Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3) (2 page)

In some ways, she understood his fears. He thought she was a parasite. A lazy leech who lived off her hard-working relatives. A hopeless slacker.

Compared to him, maybe she was. He didn’t understand what it was like to be a normal person, a person who wasn’t an Olympian or a self-made millionaire. The men in her family were driven and successful. She wasn’t. She was just April. She’d made it through college but never made a splash. Her art, the one thing she was proud of, was good, but nobody had ever called her a genius. She wanted to find her footing, build a real career, but it was a lot harder than it looked.

She gestured to the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make us coffee.” She’d planned on talking to him about her humble career, which was at the heart of his dissatisfaction with her, under better circumstances, but maybe his sleep-deprived stupor would be to her advantage.

“Only because I need the caffeine.” He made a sudden move, taking the bag from her. “We’ll leave this right here.” He dumped it next to the door.

Well, at least it was inside. She strode into the kitchen, blessedly warmer than the foyer, found the beans and grinder, and got to work. April’s teeth still chattered, but hot coffee would fix that.

Stool followed her into the kitchen and sprawled under the table, where he licked invisible crumbs off the tile. Her mother’s three dogs, tiny little animals from a Chihuahua rescue, must not have left much behind, because he looked up at April sadly. She’d already fed him breakfast, but she found him a dog treat in the cupboard and dropped it between his paws. She still couldn’t believe Bob had run off without him.

What did it say about her that she found that harder to understand than leaving
her
?

“Hungry?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Liam said. “I think I had dinner. Was that yesterday?”

She looked at the screen of the microwave. One o’clock. Could it have been only four hours ago since the landlord had knocked on the door with his ultimatum? Thank God most of her stuff was stored here at the house.

Opening the fridge, she found cheese and turkey, some spinach, pesto, and butter, and within a few minutes had two sandwiches cooking on the grill pan and fresh coffee in the pot.

When she presented the meal to him, the sandwich sliced and steaming with melted cheese oozing onto the plate, he inhaled deeply and said, “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’ve been learning,” she said. She’d had to. Another strike against Bob: he’d been a worse cook than she was.

He made a face. “Hidden talents. What else can you do?”

She patted him on the back.

Frowning, he ate and said nothing. He’d given her an opening—why not strike now?

“Funny you should mention my talents,” she began.

He grunted and kept eating.

“I have them, you know.”

His left eyebrow arched. “Really?”

She felt her face warm. Being in her family was brutal on the ego. “Yes, and I’ve thought of something you can do to help me utilize them. For this career of mine you care so much about.”

The other eyebrow went up. “Me?”

She gritted her teeth. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”

He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “This is the only time you’re going to get. Spit it out.”

She’d expected him to be skeptical but not hostile. Fatherhood had made him grouchier than usual. She reached for her coffee, sucked down a mouthful, and sat down next to him with a big, forced, eager smile. “I want to work at Fite Fitness.”

He stood up so fast, the chair tipped over. “No. I just got rid of Bev’s sister. Months of pain and suffering—for everyone. No. I’m not going to do that to my company and everyone else ever again.”

Shocked by the force of his reaction, she gaped up at him in dismay. “Please. Just—”

“No. No more relatives.”

“I don’t want to design clothes. I want to work in the art room. Doing graphics.”

He was still frowning. “Art room?”

“Whatever you call it. Computer-aided graphics, sketching, surface design, whatever. I—”

“They have years of training, specialized training.”

“You don’t think I’m smart enough to—”

“Smart has nothing to do with it.” He carried his plate to the sink and started washing it.

“Talent, then. When’s the last time you saw my portfolio? I was an art major, you know, and I never stopped drawing. I go to an art studio every Wednesday night to share a live model, and I’d paint more if—”

“Commitment,” he said, pointing at her. “It takes commitment.”

She ran her fingers through her damp, curly hair, avoiding his gaze. “I can do commitment.”

He snorted.

“I
can
.”

