The Perfect Fit (Riley O'Brien & Co. #2.5) (3 page)

“Did you grow up in Reno, too?” he asked before taking a bite of omelet.

Margo looked at him blankly. “Reno?”

“Yeah. Your uncle is from Reno. Is that where you grew up?”

She laughed. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Uncle Dave isn’t from Reno. If you pick nicknames based on hometowns, his should be Wyandotte.”

“Where’s Wyandotte?”

“Just south of Detroit. A lot of auto and steel workers live there.”

Zeke had never been to Detroit, so he wasn’t familiar with the surrounding suburbs. “Is that where you grew up?”

She nodded. “My mom was a third-generation auto worker. Uncle Dave didn’t want to work in the auto plants, so he joined the Army.”

“What about your dad?”

“He died when I was three. I don’t remember him. It was always just me and my mom.”

“Does your mom still live in Wyandotte?”

“No.” Her glow seemed to dim a little. “She died when I was a sophomore at Michigan State.”

Except for her uncle Reno, Margo had no family. She was all alone.

A fierce yet unexpected feeling of protectiveness surged through Zeke. Margo wasn’t alone anymore. She had him to watch out for her now.

“What about you?” she asked. “Where did you grow up?”

“Asheville, North Carolina.”

“I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”

“It’s pretty. It’s right in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains.” He didn’t want to talk about himself or his hometown; he was more interested in her. “How did you end up in San Francisco?”

“I’ve always wanted to live here.”

“Why?”

“I usually tell people that I just had a feeling that I belong here.” A tinge of peach stained her cheeks. “But that’s not the truth. It’s because of
The Wedding Planner.
”

“What wedding planner?” He frowned in confusion, glancing at her bare ring finger. “You’re engaged?”

She laughed lightly. “No. I don’t even have a boyfriend. I’m talking about the movie with Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey. It’s one of my favorites. I saw it for the first time when I was eleven, and from that moment on, I wanted to live here.”

“Yeah, I remember that movie. I was in college when it came out. I took Andrea to see it.”

“Who’s Andrea?”

He blinked, unaware that he’d uttered that last sentence out loud. When he didn’t answer her question, Margo repeated it.

Reluctantly, he said, “Andrea is my ex-wife.”

Margo froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, a hunk of omelet dangling from it. “You’re divorced?”

He nodded curtly.

“Oh.” After a beat of silence, she asked, “How long were you married?”

“Almost twelve years.”

He glanced down at his plate, his stomach turning over at the sight of the congealed cheese. The omelet had tasted pretty good until he’d opened his big mouth and mentioned Andrea.

He hated to talk about his ex-wife. She was just another one of his mistakes … another one of his failures.

“How long have you been divorced?” Margo prodded, setting her plate down on the counter.

Jesus, she’s nosy.

Choosing to ignore her question, he moved to the trash can and scraped the remainder of his omelet into it, his fork making an ugly screeching noise against the porcelain. He hoped his silence gave her a clue that he didn’t want to discuss Andrea.

“How did you end up in San Francisco?” Margo asked.

Zeke gave an internal sigh of relief that she had dropped the subject of his failed marriage. He was so relieved he happily answered her question.

“After I left the Army, Riley O’Brien & Co. offered me a job I couldn’t turn down.”

The company, which was headquartered in downtown San Francisco, was the oldest manufacturer of blue jeans in the United States. People around the world wore their signature blue jeans, known as Rileys.

Margo held out her hand for his empty plate. “What kind of job?”

“The company has a hiring program specifically for veterans,” he said as he relinquished his plate to her. “And I have a special skill set that it needs.”

She looked up at him, the smooth skin between her eyebrows furrowing. “A special skill set?”

He could tell by the tone of her voice what she was thinking. It was what everybody thought: the only skill a soldier possessed was the ability to kill. But that was a fallacy. Soldiers, even the lowest-ranking ones, had a lot of skills, and smart companies like Riley O’Brien & Co. realized that fact.

“I’m an expert in supply chain and logistics,” he explained.

