The Perfect Fit (Riley O'Brien & Co. #2.5) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE RILEY O’BRIEN & CO. ROMANCES

  “If you like tension filled and chemistry charged romance, this is the series for you. I want more of Riley O’Brien & Co. right now!” —Book Briefs

  “This series and author are a true gem in the Contemporary Romance genre!” —The Book Reading Gals

  THE PERFECT FIT/published by Jenna Sutton

  Copyright © 2016 by Jenna Sutton

  ISBN: 9780997-40320-6

  Publishing history: Jenna Sutton eBook edition/April 2016

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover photos: San Francisco Bay panorama © kropic1/Shutterstock; Couple image © Konradbak/Depositphoto; Denim seam © vadimmmus/Shutterstock

  Cover design by Asha Hossain Design.

  Copyediting by Amy Knupp of Blue Otter Editing.

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Perfect Fit

  a Riley O'Brien & Co. novella

  Jenna Sutton

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  Don’t Miss these Riley O’Brien & Co. Novels!

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Foolhardy. Silly. Unwise. Asinine. Imprudent. As Margo Lange gazed up at the tri-level Victorian, nerves knotted her stomach and made her palms sweat.

  She was starting to think that moving to San Francisco had been a stupid decision. Even though living in the Bay Area had been a lifelong dream, maybe she should have stayed in Ithaca.

  She was familiar with the college town in central New York, having attended Cornell University for veterinary school. The cost of living was much cheaper there, and cheap was good. She had hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans piled on her shoulders and no safety net. The cross-country move had drained her checking account, and her family and friends were equally cash-strapped.

  Although Margo had researched San Francisco before making the decision to relocate, she’d underestimated the cost of housing. She had spent the past six days touring apartments, and it hadn’t taken her long to realize that the only places she could afford were dumps.

  She wasn’t spoiled. She wasn’t used to luxury. She could handle dinky, dingy, and dirty.

  But she couldn’t handle dangerous.

  The apartments in her budget had been located in parts of the city that made her heart pound with fear. And after what had happened in Ithaca, she craved safety more than she craved Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when she was on her period.

  With the moving truck scheduled to arrive any day now, she was desperate to find a place. And this tidy-looking Victorian could be the answer to her fervent prayers.

  Roby tugged at his leash, just enough movement to grab Margo’s attention. She glanced down at the four-year-old Doberman Pinscher she had rescued from a kill shelter in Ithaca.

  “Do you like it?” Margo asked.

  Roby looked around, as if he were giving careful consideration to her question. His cropped ears pointed toward the overcast sky, and she rubbed the top of one between her thumb and forefinger.

  The house was situated on a quiet street in Pacific Heights, one of the most exclusive and safest neighborhoods in the city. On this Saturday afternoon in early March, a lot of people were out and about. She’d seen several women power walking with baby-filled strollers, a few runners in brightly colored athletic gear, and a couple of families riding bikes.

  Her potential home wasn’t one of San Francisco’s famous “painted ladies”—houses that incorporated three or more colors to emphasize architectural details. This particular Victorian was painted a color somewhere between lavender and violet with bright white trim around the windows and eaves.

  From the outside, it seemed like the perfect fit for her and Roby. It even had a backyard. But the trade-off for an affordable apartment in a safe neighborhood with space for a big dog was a roommate.

  Roby nudged her thigh with his snout, a not-so-subtle encouragement for her to move. She loosened his leash, and he leapt to his feet. As they made their way up the shallow steps, she took note of the huge glazed planters flanking the front door. Pansies overflowed the pots in a spill of yellow, white, and purple.

  Spotting the directory next to the door, she pushed the black button for apartment 1B. She waited for a voice to come through the speaker, but instead heard the unmistakable buzz and click that indicated the door had been unlocked.

  She stepped inside. The wide-plank oak floors gleamed under the sunlight that filtered from the stained-glass transom. The smell of lemon lingered on the air, tart and fresh. She hoped the apartment was as nice as the entryway.

  Following a well-lit corridor beside the wide staircase, she found the right apartment. She took a moment to wipe her perspiring hands on her jeans and tuck the escaped strands of strawberry-blond hair back into her ponytail.

  After taking a deep, steadying breath, she knocked. The door was solid wood under her knuckles, and her knock barely made a sound. She knocked harder, and the door swung open abruptly, her fist still in the air.

  A broad chest covered in a maroon thermal T-shirt filled her vision, and she looked up, way up. Words stuck in her throat.

  This was the man her uncle Dave had served with in Iraq?

  The man arched a dark eyebrow. “So you’re Reno’s niece, Margo?”

  Remembering that her uncle’s Army buddies referred to him as Reno instead of Dave, she nodded mutely. She still hadn’t found her voice. She, who was never shy, never speechless.

  This was Major May?

  “Ezekiel May,” he said, extending his right hand.