“That department has trouble holding onto people. The last thing I’d want to do to Rita, the manager, is dump another freelancer in her lap who’s going to disappear a month later, after she’s done all the work with the training. She’s had that happen three times this year already.”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with her,” April said.

“Who?”

“This Rita person. Maybe people can’t stand to work for her.”

He threw down the sponge and jabbed a finger at her. “You see? You’re already blaming management.”

She wished she hadn’t said anything. “Sorry. I’m sure she’s great. You wouldn’t know this, but I get along great with my bosses, everywhere I’ve worked.”

“Easy to do if you never stay in one place for more than a week.”

“I’m a temp! It’s not like I quit. That’s how it’s set up.”

“You could take longer assignments,” he said. “You must choose not to.”

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Only with temping. Spreadsheets are boring enough without having to do the same ones week after week. By moving between companies, I kept it interesting.” That was a massive exaggeration. Interesting enough not to blow her brains out in the stock room from boredom during her thirty-minute unpaid lunch breaks. “That wouldn’t be a problem at Fite, so I’d stay longer.”

“Longer than a week? Wow.”

Her plans were unraveling, and she hadn’t even unloaded her car yet. “You’re sleep deprived. Let’s talk about this later.”

He shook his head. “No, but I do have to get back.” He looked around the kitchen, brow furrowing. “I came over here for something. What was it?”

“You can bring some lunch over for Bev and Mom.”

“That wasn’t it.”

April had made a few extra sandwiches. Now she shoved them, in their ecologically responsible container, into Liam’s hands. “They’re probably as hungry as you were. Make sure they eat.”

He took the container, still frowning. “It was something… something we wanted for the baby. But what would Mom have over here that would put Merry to sleep?”

“Music?” April asked, glad for a topic change. “I helped her copy all her CDs onto her phone. Bach could be soothing—”

“No, no. We’ve tried that. Oh, right. I remember now. A second rocking chair.” He strode out of the kitchen, bumping into the doorframe on his way out and almost dropping the sandwiches. “I hate this. I keep forgetting things. I probably won’t even remember seeing you here today. It’s unbelievable. I’m losing my mind.”

She followed him through the house and watched him put the sandwiches on the seat of the old-fashioned rocker in the living room, pick it all up, then maneuver the load through the front door, exclaiming as rain hit him in the face.

With her hand on the doorknob, she watched him hurry across the driveway to his house next door, grateful for his poor memory, and closed the door after him. He’d forgotten, or was too tired, to kick her out of the house. Her request to work had Fite had probably helped with that. She’d be grateful for small favors.

After rubbing some circulation into her cold arms, she lifted the duffel and hauled it upstairs to the bedroom she’d had as a kid, making a mental note to get a copy of the new house key. She put down a few pillows next to the bed for Stool, who liked his small comforts, and stroked his velvety black ears. “We’ll be staying here for a while, doggo,” she said, admiring the way he flopped onto his back, kicking his two front legs and the one in the back into the air, taking life as it came without complaining.

“Don’t worry about
me
leaving you.” April scratched his belly. “I don’t get attached easily, but when I do, watch out.”
 

Satisfied he wasn’t going to panic at the sudden change in his dwelling, she went to the bathroom, still painted in 1980s aqua and purple, and turned on the shower. The damp had reached her bones in spite of the coffee. Existential angst was bad for a chill.

She stripped off her wet clothes and stepped under the scalding water. The joke about putting a bullet in her brain wasn’t funny anymore. Temping was killing her, but what else could she do? Working at Fite was the only thing she could think of that was going to save her.

Liam assumed his declaration about her never working at Fite was final.

Luckily, she’d had years of practice doing the opposite of what he wanted her to do.

Chapter 2

Z
ACK
F
AIN
,
THIRTY
-
TWO
-
YEAR
-old widower, MBA, put his laptop bag on the battered oak desk Fite Fitness had given him and looked around the office.

He’d expected more glamour. Fite Fitness was an elite, trendy brand of athletic apparel. San Francisco was an expensive, world-class, fashionable city. Fite’s headquarters, however, displayed the financial distress the company had been under for the past few years—one reason he’d been able to convince them to hire him as a consultant.

