Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3) Read online

  Trixie stuck her head into the room. “Could you help me set the table?” She laughed. “I mean, floor? It’s hard for me to get up and down.”

  He went over, wine in hand, glad to be useful, and in ten minutes they’d carried in a hot ramekin bubbling with lasagna to each plate on the tablecloth, a large salad, a platter of steamed asparagus, a bowl of stuffed green olives, and a warm baby bottle filled with milk.

  “Dinner!” Trixie yelled. Clapping her hands together, she sat cross-legged on the floor near the window, then said to Zack, “Sit here with me. I’ll do all the talking.”

  The first to join them was Beverly Lewis Johnson, her baby daughter in her arms. He’d met Bev at Fite several times now, but hadn’t realized he owed her his job. They were saying hello just as the others poured into the room, each with a drink in hand.

  “Will the dogs be sitting at the dining room table while we’re out here?” Mark asked, sitting with Rose near the door. “It’s only fair.”

  “No, they’re in my bedroom,” Trixie said.

  Liam brought in a baby carrier and propped it between him and Bev before sitting down. April was the last to come in, scanned the area, saw the only empty spot was next to Zack, and gave him a look that hit him like ten of Rose’s killer martinis.

  The other people faded to dust, the sound of cheerful small talk drifted miles away, the smell of garlic bread and bubbling tomato sauce evaporated. It was just April’s gaze drilling into his as she moved closer, closer, until finally she sank down to her knees and was scant inches from him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He catalogued the now-predictable responses in his body. Accelerated heart rate. Cold palms. Parched mouth.

  “Hi.” He turned slightly away from her to drain his wine glass.

  It was his own fault. For too long, he’d convinced himself he could live without sex and pleasure, and now he was experiencing a systemic breakdown.

  Hoping his hand wasn’t visibly shaking, he reached across the tablecloth for a large wooden bowl. “Salad?” he asked her.

  “Get me the garlic bread first,” she said. “Under the striped towel. If I don’t get a piece now, Liam and Mark will eat it all first.”

  He found the basket and handed it to her as if he weren’t fighting the urge to unravel a year’s worth of plans.

  No. He took on the job; he’d finish it. He couldn’t get involved with anyone at Fite, especially not the client’s sister. As soon as the six months were up, he’d pursue… a personal life. Not with April. He wasn’t her type. He’d find somebody with whom he could have a normal, steady, quiet, mature relationship.

  The Johnson family’s conversation boiled around him, washing over him unheard. Vaguely he recognized talk about weddings. One soon, for Mark and Rose.

  He glanced at April’s profile. Her nose was slightly upturned. And her lips were full, talking and laughing and smiling, full of life.

  She’d probably laugh at the idea of getting involved with a cold stick like him. Except… he didn’t use to be cold. He’d been funny once. In fact, by the time he was nineteen, he could imitate two dozen of the most famous cartoon voices of all time—such an impressive feat that his college roommate made him perform for his parents.

  He leaned toward April and asked, in his best Scooby Doo voice, “Pass the parmesan?”

  She paused with a chunk of garlic bread sticking out of her mouth. “Wuh?”

  He cleared his throat. Only a drunk guy would think the Scoob was irresistible. “Excuse me. Parmesan, please?” He pointed at the tiny grater and wedge of cheese on a board next to her.

  She squinted at him for a full three seconds before handing it over.

  The conversation about the wedding continued at the other end of the tablecloth.

  “I’m kind of looking forward to it being over,” Rose said. She sat curled up against Mark, her legs bent to one side.

  “Over before it even began,” Mark said with a sigh. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  Rose laughed and sipped her wine. Her smiling gaze met Zack’s across the tablecloth. “I’m a bridezilla, can you tell?”

  “I doubt that,” Zack said.

  “I’ve already issued decrees about what color nail polish my honor attendants can wear,” Rose said.

  “You did not,” April said.

  “Other than you,” Rose said. “I knew you’d rock it with the bridal style, Ape.”

  April tipped her glass at her. “Thanks. I hope black is okay.”

  “Nails or all over?” Bev asked, looking alarmed. “You don’t want to look like the protest vote. The bitter, angry sister.”

  “I don’t get it,” April said. “The guys get to wear black. What’s the difference?”

  “You can wear black if you really want to,” Rose said.

  Liam lifted Merry onto his shoulder. “And then she can serve drinks to cut down on the catering costs.”

  “Costs, schmosts,” Mark said, lifting his beer. “One server isn’t gonna make a difference at this point, believe me. Not that it wasn’t a good idea.”

  Zack glanced at April, alarmed to see the teasing was bothering her. Lips thinned, she stabbed her lasagna with her butter knife.

  “Bridesmaid dresses are a very poor value,” Zack said. “Making them black would do a lot to change that. Plus, you look good in black. I mean, everyone does, don’t you think?”

  April paused, knife in air. Zack realized he’d become the center of attention. He’d just told April she looked good in black. Very subtle. Maybe this would be a good time to lean over and stick his tongue in her ear, too. Pant a little.

  He tried to drink from his empty glass.

