Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3) (26 page)

“I wanted to expand the geographical reach of my client base,” he said.

“You missed California,” she said.

“Basically.”

“Well, those are good reasons. I wonder what the real one is.”

He lowered the heat, turned to her, and crossed his arms over his chest. A droplet of tomato sauce clung to his apron, mere centimeters from the bright white shirt underneath. “You’ll mock me.”

“Maybe. Will you tell me anyway?”

“I want to get into high tech,” he said. “See where I’m going with this?”

“Like software and stuff?” she asked.

He nodded.

She stared at him. “You knew about Mark before. Before you even came out here.” She put the glass down on the counter and took a step back. “He’s your whole reason for coming to California at all.”

“No.” He followed her. “There were many reasons. He was just one of them.”

“The wedding must’ve been quite a coup,” she said.

“I told you I was interested in meeting him. I told you.”

“You did.” She ran a hand through her hair, nodding. “You did. I thought it was more spur of the moment, though.”

“I’m not usually very spontaneous. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

She didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t told her the whole story, but until last night, why would he have had any obligation to?

Even now, he didn’t have to tell her anything. She was just the crazy little sister, the freelancer, the one-night stand.

So far.

While she chewed on her lip, she realized Stool was too quiet. Where was he? Silence was much worse than barking, whining, or crunching.

“Stool?” She strode out of the kitchen, casting her gaze over the tables and sofas for three-legged tornadoes. She paused at the bedroom door, hearing gulps and afraid to look inside. What could he be eating?

She peeked around the corner. “No!” She flung herself onto the bed, where Stool was ripping a tuxedo jacket into black ribbons. “Eating shit is better than this, you crazy dog!” She threw her body over the remaining fabric and caught his collar. Stool smiled at her with the lining of one sleeve dangling from his teeth.

“Well, that’s one way to get you into bed,” Zack said from the doorway. “Good dog.”

Chapter 22

Z
ACK
’
S
FEELINGS
ABOUT
SEEING
HIS
best garment destroyed faded when he saw the agony on April’s face. As she played tug-of-war with Stool, her face turned red, and tears flashed in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, yanking on a scrap black fabric. “So sorry, so sorry. My dog has an eating disorder. I’ll pay you back. It’s my fault.”

“I’ll be right back.” He went to the kitchen and took a palmful of Italian sausage, already sautéed with fennel and ready to go on the pizza, out of the fridge. “Stool!” He added a whistle.

Immediately he heard the sound of three paws scrambling down the hallway, and then the dog was there, sliding around the corner of the cabinets, eyes wide, tongue flapping.

“Sit,” Zack said. Stool sat. Zack gave him the sausage.

April came into the kitchen, holding the shredded remains of his suit in her arms. “You
fed
him?”

“Best way to get him out of my room.” He took the suit from her—shoving aside the memory of the price tag that flashed in his brain, the special brush and storage bag he’d bought to care for it, the confidence he’d felt yesterday when he’d put it on, knowing she would see him in it—and gave her a smile. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.” He went to the bedroom, hung the ruined suit coat in the closet, and closed the door so Stool couldn’t return for seconds.

When he returned to the kitchen and saw April standing by the front door wearing her coat and holding Stool by his leash, his breath caught.

She leaned over and stroked Stool’s ears. “I don’t want him to ruin anything else.”

“Look around. What else could he ruin?” There was a cheap bistro table with two chairs, a used futon, and a cardboard shipping box he used as a coffee table. Liam had rented it to him unfurnished, and Zack hadn’t seen a reason to make much effort.

She pointed at the floor. “That’s wool carpeting,” she said. “What if it reminds him of grass?”

“I’ll wash it.” He walked over to her and reached for the leash. He still couldn’t take a proper breath. Her fingers felt cold and tense under his touch. “Please. Stay. I was just about to put the pizza in the oven. You can’t leave now.”

At their feet sat Stool, rock-still except for his quivering nose, his gaze locked on Zack’s face.

