, and liked animals. He also loved sonnets.
Rupert: I kiss your hand. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Ford crossed my mind, and my stomach flipped over. He would gag and tell me this Rupert guy is unworthy of me without even knowing him. But neither was Ford.
He’s not available. I need to move on.
I pressed the flashing yes that meant I agreed to take his heart notes.
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 t
aking 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.”
Mister Know It All: A Hero Club Novel Page 9