“Liam told me to tell you he’ll be in around ten,” the receptionist said. “I bet he was up all night with the baby. Bev had her baby a couple months ago. She’s the owner, Beverly Lewis Johnson. She married Liam and now they just had their first baby. She is
so cute
. The baby, I mean, not that Bev isn’t cute, because she is. Her name is Merry. Isn’t that a great name for a person? She’s like a hobbit. Did you see that movie? I liked the book better.”

Trying not to smile during her speech, Zack gazed politely at her, making mental notes. Mid-twenties, olive skin, big brown eyes, and very, very geeky. Even without the hobbit comment. Her dark hair, far from the carefully styled locks he’d expect from a fashion industry receptionist, was pulled into a lopsided ponytail. Her lips were shiny with something sheer, but the rest of her face was bare. She wore a Minecraft T-shirt under a black cardigan, as if she’d known she was supposed to dress up for the office but didn’t really know how.

He wondered who had hired her, and whether her unorthodox appearance meant she was related to somebody in management. Liam had warned him that the company had an unhealthy history of nepotism.

Related or not, she was a refreshing change from Manhattan. And change was what he craved. “Thanks. That will give me time to settle in.”

“Don’t let him scare you. Liam scares people sometimes. He has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re naked, though that could just be because I’m a girl.” She smiled. “A woman, I mean. My name’s Virginia. Anyway. Right. I’d better go.” She tugged down her cardigan and turned to the door.

“Any chance you could give me a tour?” Zack didn’t want to put her on the spot, but he also had no idea where anything was, even the bathroom. She’d walked him from the front door directly to this office ten feet off the lobby, and he knew there were several floors above them, all devoted to churning out yoga pants, running bras, moisture-wicking T-shirts, whatever else was hot that season.

“I’m sorry, but I have to stay at the desk,” she said. “You’d better wait for Liam. He’ll be in at ten. I told you that, right?”

He glanced as his watch. It was only 8:48 a.m. He’d have to wander around on his own. “You did. I understand. Thanks.”

She shut the door behind her, and he waited a minute before walking over, opening it again, and wandering out into the hallway. Instead of taking the elevator in the lobby, he found the stairwell and climbed up to the second floor, thinking it might stress out Virginia if she saw him exploring on his own. He’d be sure to tell Liam, scary though he may be, that his receptionist had told him of his expected arrival time.

The lighting was much better on the second floor than the first. He squinted at the modern track lights, noting they were cutting-edge and energy-efficient. The flooring—blond laminate planks with faux distressed texture—was new, too.

He jotted these observations down in his palm-sized leather notebook.
 

Fite was coming out of a rough period. As a consumer who bought running shorts every year or two, he knew that Fite had gone downhill and was only now recovering. The founder had died and left it to his granddaughter, Bev—the one with the hobbit baby—and things were looking up.

That was the buzz, anyway. He wouldn’t believe it without poking around for the next six months. He wasn’t an accountant but an observer. He dug out problems in morale, organization, workflow, teamwork—and submitted a report when he was done. His quiet—and affordable, since he was a solo operation—work in the trenches was why people hired him. He’d told Liam and Bev Johnson that in his interview pitch, and refreshingly, they’d been receptive to criticism.

“One good marketing campaign isn’t enough, I know that,” Liam had said. “But we’re doing other things.”

“Morale is better, but we need to do more,” Bev had added.

“I can make sure you’re doing the right other things,” Zack had told them. “Whatever they might be.”

“I’m interested in doing more, but—look, we just had a baby. Six months from now might be a better time.”

“Six months might be too late. Especially if you’re distracted by your personal life,” Zack had said.

Eventually convinced, they’d hired Zack, and here he was. Six months in San Francisco was just what he needed, and six months of him was just what Fite Fitness needed.

He was an expert on the effects of personal life on career. Since Meg’s death, he’d had no personal life of his own, and his career had accelerated at twice the pace of another person’s. Thirty-two and already telling businesspeople twice his age what to do.