Seeing the blank look on her face, he added, “Supply chain and logistics involves moving goods and materials from one place to another as quickly and efficiently as possible. It’s what I did in the Army.”

“Oh, like FedEx or UPS?”

He nodded. “They’re logistics providers that work in partnership with other companies. Most big corporations have entire departments dedicated to managing their supply chain. It’s a really big deal right now, especially for retailers that are trying to fine-tune their omnichannel strategy.”

He found his job fascinating and could talk about it for hours. But most people thought it was boring. They only cared about free shipping.

“I have no idea what omnichannel is,” she said wryly. “But I don’t feel bad because I doubt you know what pyuria is.”

“You’re right. I have no idea what pyuria is. What is it?”

“The presence of pus in the urine, usually caused by a bacterial infection. It’s often a sign of a urinary tract infection in humans and animals.”

Her answer was so unexpected a surprised chuckle escaped him. The same thing had happened yesterday when she’d told him that hippos were the dirtiest animals. She delivered bizarre information so matter-of-factly that he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, I guess I should tuck that piece of information away in case I’m selected to compete on
Jeopardy!
”

She smiled widely. “Is that one of your life goals?”

“What?”

“Is competing on
Jeopardy!
one of your life goals?” she clarified.

“No.”

At this point, he had only a few life goals. He wanted to sleep through the night without any nightmares. He wanted to run in marathons again. He wanted to end his three-year dry spell and fuck a soft, sexy woman until he came so hard he passed out.

But all those things required him to do one thing: deal with the toxic emotions he had from getting his leg blown off in an IED attack.

The clink of dishes caught his attention. Margo was loading their plates and utensils into the dishwasher, her movements fast and economical.

“As soon as I’m finished cleaning up, I’m going to get ready and head to the grocery store.” She glanced at him, the bottle of dishwashing liquid clasped in her hand. “Do you want to come with me?”

A trip to the local Safeway would give him an opportunity to get to know her better. And more important, it would give him the opportunity to pay for her groceries. If she protested, which she probably would, he’d just tell her to add the cost of her food to next month’s rent.

“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said.

There were fat cats. And then there were
fat
cats.

Margo rubbed the round belly of the feline stretched out on the exam room table. Adele, an eight-year-old tabby, tipped the scales at nineteen pounds.

Margo glanced at Adele’s adoring owner, who stood on the other side of the table. If she had to guess, she’d estimate that Greg McNeil was about her age.

Tall and lanky, he wore his light brown hair in a man bun—a look she did not endorse for any guy except Charlie Hunnam. Silver hoops pierced his left eyebrow and nostril, as well as his lower lip.

“Mr. McNeil, I think it’s time to change Adele’s diet. She weighs almost double what she should. That extra weight puts her at risk for diabetes, and it will eventually cause problems with her joints.”

“What do you suggest?”

“First, you need to reduce the amount of food you’re feeding her, and I recommend buying food that is specifically formulated for indoor cats, which are less active than outdoor cats.”

Shifting her attention to Adele’s head, Margo scratched gently behind one of the cat’s ears. She began to purr, arching her neck in pleasure.

Greg sighed gustily. “Adele spends most of her day in the studio with me, either sleeping or sunning herself on the windowsill.”

“That’s a hard life,” Margo deadpanned before asking, “Studio? Are you an artist?”

“A tattoo artist, although I prefer to be called a tattooist.”

That explained the colorful tattoos that wrapped around his arms and crawled up his neck. She didn’t mind a little body art, but Greg McNeil was a walking advertisement for his profession.

Returning to the subject of Adele’s sedentary lifestyle, she said, “You might want to buy a laser pointer. The red dot is irresistible to cats. It will definitely get her moving.”

He nodded agreeably. “That’s a good idea.”

“Other than her weight, Adele seems to be in perfect health.”

He beamed. “That’s my girl.”

“If we find any abnormalities with her blood work or urine, we’ll give you a call.” She gave the plump feline one final stroke. “Did you name her?”

He nodded. “After Adele. She’s my favorite singer.”

Margo barely managed to hold in her laughter. Based on his appearance, she would have bet that he listened to heavy metal or alternative rock. She would have lost that bet.

