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

  Yep, Justin was one-hundred-percent hipster. The only thing missing was a fedora.

  “I’m pretty sure you were humming ‘Can’t Feel My Face,’” Justin added.

  Zeke definitely could feel his face, and it was growing hot with embarrassment. This was all Margo’s fault.

  Justin smirked. “I didn’t know you liked The Weeknd.”

  “I don’t,” Zeke muttered.

  He’d never even heard of The Weeknd until Margo had moved in two months ago, and he wasn’t a fan. Zeke didn’t understand why she loved the singer so much. Even if you could endure the guy’s annoying falsetto, his hair looked like a pineapple sprouting from his head, and his name was just plain stupid.

  Zeke had grown up listening to Soundgarden, Guns N’ Roses, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Metallica. That was real music.

  He was convinced that no man over the age of thirty, except for him, listened to The Weeknd, Taylor Swift, Demi Lovato, or Bruno Mars. But Margo constantly had some pop tune playing on the sound system, and she sang along with it, usually at the top of her lungs.

  At least she wasn’t tone deaf. To be fair, her singing voice was nice … better than nice, actually. He liked it, even when she belted out “Shake It Off.”

  “You haven’t been your typical grumpy self lately,” Justin continued. “Did you finally get laid?”

  Zeke glared at him. When he’d been Major May, he hadn’t had to deal with smartass remarks from his subordinates. It was times like these when he really missed the Army.

  “I am your boss,” he pointed out. “Maybe you should show me some respect.”

  Justin, the little shit, just laughed. “I respect you, Z. That’s why I suffered through an hour of your humming before I said anything.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Seriously, you seem a lot happier lately. What’s the deal?”

  Zeke shook his head. “Nothing,” he denied.

  Yet deep inside, he admitted that Justin was right. He was happier.

  He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he was finally settling into his new life.

  Or maybe it was because of Margo. Except for her deplorable taste in music, she was damn near the perfect roommate.

  She wasn’t as neat as he was; then again, few people were. She left her shoes all over the apartment, like little obstacle courses for him to trip over. But so what? He just picked them—and himself—off the floor and tossed the footwear into her bedroom.

  He liked living with her. He liked her calm temperament. She wasn’t a drama queen, unlike Andrea, who had regularly thrown tantrums like a nap-deprived toddler.

  He liked Margo’s intelligence and her sense of humor—never mean-spirited or snarky. She laughed a lot, and he liked the sound of it, echoing throughout the apartment—a reminder that she was there, with him.

  He even liked the way she teased him, calling him “Crankenstein” in the morning when he growled at her. She wasn’t just a morning person; she was an all-day person. She seemed to have a perpetual smile on her face, and he looked forward to seeing it—and her—when she walked through the door after work.

  He spent more time with Margo than he did alone. After work, they hung out, talking or watching TV. And on the weekends, they shopped and ran errands together because he had a car, and she didn’t. They’d even gone sightseeing together, visiting Fisherman’s Wharf, touring the Cable Car Museum on Nob Hill, and walking through Golden Gate Park with Roby.

  Justin tapped out a beat on the partition’s glass pane. “Did you sign up for the company softball team?” he asked. “I don’t really want to. I’m not into sports.”

  Yeah, like that’s a news flash.

  Zeke didn’t want to sign up for Riley O’Brien & Co.’s team, either. He liked sports just fine, but his prosthetic leg prevented him from sliding into the bases. Of course, he wasn’t playing for the Giants; this was just a corporate softball league. He doubted there would be much sliding required.

  “Brent said it wasn’t mandatory,” Justin added.

  Brent Knowles had been in charge of the supply chain and logistics department for ten years. Prior to joining Riley O’Brien & Co., he’d worked at UPS for twenty-five years. He knew the industry inside and out.

  “He also said that he would prefer our participation,” Zeke reminded Justin. “So, yes, I’m going to sign up for the team.” He pointed his forefinger at him. “And so are you, hipster.”