  Rose came to his rescue. “I agree. Black is the new black. If anyone, male or female, wants to wear black to our wedding, you have the bride’s official permission.”

  Trixie tapped Zack’s shoulder, a kind smile on her face. “More pinot?”

  Nodding, he held out his glass. “Thanks.”

  “We hope you can come, of course,” Trixie said as she poured.

  He didn’t know what she meant. Another picnic? “Excuse me?”

  April’s voice was ominous. “Mom…”

  Oh, man. Did she mean the wedding? Mark and Rose hadn’t heard her. He sipped his wine, pretending the same.

  “You can be April’s date,” Trixie said. “She doesn’t have one yet, do you, sweetie?”

  Zack thought he heard the words kill me now come faintly from April’s direction.

  The picnic fell into another awkward lull. Then Rose said, “We’d love to have you just as you are, Zack. Right now our guest list is very heavy on my side—and very female. It would be great if you could come. No pressure, of course.” She smiled. “And you can even wear black.”

  “Thank you, that’s really, really generous of you,” Zack said. “But I wouldn’t want to mess up your guest list this late in the game. I know how tight the planning is. When we—”

  Well, shit. He’d started to say, when he and Meg were planning their wedding, they’d had to call each invitee individually to find out whether they were coming, because the caterer was threatening to pad them five extra plates, which would’ve busted their already strained budget. And given Meg’s cancer diagnosis, they didn’t want to waste a dime…

  “Thank you for inviting me,” he said instead, holding up his glass in a toast. “To your wedding and to this great picnic.”

  “Fabulous,” Trixie said. “I love it when everything works out.”

  “You’re coming?” April asked.

  “I’ll get your address from Liam for the invitation, all right?” Rose asked. “So you know we’re serious.”

  Perhaps, given April’s obvious horror, he should’ve taken that moment to backtrack and give his regrets. They’d just met him and might wish later they hadn’t been so hasty in inviting a stranger.

  But Mark Johnson had founded tech companies, he was a wunderkind programmer that was famou
s in some circles, and he was a contact Zack had angled to make when he took the job with Fite. Being invited to his wedding was an incredible opportunity for Zack’s business, one he couldn’t possibly pass up.

  And he looked good in black.

  “I can’t wait,” Zack said, shooting April a smile.

  * * *

  April watched Zack in the kitchen after the meal, cursing the attractive shape of his back and shoulders as he dried dishes. Her brothers had set up a dishwashing chain after dinner, and Zack had somehow fit himself into the drying step of the process. Liam scraped, Mark washed, Zack dried. Zack Fain, the temporary, hired business consultant, fit into the Johnson kitchen as if he’d been there for years.

  Mom had invited him to the wedding.

  He’d said yes.

  It was all very strange.

  Something he’d said during dinner was bothering her, and she’d decided to ask him about it in private. Not here at the house where her psychic mother would pick up on it and interfere. Afterward, in her car, when she drove him to the BART station.

  He’d kicked off his loafers. She wondered if he’d noticed that snazzy green-and-white striped sock of his had gotten wet in a puddle of dishwater, or if he was having too much fun laughing at Mark’s story about founding a software company when he was a teenager and hiding his millions from them for years.

  Ha-ha.

  “Are you okay?” Bev asked quietly.

  April shoved her hands into her pockets. “Fine.” She felt Bev’s gaze but didn’t look at her.

  “Thanks for cleaning up Merry’s spit-up,” Bev said. “Liam said it got all over the wall.”

  “It was impressive,” April said. “If she’d been face-down, she would’ve blasted to the moon.”

  The humor in Bev’s voice evaporated. “I wonder if I should take her to the doctor.”

  “No, I don’t think it was bad or anything,” April said. “I looked it up online. Pretty common. She drank too much, too fast.”

  “You googled it?” Bev asked.

  “Yeah. Turning on the image search was a mistake, though,” April said. “It was pretty amazing. I was tempted to upload a picture myself.”

  They laughed. Zack turned at the sound, saw them, then looked at his watch. The water was off, the dishes were put away, he seemed ready to leave.

  “Do you need a ride to BART?” April asked him. “I heard you were going to call a cab.”

  “Yeah, that would be great. Are you headed that way?”

  April realized that he didn’t know she lived at home. “I will be as soon as you get your shoes on,” she said. “Let’s hit the road, shall we?”

  Trixie looked sad to see Zack go—but at least she didn’t suggest he move into Liam’s childhood bedroom, as she had with Bev years earlier—and the others seemed to like him, too, shaking his hand at the door and laughing like old friends.

  Finally, Zack and April were in the car heading downhill through the narrow, wooded streets to the more urban, flatter neighborhoods below.

  “I hope you realize you don’t have to go to Rose and Mark’s wedding,” she said, braking as the car accelerated on the steep decline.

  “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  “Why would I care?”

  “I don’t know,” Zack said. “You brought it up.”

  She took a sharp turn too fast, making him grab the dash. “Sorry.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you slowed down a little,” he said.

  Because she did want to talk, she took her foot off the gas. They were still up in the hills, where the roads were narrow and winding, crowded with parked cars and driveways for the closely built homes.

