Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3) (5 page)

“Morning, Virg,” April said, patting the desk as she crossed the lobby to reach the conference room. “Plans for lunch?”

“I thought you were with the baby in the afternoons,” Virginia said, not meeting her eyes.

“Not yet. I’m in training, learning the software for a few days. Later this week I’ll cut back to half days.”

“Actually, I brought something to eat,” Virginia said. “I can’t go out. I have to be at my desk. Eating what I brought.”

The rejection stung, but April shook it off. After putting her friend in a bad position, she couldn’t blame her for wanting a little space. “No problem,” April said, smiling broadly to emphasize her good will, big heart, and general likability. “Some other time.”

Then she hurried into the conference room, marched around the large oval table to the foam core boards hanging on the walls, and tripped over a man’s feet.

“You again,” he said.

Chapter 4

T
HE
FIRST
THING
Z
ACK
NOTICED
was that she’d upgraded the heavy boots to black high-top sneakers.

“Oh, damn! Sorry.” She stumbled over him. “I didn’t see you there.”

He reached up to support her elbow, admitting to himself that the shoes were, in fact, the second thing he’d noticed. The first was her rear end encased in cobalt-blue skin-tight jeans—and about to fall into his lap.

His blood warmed. “I’ll send up a flare next time,” he said.

Her gaze met his, then flickered down to his hand on her arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m supposed to be here.”

“Really.” He amended his earlier guess about her age. She was at least twenty. Or maybe he was just trying to make himself feel better.

Her pretty—no, gorgeous—gray eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “Really.”

He released her arm. “I’m not.” He mentally shook himself. Why had he said that? He’d been taking a break, that was all. He was allowed to take breaks. His productivity suffered without them.

She stepped back and looked him over. “I thought you were allowed to go wherever you wanted.” A slow grin formed on her lips. She wore purplish lipstick, like a Hollywood vampire. “There’s a rumor you’ve been in the women’s restrooms.”

He stood up and buttoned his jacket, unhappy about the gossip but not surprised. He’d been through it many times before, usually triggered on his first day because of the open door requirement. And yes, he did look into the bathrooms—how else would he know what an employer was really like? “Only once, and they were all unoccupied at the time.”

She laughed. “I love it. You’re turning over all the rocks.”

Her insight surprised him. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She had turned away from him and now was searching through the large presentation boards hung on the wall. “Have you seen New York?” she asked.

“Frequently,” he said. He managed to say it without bitterness, but every day he woke up back home in California filled him with relief—then guilt. He knew intellectually he was allowed to be happy, but his conscience still didn’t believe it. “Thinking of doing some travel?”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “The name of the line or group or whatever is New York. There’s a board here with some color swatches I need.”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, covering a grimace.
Have I seen New York? Oh, sure, lived there for several long, cold years, clinging to the fragments of a life I never really began—oh, you don’t give a shit?

“Got it!” She spun around with a board half as tall as she was in her hands. “Nice seeing you, Zack, but I’ve got to run.” She lifted it over her head like a backwoods traveler hoisting a canoe and maneuvered around the other side of the table toward the door.

“Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.” He walked parallel to her on the other side of the table. He made it to the door before she did, which was good, because he was pretty sure she was trying to escape again without telling him who she was. And he had a business reason for knowing. It wasn’t just because the miracle of the week before seemed to be repeating itself.

It wasn’t just the jeans. Thousands of bodies in tight jeans had paraded past him over the past few years, and not one of them had fired him up the way hers was.

She paused with the board on her head, looking as if she were tempted to bop him in the forehead with it to get out of the room. “Look, Rita Gronsky needs this right away.”

“Rita Gronsky, manager of the graphics department?”

“No, Rita Gronsky, banjo-playing astronaut.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, in the graphics department. I’m April. I’m a freelancer here. If I don’t get this to her in the next five seconds, I won’t be.”

He didn’t move. “So, Rita Gronsky—manager, folk musician, and astronaut—would fire someone over a delay of five seconds?”

“Now it’s more like five minutes. And she wouldn’t, but the designers might get her into trouble, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that.” She went up on tiptoes, slicing the board over his head, and wiggled past him. Just as her body brushed his, she said, “Would you?”

A hot shiver ran down his spine, freezing him in place. In a daze, he watched her jog across the lobby and into the hallway toward his office and the stairwell. He’d noticed most of the young designers, patternmakers, interns, and freelancers skipped the elevators, preferring the speed of the stairs. Being the same way himself, he’d been bumping into them there all week.

He ran a hand down his chest, under his jacket, feeling the shocking return of life under his ribs.

Maybe he’d bump into
her
there. April. Still didn’t know her last name. The memory of her body brushing his brought hot blood to his face.

He shook his head. What the hell was the matter with him? Since when was he the type of creep to fantasize about jumping the cute young thing in the stairwell?

He slammed his laptop shut and shoved it into his briefcase, trying to ignore the fantasy that hit him like a high-resolution video.

Since today, apparently.

* * *

At the end of the day, April logged out of her computer—she’d named it Jane and had attached a suction-cup bud vase to the monitor—and slung her backpack over her shoulder. It was heavy with software manuals and made her walk at an angle as she headed downstairs.

She’d mentioned her run-in with the consultant, Zack, in the conference room to Rita, who had freaked out and told her to give him as much time as he wanted the next time, rush color-matching project be damned.

“The designers are all bark and no bite,” Rita had said. “This guy is all bite. Have you seen that notebook of his? Not a word, just scribble, scribble, scribble. You give him all the time he wants, and for God’s sake, don’t mention me next time. We’ll make time for him, even if we’re swamped.”

“What are you so afraid of? He’s just a guy in a suit. Besides, he can’t be much older than I am. How powerful could he be?”