  Justin sighed. “Damn. I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Suck it up. There are only eight games including the tournament.”

  “Plus weekly practice,” Justin said glumly, a whine threading through his voice.

  Before Zeke could reply, his cell phone rang. Justin dropped back into his chair, giving him some privacy. Glancing at the screen, Zeke saw his ex-wife’s name. He pushed the ignore button, having no desire to talk to Andrea.

  When he’d first moved to San Francisco, she had called every couple of weeks, just to check in. Now, she called him every day, sometimes more than once. And lately, she had been dropping hints that she wanted to reconcile.

  I think we made a mistake. I miss you. I want to try again. I love you.

  He didn’t know how to respond when she said those things. He didn’t agree. And more important, he didn’t feel the same way.

  They’d been together for sixteen years, a relationship that had begun their senior year of high school and ended almost three years ago. Their divorce had been finalized just a few months before he’d been injured in the IED attack.

  After spending several weeks in the ICU at Ramstein in Germany, he’d returned to the States to finish his recovery at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Maryland. His parents had been there when he’d arrived.

  Much to his surprise, Andrea had been there, too. She had insisted that he move back into the townhome they’d shared as husband and wife to recuperate.

  His ex-wife had taken care of him while he learned how to live with one healthy leg and a stump that ended just above his knee. She had taken a leave of absence from her job as a pharmaceutical sales rep and willingly ferried him to doctor appointments and physical therapy sessions. More important, she had encouraged him when he’d been discouraged and depressed.

  She’d stood by him when he couldn’t stand on his own, despite the fact that she had been the one who’d wanted the divorce. She had been unhappy for a long time, and he’d known it.

  He had assumed that his military career was the root of her unhappiness. Still, he hadn’t wanted to give it up.

  Eventually, Andrea had explained that the Army had nothing to do with it. She just wanted more: she wanted to love intensely and passionately and to be loved the same way.

  She had been determined to get a divorce. She had been so resolute that he hadn’t fought for her or their marriage.

  If they’d had children, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. But they had never been able to agree on timing. When she’d wanted to try, he hadn’t been ready. And when he’d been ready, she hadn’t wanted to try.

  They had rarely been on the same page, and when they had gone their separate ways, he’d been disappointed rather than devastated. In retrospect, he’d describe the whole experience as painless.

  Almost losing his life in Iraq had given Zeke even more clarity about Andrea. He had loved her, but not the way she wanted to be loved … not the intense, passionate love that she craved.

  She had supported his decision to take the job with Riley O’Brien & Co. and relocate to the West Coast. After he’d moved, she had dated a cardiologist whom she’d met at a medical conference. That relationship had lasted only a couple of months.

  Then she’d dated a landscape architect who had lived a few doors down. That hadn’t worked out, either, and after they’d stopped seeing each other, she had started calling Zeke more frequently.

  He felt obligated to take her calls. She had helped him through the worst time in his life, and he owed her. In fact, he could never rep
ay her for what she’d done for him.

  But talking to her always put him in a bad mood. Marrying Andrea had been a mistake, and he didn’t like to make mistakes. Nor did he like to fail.

  His phone chimed, signaling a text. It was from Andrea: “Thinking about you.”

  She had ended the message with a red heart emoji. He grimaced. Eventually, he was going to have to be straight with her: there was no chance of them getting back together.

  She had been right about their marriage. She deserved more, and he … well, he didn’t know what he deserved. But he knew that his future did not include a reconciliation with his ex-wife.

  They’d been so young—only twenty-two—when they had gotten married. He had never dated anyone else. She had been his first serious girlfriend and his first lover. They had been together for nearly five years, and marriage had been the next step on the path to adulthood. At the time, getting married had seemed like the right thing to do.

  But he was older now. Smarter, too. And he realized that he had married Andrea because everyone had expected them to tie the knot, not because he’d wanted to spend his life with her.

  That realization, that truth, made him feel like shit. It made him ashamed and angry, and every time he talked to her, all those ugly emotions boiled to the surface. And he found it difficult to keep a lid on them.