“One sausage and he’s yours for life,” she said.

Zack tried to swallow his laugh, but she must’ve heard the strangled sound come out of his throat because she flushed pink and swatted him on the arm. “
I
’m not so easy,” she said.

Finally giving in to temptation, he swept her up into his arms. “Not even pepperoni?”

Her body remained stiff, so he released her slowly, claimed the leash, and brought Stool with him into the kitchen. A hostage.

“You’re courting disaster, letting him in there,” April said.

“The worst has already happened.”

He heard her groan. “Send me a bill for your suit. I’ll pay you back.”

“Right.”

“I will!”

Hopeful she was getting comfortable, he dropped Stool’s leash and washed his hands before putting the pizza together. He’d already rolled out the dough and baked it halfway. “I mean, I’m not sending you a bill.” The sauce pooled in the center of the pie before he spread it around.

She reached past him and stole a sliced mushroom. “You should.”

He slapped the pizza together and shoved it into the oven. “There. Not long now.”

“My companion animal and I will wait in the other room.” She’d retrieved Stool’s leash and held him against her side. “I don’t want him doing any more damage.”

Zack watched her walk away, struck by how deprived he felt just from her move into another room.

This is dangerous
.

He’d invited her over with one goal—a sober but enthusiastic replay of the night before—but hadn’t thought ahead to the moment after that, when she got up and went home. Because as soon as she left, he’d have to get right to work getting her back again, sweet and wet and frisky again, such as tomorrow night and the night after, and possibly, it would certainly cross his mind, during lunch one day.

Leaning against the counter, he stared at his hands. What was he doing?

Last night, he’d offended the client he hoped would be his ticket to a new phase of his career, and he hadn’t given it a second thought. He could’ve called or made an appointment for tomorrow, or looked for another client, like that friend of Mark’s. But he hadn’t bothered. Getting April to his condo had consumed him utterly.
 

That morning, he’d woken with a smile on his face, feeling like he could fly. But he wasn’t flying, he was
falling
. He’d jumped out of an airplane without a parachute, and the hard earth was down there waiting for him.

He’d assumed he could be like other men, and have sex with a cute girl without overreacting. For God’s sake, he was thirty-two, a widower, a successful businessman, not a seventh-grader who proposed to the first girl who’d agreed to go to the movies with him.

In a daze, he checked on the pizza. The heat from the oven blasted some sense into him.

It was his upbringing. What he felt when April walked ten feet away was good old-fashioned lust, same as it was for other men, but the firm morals drilled into him as a child couldn’t let him admit it.
 

Sex and guilt were miserable companions. If anyone could help him separate the two, it was a woman like April.
 

He mixed up another nonalcoholic cocktail for her and plated the salads. After they ate, he’d get her back into bed. He’d just come out of a few long, lonely years, and didn’t want to begin any more.

Proud of his pizzas—he liked to serve it on the pan, like at a restaurant—he carried it directly from the oven out into the living room.

It was empty.

At that moment, the earth rose up to meet him. He felt the blow deep in his guts. She’d left, she’d actually left, and she wasn’t coming back.

He closed his eyes and let the hot pan burn through the dish towel and singe his fingers.

She didn’t really want him, not enough. Last night had changed his life, but for her it was just—

“Hey,” she said. She came in from the balcony with Stool and a roll of newspaper. “I let him pee on your Sunday paper, is that all right? Don’t worry—it was the
Chronicle
, not the
New York
Times
.” She laughed. “I didn’t want to go all the way downstairs, especially since they don’t allow dogs in most of the complex.” She walked past him into the kitchen.

He heard a cabinet shut and the water come on. Heart pounding in his throat, he set the pizza down on the bistro table.
 

She returned, drying her hands, and stood beside him. “That does look good. You were—”

He drew her into his arms and kissed her. She hadn’t left. He stroked her hair away from her cheek and kissed his way to her ear, dizzy with wanting her so much. “I thought you’d gone.”

She tilted her head, offering her neck. “I…” She let out a little groan. “Thought about it.”