  She automatically did the same, forgetting for a moment that she held Roby’s leash. She awkwardly transferred it to her other hand, and his hand engulfed hers, huge and strong and warm.

  “Most people call me Zeke,” he added, his voice deep and kind of growly.

  She didn’t reply. She just stared. She couldn’t help it.

  He wasn’t what she had expected. Not even close.

  When Margo had realized she would need someone to help share the housing burden, she’d asked her family and friends if they knew anyone in the Bay Area looking for a roommate. To her surprise, Uncle Dave had responded almost immediately, passing along the phone number of one of the former soldiers he knew.

  According to Uncle Dave, Major May had recently moved to San Francisco. He had assured her that his buddy was a “decent, honorable man” who would be a trustworthy and trouble-free roommate.

  Uncle Dave was in his late fifties, and she had expected Major May to be around the same age. But he wasn’t. He was at least twenty years younger. And he was, quite possibly, the most handsome man she’d ever met.

  Thick, short hair the color of milk chocolate. Eyes just a shade lighter, with tiny lines radiating from them, either from laughing or squinting into the sun. A straight, bold nose. A strong jaw and full lips surrounded by a sexy dark scruff sprinkled with gray.

  He wasn’t just handsome. He was gorgeous.

  “You’re not what I expected,” she blurted out,
unintentionally.

  “No? What did you expect?”

  She floundered for an answer before finally replying, “You’re a lot younger than I thought you’d be.”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up in a cynical smile. “I don’t feel all that young.”

  Curious, she asked, “How old are you?”

  He didn’t blink at her rudeness. “Thirty-six.”

  Eleven years older than she was. Not a huge age difference, but not a small one, either.

  Zeke abruptly dropped her hand, as if he’d just realized he was still holding it, and she tucked it in the pocket of her jacket. Her fingers tingled, and she clenched them into a fist.

  He looked down to where her dog sat, his silky head resting against her thigh. “This must be Roby.”

  “Yes, it is,” she confirmed. “Can you say hello, Roby?”

  Roby perked up and obediently held out his front paw. Zeke bent down with his palm open.

  “Hi there, Roby,” he said, gently grasping the dog’s rust-colored paw. “It’s nice to meet you.” He looked up at her. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Margo. Want to see the apartment?”

  She hesitated for a moment. She hadn’t lived with anyone since her days in the dorm at Michigan State, before she’d moved to Ithaca to attend vet school.

  She didn’t want a roommate. She really didn’t want to live with a complete stranger, even one who had her uncle’s stamp of approval. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to live with a man, especially one like Zeke May.

  But she was sure of one thing: she needed a place to live.

  “Yes, I’d love to see it,” she said.

  With a nod, Major May … Zeke … used his big body to open the door wider and beckoned her inside with a wave of his hand. He had texted her a few pictures of the apartment prior to their appointment, so she had an idea of what to expect. But the space looked even better in person.

  The hardwood floors from the entryway continued into the apartment, a rich shade the color of whiskey. She wondered if they were original; they were in good shape, with only a few blemishes here and there.

  Long windows allowed plenty of natural light into the spacious living area, which was painted a neutral color. A burgundy leather sofa and recliner surrounded a square coffee table made of crates. Matching end tables flanked the sofa, and lamps sat on top, their bases reminding her of circular metal sculptures.

  The furniture, while a little worn, was still nicer than anything she’d ever owned. And everything was neat and clean, which she attributed to his stint in the military.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with a dog living here?” She smiled ruefully. “Roby is housebroken, but I’ve always let him up on the sofa to snuggle.”

  Zeke leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. She could see the muscles in his arms bunch and shift under his shirt, and she had a sudden urge to touch them. She, who never noticed the size or shape of a man’s muscles.

  “It’s not a problem as long as Roby doesn’t want to snuggle with me,” Zeke assured her.

  Wisely, Margo kept her mouth shut. Once the dog got used to Zeke, he’d definitely want to snuggle with him.

  You might want to snuggle with him, too, a voice inside her whispered. The thought made her face hot, and she glanced toward the dining area, hoping Zeke wouldn’t notice her red cheeks.

  She focused her attention on the bar-height dining table and stools. Despite their modern design, gray concrete tops, and stainless steel bases, they didn’t look out of place.

  Moving into the kitchen, she evaluated the stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and butcher-block island. Although she didn’t cook very often, she enjoyed having the space when she needed it.

  Zeke’s voice floated from the dining area. “Reno told me that you got Roby after someone broke into your apartment in Ithaca.”

  Turning toward him, she replied with a simple “Yes.” She wondered if Uncle Dave had mentioned that the home invasion had occurred while she’d been there, sound asleep. Afterward, she hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks.

  Zeke eyed the ninety-pound canine. “I doubt anyone would try to break in with Roby here.”