  He responded to Andrea’s text: “Busy day. Thanks for checking in.”

  After shoving his phone in his jeans pocket, he picked up the folders he needed for the meeting. As he headed to the assigned huddle room, his phone chimed with another text.

  Clenching his teeth in aggravation, he silently castigated himself for responding to Andrea’s text. He never should have engaged. Now she would text him all afternoon.

  As usual, he was the first person to show up for the meeting. Thanks to the Army, he was a little anal-retentive about being on time. He dropped the folders on the frosted glass conference table and pulled his phone out of his pocket, intending to put it in silent mode.

  He paused when he saw the text was from Margo: “How’s your day going?”

  And just like that, his bad mood disappeared, and he felt like smiling. He replied to her message: “Good. How’s your day go-going?”

  She responded with a happy face emoji and followed with several dog face emojis and a single cat face emoji. His smile turned into a grin. Apparently, she’d had more canine patients today than feline patients.

  “What do you want for dinner?” she asked. “Tacos? Spaghetti?”

  “Whatever you want.” He started to hit send but decided to add another sentence: “I’ll stop at the bakery on the way home and get a chocolate meringue pie. Let’s eat dessert first.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roby’s high-pitched whine startled Margo out of a deep slumber. She wasn’t a light sleeper; it took a lot to wake her. She had lived in some very noisy places, including a studio apartment above a dive bar, and she could snooze through almost anything.

  She struggled to orient herself, checking the alarm clock on her nightstand. It was almost two a.m., and she’d climbed into bed around ten thirty. Earlier in the evening, she and Zeke had devoured tiny slices of chocolate meringue pie before enjoying a dinner of soft chicken tacos, Spanish rice, and refried beans.

  Roby nudged her hand with his wet nose. Then he licked it with short, quick swipes.

  “Do you need to potty?” she asked, thinking he might have an upset belly.

  Before she could move, he nipped her fingers, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to shock her. He didn’t bite unless someone was in immediate danger, and he’d never bitten her.

  Alarmed, she switched on the lamp on her nightstand. “What’s wrong, Roby?”

  The Doberman ran to the bedroom door, scratched at it, and then came back to her. He sat beside her bed, whimpering, his black eyes begging her to get up.

  Something had to be terribly wrong for Roby to be so agitated. With her heart pounding in fear, she tossed back her down comforter and surged to her feet. She slept in a cami, cotton boy-short panties, and fuzzy socks, so she spared a moment to don her long terrycloth robe and knot the belt before grabbing her phone.

  Remembering the home invasion that had occurred in her apartment in Ithaca, she turned off the lamp. She didn’t want to alert an intruder to her location or let him know she was awake and aware.

  She made her way to the door as quietly as possible and pressed her ear against it. She couldn’t hear anything. No footsteps, no breaking glass, nothing.

  Clutching her phone, she dialed Zeke. It rang and rang and rang before going to voice mail. She cursed under her breath. He probably had put his phone on silent when he went to bed. And she’d left her messenger bag—the one that contained her pepper spray and Taser—in the living area.

  Idiot!

  She stood there, unsure of what to do next. The apartment was located in a very safe neighborhood, and break-ins—home invasions, especially—weren’t common. She didn’t want to call 9-1-1 and alert the police if there was no real danger.

  If there was an intruder, he would probably still be in the living area. As long as she was quiet, she should be able to get to Zeke’s room without attracting notice. Plus, Roby was with her, and he would attack if she gave the order. But her beloved dog wouldn’t be able to protect her against a gun.

  She shoved her phone in the pocket of her robe and grabbed the aluminum baseball bat she kept beside the door, specifically for this reason. Her hands were damp with nervous sweat, making the bat’s grip slippery.

  “Shhh,” she warned Roby.

  Grasping the doorknob, she opened the bedroom door as quietly as she could, wincing when it emitted a little creak. An LED night-light illuminated the hallway, placed there by Zeke so she would be able to see if she got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.