“Bad idea.” He ran a hand down her arm and entwined his fingers in hers, nuzzling her neck and breathing in the warm, delicate sweetness of her skin. “You’re staying.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m going to make love to you.” He was going to have her beneath him, push against her silky thighs, drive into her until she cried out, scratched at him and demanded more. “Right now.”

Her body sagged against his. “I knew this was going to happen.”

He lifted her sweatshirt and palmed her warm, smooth stomach. His fingers moved up to her bra, pulled down the lace, freeing the rounded flesh and finding the sensitive peak at its center. Enjoying her gasp, he said roughly, “I wish I had.”

She lifted her hands to the back of his head and pulled him closer. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, sending bolts of desire shooting through him.

He wanted her. He didn’t know what the future held and he didn’t care. He clasped her hand and led her to his bedroom, where he locked the door, quite willing to let Stool enjoy the pizza on the table if it earned him a few minutes with this woman with big gray eyes and a laugh that shattered his icy heart.

As her hand slipped under the waistband of his pants, all he could think about was tasting and holding and taking her until he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the world but the two of them.

* * *

She liked the feel of him, hard and velvety-warm, and would’ve laughed at the stunned look on his face if she weren’t so aroused herself.

“You like that?” she asked.

His eyes darkened, staring at her. “I like.”

His husky voice knocked the smile off her face. Shivering a little, she stroked him, felt him get harder and bigger under her hand.

Clenching his jaw, he put his hand over hers, holding it still. “My turn.” He pulled her hand out of his pants, clasped both wrists, and lifted them both over her head as he pressed her against the closed door. Heart thudding, she gazed up into his serious face and tried to breathe.

“Don’t move,” he said.

She didn’t move.

A small smile curved in the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he said, licking his lips. He took a step back and looked her up and down before shaking his head, taking the hem of her sweatshirt in his fists, and sweeping it up and over her head.

She started to lower her arms, but he seized her wrists again, pinning her against the door. “I just want to look at you.” He raked his gaze downward. “Okay?”

She stretched up, hitching her hip to one side, and nodded.

He released her and stepped back. “You didn’t really look like yourself last night. This is more like how I imagined it.”

“How you imagined… what?”

“Undressing you.” He reached for the waistband of her jeans, heat in his eyes. “You were wearing these jeans at dinner at your house that night.”

“I was?”

He popped the button. His fingernail felt rough against her stomach. “When you kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“Not as long as I would’ve liked,” he said, unzipping the fly.

“I thought you didn’t want me.”

His palm stroked her belly, slid around her waist to her back, under her panties, over her bottom. The jeans gaped open and moved down her hips.

“I wanted you,” he said roughly. Her jeans fell to the floor, and his gaze followed them down. “Jesus. You’re so beautiful.”

She felt heat rush into her veins, flaring wherever he looked—breasts, thighs, toes. Then he stepped forward and took her in his arms, his mouth slanting over hers, wet tongue sliding inside, making her so weak she had to cling to him.

The night before at the wedding, she hadn’t had a chance to see him clearly. In their formal clothes, away from their normal lives, the lovemaking had felt like a fantasy. But this was real.

She put her hands on his chest and put a few inches between them to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Not so buttoned-up now, are you?” She licked the hollow of his throat.

“I’m not really that uptight.” Breathing hard, he reached around and unfastened her bra, then palmed her freed breasts. “I’m the rebel in the family, remember?”

As his thumbs raked across her nipples, she sucked in a breath. “Sure.” Her fingers got back to work. Each unfastened button exposed another few inches of his chest. His hair was dark, the smell of him intoxicating. She took one nipple into her mouth and teased it, smiling as he groaned.

“I’m not,” he said roughly. “It’s just a facade.”

“Mm.” His hair tickled her nose. Wrapping her arms around him under the open shirt, she cuddled up against him, just enjoying for a moment how warm and safe it felt to be together, part of her afraid of how intense it had gotten so fast.