  She nodded. “Dobermans are bred to be protectors. If their bark doesn’t scare away burglars, their bite will.”

  “You can take him off the leash, if you want, and let him nose around.”

  She unclipped Roby’s leash from his collar, and he loped off, most likely heading for the kitchen in hopes of finding a few crumbs. She doubted he would discover any, given how clean the floors were.

  She walked farther into the living room, her heeled boots sinking into a rug with an intricate design in hues of wine and dark blue. It looked expensive, even to her untrained eye.

  “This is a beautiful rug,” she said.

  He was silent for a beat, an unreadable expression chasing across his face before it disappeared. “I brought it back with me from Afghanistan a few years ago.”

  “I thought you served in Iraq.”

  “I did.”

  “Afghanistan, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Before she could ask any more questions about his time in the Army, he pushed away from the wall and walked across the living area. She had to force herself not to stare at his butt, perfectly outlined by the worn denim of his jeans. Then she noticed he was limping a little, favoring his left leg, and she wondered if he had sprained an ankle or something.

  “Follow me,” he ordered. “I’ll show you the sleeping quarters.”

  She laughed under her breath. Sleeping quarters? You can take the man out of the military, but you can’t take the military out of the man.

  As she followed him into the hallway, she asked, “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost seven months.”

  He passed a closed door. “That’s my room.” He continued on and stopped at the next doorway. Flipping on the light, he said, “This would be your bathroom. I have my own, attached to my room, so we don’t have to share.”

  That was a relief, but she wished her bathroom was attached to her room, as well. She didn’t want to run into him in the hallway while wearing only a towel. She was going to have to buy a robe.

  Stepping to the side, Zeke allowed her to enter the bathroom. With its granite countertops, silver mosaic tile backsplash, and charcoal-colored slate floor, it reminded her of a spa. But it didn’t have a bathtub, only a glassed-in shower.

  “No bathtub?”

  “No.”

  “That’s disappointing. I love to take baths when I’ve had a long day.”

  She loved to soak in warm, scented water while reading an engrossing romance novel and drinking a glass of wine. It was a perfect way to wash away a difficult day.

  After a brief hesitation, Zeke said, “There’s one in my bathroom. You can use it whenever you want.” He disappeared from the doorway. “Turn off the light behind you.”

  He obviously was used to issuing orders and having people obey them without question.

  She did as he instructed and then followed him to another open door. He stopped beside it.

  “This would be your room.”

  She entered the room, flipped on the lighted ceiling fan, and turned in a full circle to take in the space. It was large—larger than any bedroom she’d ever had. Since it was at the back of the house, the room had windows on two sides. Wooden blinds covered the panes, slanted just enough to let in a bit of light.

  She crossed the shiny hardwood floors to the door in the corner. Opening it, she discovered a walk-in closet and gasped in delight.

  “A walk-in closet,” she murmured reverently.

  Hearing a muffled chuckle from Zeke, she turned toward him. He had stepped into the bedroom, and they stared at each other, a few feet separating them. Although his eyes never wavered from hers, she got the feeling that he was assessing her, from her wispy ponytail to her thrift-store boots, and everything in between.

  “H
ow old are you, Margo?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five,” he echoed softly.

  She wondered what he was thinking. Was he worried that she was too young or too immature to be a responsible roommate? Was he worried that she would stay up all night partying or bring home strange men for wall-banging sex?

  She almost laughed at the idea. Over the past four years, the only reason she’d stayed up all night was to study for a test, and she hadn’t brought any men home, for any reason. And she’d never had wall-banging sex, either.

  “Would you like to see the backyard?” he asked.

  She nodded enthusiastically, and a minute later, they stood in the backyard. Roby immediately darted toward the back of the small lot to hike a leg on the Japanese maple.

  A breeze shook the branches of the tree, and Margo shivered. It was a bit chilly, but if she had been in Ithaca, she’d still be wearing winter gear.

  Standing beside Zeke, she was intensely aware of his height and breadth. Not for the first time, she pondered the idea of living with a former soldier. He would provide even more protection than Roby.

  But what could she offer him?

  “Why do you want a roommate?” she asked baldly.

  “I don’t want one, but I can’t afford this place on my own. It’s too expensive.” He sighed. “My first roommate didn’t work out, and I need some help with the rent.”

  “What happened with your first roommate?”

  “He was a pig.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at his obvious disgust. “As a vet, I feel compelled to tell you that pigs are actually very clean animals. In general, they prefer not to soil the areas where they sleep or eat. And they only roll in mud to cool off because they don’t have sweat glands.”

  “Okay, then, my previous roommate wasn’t a pig.” He paused for a moment before asking, “What’s the dirtiest animal you can think of?”

  She considered his question. Cows were pretty yucky; they constantly leaked methane gas, producing up to a half a gallon of farts per minute. But hippos were the worst.