  Before she could take one step, Roby sprinted down the hallway. To her surprise, he skidded to a stop in front of Zeke’s door instead of continuing into the living area.

  That allayed her biggest fear—there was no intruder. But what was going on?

  Worried that something was wrong with Zeke, she left the bat behind and rushed down the corridor, her feet sliding on the hardwood floors. As she neared his room, she could hear his voice.

  She came to a stop beside her dog, wondering if Zeke was on the phone. But who would he be talking to at this odd hour? Andrea?

  A low moan drifted through the wooden door. Maybe he and his ex-wife were enjoying some stimulating phone sex. She scowled at the thought, grinding her teeth together. She was insanely jealous of a man who wasn’t hers and a woman she’d never met.

  Just as she started to return to her room, Zeke spoke again. She couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded agitated, almost panicked. She had never heard him sound that way before, and her stomach turned over.

  Roby started scratching on the door, his paws moving frantically. There was no way he would act like that if Zeke were just talking on the phone.

  The volume of Zeke’s voice increased—loud enough for her to hear what he was saying through the door. Leaning closer, she realized he was crying out “no” over and over.

  Zeke was having a nightmare—a bad one from the sound of it—but he wasn’t in any danger, and neither was she. The tension drained out of her body, and she slumped wearily, resting her forehead against the door.

  She wanted to comfort Zeke. She wanted to crawl into bed with him, wrap her body around his bigger one, and hold him until his nightmare ended.

  Instead, she patted the side of her thigh to get Roby’s attention. He stopped scratching at the door, his head cocked toward her.

  “Come on, boy, let’s go back to bed.”

  Roby ignored her. He rarely disobeyed her, yet Zeke had captured his canine heart. Grabbing his collar, she tried to pull him away. But he was too strong, and she couldn’t get him to budge.

  The Doberman obviously didn’t want to
leave Zeke while he was tormented by a horrible nightmare. And she didn’t want to leave him, either.

  She knocked softly on the door, hoping it would wake him. But it had no impact. She repeated the motion, louder this time. Unfortunately, that seemed to intensify his nightmare.

  Hesitantly, she reached for the doorknob. With her hand hovering above it, she debated whether she should open the door. Roby made the decision for her when he began to repeatedly ram his head into it, a determined doggy head butt.

  She opened the door just a crack, and Roby immediately squeezed through it. The mouth-watering scent that she had come to associate with Zeke wafted over her—a woodsy, tangy combination of sandalwood and citrus.

  She’d never been inside Zeke’s bedroom. He kept the door closed at all times, and she had respected his privacy—until now. A tendril of guilt squeezed her conscience, but she reminded herself that she wasn’t just being nosy.

  Poking her head into the room, she tried to ascertain the layout. No light permeated the space, and she couldn’t see a thing. She had no idea where his bed was situated.

  With no alternative, she turned on the flashlight app on her phone and pointed it into Zeke’s bedroom. Shining the light around, she discovered that his room was much larger than hers. He had enough space to accommodate a full suite of dark, sleek furniture including a dresser, matching chest of drawers, and tall armoire.

  She focused the light on the king-size headboard and moved it lower, slowly exposing Zeke to her gaze. He lay on his back, shirtless, with his left arm curved above his head. Dark hair shadowed his armpit and the wide expanse of his chest.

  Her conscience scolded her for being voyeuristic, but she gave it the finger. She had spent hours wondering what this man looked like naked, and right or wrong, she was going to take the opportunity to assuage her curiosity.

  Sweeping the light downward, she eyed the toned muscles of his stomach, the silky-looking trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his gray underwear, and the sizable bulge of his sex. He was de-luscious, to quote her man-eating co-worker, Jenny.

  As Margo continued her inspection, several things registered simultaneously: Roby had jumped on the bed and curled up near Zeke’s left hip; Zeke had pushed the tangled sheet and comforter toward the footboard; and his left leg ended a few inches below the edge of his boxer briefs in a rounded stump.