“He’s an ax looking for a log, April. That’s what these guys are. They look for people to get rid of. On his last day, he’ll hand Liam and Bev a list. I don’t want to be on that list. Got it?”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. One reason Liam didn’t want”—April had cut herself off here, realizing she shouldn’t tell Rita that Liam hadn’t wanted his sister at Fite—“didn’t want you unhappy was because you might quit. He’s paranoid about you quitting.”

Rita had waved that away. “Promise me you’ll give Zack Fain whatever he wants.”

“Sure,” April had said.

She doesn’t know what she’s asking
, April thought now as she stepped onto the first floor. She’d recognized that look of his. It wasn’t the look of an ax—more like the look of a horny lumberjack who’d been in the woods too long.

Still, she hadn’t treated him professionally, either, and it was time she did. So, assuming he was the type still to be at work at 4:55 p.m., she’d see him and clear the air. She smoothed her hair—hah, that was a delusion—with her palm before knocking on his door.

His
closed
door, the hypocrite.

Why had he been sitting in the conference room a few steps away, then, when he had a space of his own right here?

There was no response, so she knocked again. The door flew open while her arm was still raised, and she stood there in front of him, feeling like an idiot while he watched, scowling.

“Hey, there, big guy.” She moved her hand to her forehead in a salute and snapped her heels together.

So much for the professional thing. She never had been very good with authority.

His eyebrows rose. He regarded her for a long moment before saying, “At ease.”

Was he kidding? She glanced past him into his office. Harsh fluorescent ceiling lights flickered over dark-brown bookcases, stained carpeting, and a monster of an oak desk designed decades before personal computers.

“No wonder,” she muttered, lowering her hand. She wouldn’t want to hang out in there either.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Nothing.”

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. I ran off earlier. Rita told me we’re available at any time for you if you want anything.”

“Tempting, coming from a musical performer.”

Because he wasn’t smiling, she said, “She doesn’t really play the banjo.”

“That’s very disappointing.” His dark blue eyes held her gaze. “And the career in space exploration?”

“Ended before it began.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll be sure to let either one of you know if I need anything, banjos and space excluded.”

She still stood in the doorway. Her left arm had gone numb under the weight of her bag. “Great. Then we’re good for right now?”

He looked away and took a deep breath. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

“Five.” He stared into space, rubbing his jaw. “Do most people usually go home at five?”

“I wouldn’t know, I just—”
I just started today.
Except she couldn’t say that, because he’d seen her last week. “I work part-time. Freelance. In the mornings, usually.”

He took out a little notebook out of his pocket.

“Don’t write that down,” she blurted out.

His expression didn’t change. “It’s how I work. Nobody will see this but me.” A tiny ballpoint pen appeared in his hand.

“That’s b—” She bit her lip. Calling the business consultant a liar while he was taking notes was a bad idea. She shouldn’t have gone out of her way to talk to this guy. She was only going to get herself and everyone else into trouble. “Beautiful. The pen. Can I see it?”

The eyebrows arched again. He studied the pen for a moment and then offered it to her.

It was a cheap travel-size ballpoint, red plastic with fake silver trim. She plucked it from his fingers and pretended to admire it. “Artists have an eye for good tools. This one has great, uh, proportions.”

“I got it at the gas station near the airport.”

She could tell by the tone in his voice that he knew she was full of shit. But he wasn’t the only one who could keep a straight face. Without breaking a sweat, she offered it back to him as if it were made of platinum, studded with diamonds, and filled with ink derived from the tears of baby angels. Baby kitten angels. “Don’t lose it,” she said gravely.

“It’s yours,” he said, putting his hands—and the notebook—in his pocket. “I’ve got more of them.”

“They sell cases of pens at the gas station?”

“I picked up several so I wouldn’t run out.” He leaned against the doorframe as if he were getting comfortable, as if their conversation were just getting started. “How long have you been a freelancer here?”

She’d been trying to decide how to deal with that question. Until recently, she’d never lied about anything—it was much more radical to tell the truth, and she always prided herself on being a rebel. “Honestly?” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “This is my first real… you know,
paid…
day here.”

To her relief, he nodded in understanding. “Are there a lot of interns at Fite?”

She had no idea. She shrugged.

“Was it hard getting them to hire you?” he asked. The notebook was in his hand again.

“Don’t blame them. Money’s tight.”

“Especially when you’re just starting out, though, isn’t it?” he asked.

“You mean me?”

He nodded.

This was more familiar ground. She knew she looked a lot younger than she was. “I’m twenty-seven. I started out a long time ago. Just not here.”

The surprise on his face was the most emotion she’d seen him express yet. He ducked his head and twirled the pen—a different pen—in his fingers.

She pressed her lips together. Even if she dressed like her mother, people would still think she was sixteen. “Is there anything else you want to ask? I need to get home.”

“Go ahead,” he said, pushing away from the doorframe. “Thanks for coming by.”

“No problem.” She moved her backpack to the other shoulder and turned, grateful once again to flee his company.

“If
 
I need anything else,” he said to her back, “I’ll ask you tomorrow. I’ll be starting in your department first thing in the morning.”

Chapter 5

T
WENTY
-
SEVEN
.

Z
ACK
BRUSHED
HIS
teeth, staring at himself in the mirror over the sink in his rental condo’s bathroom. He spat and rinsed his mouth.

Only five years younger than he was.

He rubbed the deepening groove between his dark eyebrows, feeling ancient. His eyes looked like his dad’s, blue but gloomy, hidden under heavy lids. His jaw was like his dad’s, too, ready for a shave an hour after he’d used the razor. He loved his dad, but the old guy was pushing seventy. Should he look so much like him already?
 

Maybe his life after Meg’s death had gone by in dog years. No. Too old. He’d be dead, too.