But then again, Greg McNeil already defied a big stereotype: he had a cat. Typically, most guys preferred canine companions.

Grabbing a note pad, she made a list of food brands that she thought would work for his pet. “Here are some suggestions for Adele.” She handed the paper to him. “Give me a call or shoot me an email if you have any questions or concerns.”

He folded the list in half and shoved it in his T-shirt pocket. “Thanks, Dr. Lange.” He picked up Adele’s carrier and set it on the exam table. “How long have you worked here? We saw a different vet last time.”

“Today is my one-month anniversary with Bay Area Animal Care.”

This morning, her co-workers had surprised her with balloons and a big box of cupcakes to celebrate the occasion. The sweet treats had been decorated with a variety of animal faces including a hippo.

She had saved that one for Zeke, hoping it would garner a chuckle or two. He didn’t laugh enough, and she found herself saying and doing things just so she could hear the deep rumble of his laughter.

Noticing that Greg was having a hard time maneuvering his pet into the carrier, Margo hurried to help him. As she held the carrier steady, he gently shoved Adele into it. The chubby cat let out a mournful meow that clearly conveyed her displeasure.

As Greg latched the carrier, he asked, “How do you like working here? I took Adele to another clinic closer to my place, but I didn’t like it.”

“I love working here,” she answered honestly.

So far, her new job was working out even better than she’d hoped. She had been worried about fitting in with the existing veterinarians and support staff, but everyone had welcomed her and gone out of their way to be helpful.

The two other veterinarians on staff, Jon and Tricia, had invited Margo to their favorite bar for cocktails last week. She’d had a good time, and afterward, Tricia had suggested that the three of them should have a “vets only” happy hour every Wednesday.

Jenny, the vet tech, had persuaded Margo to attend a Pure Romance party at her apartment in The Haight-Asbury neighborhood. She had never attended a sex toy party before, and she’d figured it was something she needed to experience at least once.

She hadn’t purchased anything at the party. What was the fun in buying flavored massage oil when you had to massage yourself? And she already had a vibrator that worked just fine on the rare occasions she used it.

She walked Greg and Adele to the reception area. They were her last appointment of the day, and after she said good-bye, she went to check on her overnight patients.

The clinic was designed in a big rectangle, and the space was divided into three distinct areas. The lab, surgery suites, break room, and stainless steel cages were located in the back, the reception and waiting area were situated in the front, and a row of five exam rooms were sandwiched between them.

After confirming that the overnight staff had clear instructions for the badly behaved beagle who’d eaten more than a pound of dark chocolate, Margo hung up her white doctor’s coat and pulled on the North Face fleece over her navy blue scrubs. She’d found the hot pink jacket at the Goodwill store on Fillmore Street, and she’d paid only ten dollars for it.

So what if it clashed with her hair? It would have cost at least a hundred bucks brand-new.

Now that she was bringing in a regular paycheck, her financial situation was more stable. But she would need several months to rebuild her savings account to a level where she felt comfortable enough to splurge on little luxuries.

Fortunately, Zeke had allowed her to pay a reduced rental rate for the first couple of months and make up the difference once she wasn’t so cash-strapped. She was grateful that he was so flexible. In fact, he’d been the one to suggest it.

Margo draped her messenger bag across her body, grabbed the box with Zeke’s hippo cupcake, and left the clinic. Her commute consisted of a short bus ride and a fifteen-minute walk.

Usually, she enjoyed the trek from Pacific Heights to the Marina District, but last week, it had rained every day. The monsoon-like weather was an anomaly for mid-April, according to Jenny, who was a San Francisco native. It rarely rained so heavily in the Bay Area, and the rainy season normally ended in March.

Zeke, once again displaying his chivalrous streak, had offered to drive Margo to work so she wouldn’t get soaked. But she had declined, not wanting to inconvenience him. The animal clinic was on the opposite side of the city from his office, which was located in downtown, near the Financial District.

Zeke May was exactly what her uncle Dave had promised—a decent, honorable man. She couldn’t imagine a better roommate, male or female. He was tidy, considerate, and surprisingly generous.