Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3)

by Gretchen Galway

  “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

  ZACK FAIN, 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 prob
lems 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.

  The floor was quiet. Doors, most of them closed, broke up the walls on either side. He frowned. He needed an open-door policy when he was on site to get a feel for the place. Later, when he was gone, they could shut them again. He made another note in his book to remind Liam to send out an email. A second email, he hoped, since Zack already had asked him to do it once.

  He wouldn’t knock on doors just yet. Soon Liam would introduce him to the employees so they knew he had permission to nose around. He made another note to get a hard copy of the building floor plan. And a set of keys. The closed doors could be storage, for all he knew, or computer rooms.

  One door at the end of the hallway was open, though, and he could see the edge of a cubicle wall inside. He glanced at his watch, saw he still had more than an hour to fill, and headed over to say hello, adjusting his new security badge so it was prominently displayed on the pocket of his suit jacket.

  The first cubicle was empty, but the huge monitor and high-tech drawing pad in front of it told him this was some kind of computer design area. The cubicle across from it looked the same and was also empty.

  It was 9:04 a.m., and lots of expensive equipment was going to waste.

  He made another note.

  Then he walked past the carpeted wall to the next cubicle and saw, finally, a living human being: a girl with curly brown hair, peering at a huge monitor.

  He frowned. She looked really young, maybe nineteen. Although he liked to talk to everyone, he didn’t do so until he’d introduced himself to the managers first, especially if the person was just an intern. In his experience, interns loved to gossip. Great for him, but it could get them into trouble.

  “Oh! Hey,” she cried, jumping away with a hand on her chest. “Is this your spot?” She wore a cropped denim jacket heavily adorned with colorful appliqués and jewelry. And cut-off red Bermuda shorts over knee-high combat boots.

  Definitely an intern. “My spot?”

  “Sorry. I was just curious.” She moved to leave. “I should get back to work.”

  He didn’t move out of her way. “This isn’t your department?”

  Her large gray eyes, heavily adorned with blue eyeliner, sharpened. “Not exactly. Who are you?”

  “I’m a consultant.”

  “Ah, I should’ve guessed,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “The suit. None of the artists would wear suits,” she said. “Were you looking for somebody? The folks in here don’t usually come in until later.”

  “No, I was just taking a little unofficial tour. I just arrived.” He wasn’t sure why he was explaining himself. Time to kill, he supposed.

  Her eyes danced. “I was kind of doing the same thing.”

  “Are you new?”

  She gave him a mischievous grin. “I hope so.” She leaned closer to him. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me, okay? Please?”

  “You’re not supposed to be in here?”

  “Are you going to tell on me?” she asked.

  “I might.” He had to bite back a smile. Something about her made him want to laugh.

  Her grin widened. “But you might not?”

  He sobered. Get serious. He couldn’t treat this job as a paid vacation just because he was so grateful to get out of New York for a little while. If he was overwhelmed with amusement, it was only because he was talking to a teenage girl in combat boots who, for all he knew, had broken into the building. He should make a note about security.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Like I’m going to tell you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think I’d better run, don’t you?” As she asked this, she grabbed his shoulders, spun him sideways, and fled past him. She smelled like orange blossoms.

  Caught by surprise, he grabbed the wall of the cubicle for balance. “Hey!”

  “Enjoy the rest of your tour,” she shouted from the hallway.

  He blinked, not sure what had just happened. He picked up the landline on the desk, hit the reception button, and described the young woman roaming free on the second floor.

  “Oh! You went upstairs?” Virginia asked.

  “Yes. Do you know her?” How many teenage girls in combat boots could there be?

  “Combat boots?” Virginia asked.

  He pressed on. “Do you often have unauthorized visitors in the building?”

  Silence.

  “Virginia?”

  “No,” she said, her voice faint.

  “Well, you do now,” he said. “What’s your procedure?”

  “My procedure?”

  “Not yours, the company’s.” He closed his eyes. This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t the police—he was a regular guy, the type of guy they could confess to, ask for help. To get that kind of rapport, he had to win them over slowly, not barge in with his notebooks blazing. “Never mind. Sorry to bother you.”

  She breathed out in relief. “Okay.”

  He hung up and let his gaze fall on the workstation. For a second, right before it disappeared under a screen saver of a cat flying past in a superhero suit, he glimpsed a window filled with multi-colored geometric shapes that formed the first three letters of the Fite logo.

  He hit the mouse to bring the image back, but it required a password, and he was stuck watching the flying cat.

  Either the curly haired intruder had been working on the design at the workstation, or somebody else had been here just before her. If he hung around, he might be able to ask who she was, why she was—

  He rubbed his face. Later. Liam was due soon. This time he’d wait for him, and save his exploring for after a complete tour.

  He exited the computer room, walked down the refurbished hallway, and returned to his office downstairs, unpleasantly distracted by the memory of shapely bare knees and combat boots.

  He sat behind his new, empty desk, shaking his head.

  Of all the times and places to discover his sex drive had returned. On the job with a teenager. Years of nothing—nothing—and now…

  He didn’t know if he should cry or thank God.

  * * *

  “Did you test the temperature?” April’s mother, Trixie, pointed at the tiny bottle in her hand. They stood in the kitchen of Liam and Bev’s house next door, listening to the rising volume of Merry’s cries in the living room.

  April laughed. “Listen to her. What a drama queen.”

  Her mom touched her arm. “Hold on, sweetie. We have to test it. It might be too hot. Dribble some of it on the inside of your wrist.”

  April’s stomach tightened. She was an organic-hemp-wearing Northern California girl, but she’d rather not squirt her sister-in-law’s breast milk onto her bare flesh. “Be my guest.”

  Her mother smile
d. “You get used to it.” She took the bottle, shook a few drops onto her own wrist, and handed it back.

  The liquid inside the bottle was grayish white, not at all what color real milk should be. April had seen plenty of it before, but she never got used to it. “All right?”

  “It’s fine,” her mother said.

  “Thank God,” April muttered, striding out to the living room, wielding the bottle at arm’s length in front of her. Liam sat with Bev on the sofa. The baby, her face as red as a cherry lollipop under her jet-black hair, screamed in his arms. Liam had the expression of a man tied to the tracks in front of a speeding train.

  “She sure can belt it out,” April said. “Maybe she’ll be an opera singer.”

  Liam snatched the bottle. “What took so long?” He aimed it at the little open oval of Merry’s mouth.

  Instead of sucking, she continued to howl. When Liam pushed the bottle deeper into her mouth, spiraling it between her lips, Bev reached over and pulled it out.

  “She’s too upset,” Bev said, her voice rising. “Just wait a minute.”

  Liam reclaimed the bottle and looked down at his daughter. “Listen, sweetheart, I’ve got what you want right here.”

  April gestured at Bev’s chest. “Maybe she wants it on tap.”

  Liam shot her a furious look. “Do you mind?”

  “Just a suggestion,” April said.

  Tears trickled down Bev’s cheeks. Bev had that combination of fair skin and smooth black hair that April had admired ever since she’d seen a print of the Mona Lisa as a kid. Bev was sweet, too, having taught preschool before inheriting Fite Fitness, and was possibly the nicest person April had ever met. Liam had totally lucked out, hooking up with someone like her.

  Bev wasn’t her usual happy self today, however. “The nurse said if she doesn’t learn to like the bottle now, she might never learn,” she snapped at Liam. “How can I go back to work if she never learns?”

  “She’s not even two months old yet,” Liam said. “Are you saying we’ve already ruined her?”