  “Thanks,” he said, rubbing his temple. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much. Your future sister-in-law makes a killer martini.”

  “And Mom’s proud of her wine collection. She pushes it on everyone.”

  “Nobody pushed. I took it all willingly.”

  “Sounds kinky,” she said. Then clenched her teeth. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”

  He chuckled softly. “Okay.”

  What was his deal? Why did she care? She was exhausted— she could be home in bed right now instead of hauling his khaki-clad ass across Oakland—but she was too curious.

  She took a breath and dove in. “During dinner, after they asked you to come to the wedding, you said something that got me wondering.”

  He reached forward and adjusted the defroster knob. “Oh?”

  “Have—have you been married before? The way you were talking, I got the impression that—”

  “Yes,” he said. “I was married before.”

  She felt guilty for prying, but also kind of proud of herself for getting it right. “I thought so. I’m sorry, I don’t know why, but I’ve had that impression for the longest time. None of my friends have gotten divorced—yet, because there’s one couple I know who never should’ve made the leap—”

  “She died,” Zack said. “Not divorce. Cancer.”

  Oh my God. After a pause to recover her voice, she said, “I’m so sorry. I am such an idiot.” She stopped at the corner and looked at him. “Really, I’m so sorry.”

  Questions she wouldn’t ask aloud ran through her mind: How old was she? How could she die so young? She’d lost her own father to cancer, but he’d been past middle age.

  “It’s okay.” He was smiling a little, as if in apology.

  “Was it—when did—” She shook her head. “Never mind. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “It was melanoma. Four years ago,” he said. “It’s all right. I wish I’d mentioned it earlier. I just didn’t think of it. It was common knowledge back in New York. Even with my clients.”

  “How did they know?”

  “Well… most of my work is word-of-mouth. After Meg died—her name was Meg—her father put the word out that I could use a hand getting my consulting business off the ground. So the work I had those first few years was pretty much his doing. He was a lawyer, knew a lot of people.” Zack said. “So, you could say I got where I am today because of pity.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said. “They hired you because they thought you’d do a good job.”

  “How could they? I was way too young,” he said. “I knew my father-in-law was behind it. But I made a name for myself eventually. For instance, Bev and Liam hired me without knowing my sob story—I sought them out personally when I saw the Annabelle Tucker publicity machine kick into gear. I’d had some garment experience in Manhattan, so…”

  Annabelle Tucker was a teen pop star who recently had—thanks to Bev, her former teacher and babysitter—agreed to wear Fite clothes in prominent and evocative ways, resuscitating the brand and company in the process.

  April reluctantly resumed driving. “I bet pity wasn’t as much of a factor as you think. Maybe it got you the interview, but not the job.”

  “It’s all right, I don’t mind. It made them feel good. I was doing a public service.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Thirty-two.”

  She bit back a sigh. Only five years older than she was, and he’d already been married, widowed, and founded a consulting business. “I just moved back home with my mother. After I drop you off at BART, I’m going right back to sleep in the same bed I had when I was twelve years old.”

  His teeth flashed. “Really?”

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “I think it’s cute.” His smile vanished. “Sorry. That sounded patronizing.”

  It should have, but she felt something tingly and sweet. “I’m used to it. It’s because I look twelve.”

  He cleared his throat. “Not twelve. Young, but definitely not twelve.”

  “How old?”

  “I’m afraid to say. You seem unhappy already.”

  “Tell me. How old?”

  He grinned again. “Nineteen.”

  “At least I can vote,” she said.

  His voice fell. “That�
�s not all you can do.”

  Was he flirting? “Excuse me?”

  “I’m a man. Your family got me drunk. This is what happens.”

  She zipped out into traffic. “Huh. Who knew?”

  “When you’re older, maybe you’ll like it,” he said. “Looking young.”

  They’d reached the busier, more urban part of North Oakland. She changed lanes to dodge a bus but had to brake for two women holding ice cream cones, who were crossing College Avenue against the red. “I like it fine right now. I’m very positive about how I look. Very, very positive.”

  “That’s good.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. “We’re almost there,” she said. “Is your place in San Francisco far from the station?”

  “Just a block or two from the Embarcadero.”

  “I know that area well,” she said. “Liam used to live near there.”

  “Exactly near there, in fact.”

  “Exactly?”

  “Precisely. In every way.”

  “Hold on. You’re renting Liam’s condo?”

  “It was his idea,” he said. “They hadn’t put it on the market yet.”

  Since she’d lived there herself for months, she suddenly had a vivid picture of Zack there in his suit, his khakis, his boxers, and then nothing at all.

  When she had to stop at the intersection, she peeked at him and wondered how accurate her imagination was.

  Mmm.

  Damn that imagination. It was always getting her into trouble. “We’d better hurry,” she said. “The last train isn’t as late as it should be. You’d think they wanted us to drive everywhere.”

  He looked at his phone. “I should be fine. It’s just up here, right?”

  For a man who’d started a family and lost everything, he seemed so calm, capable, normal. She tried to imagine how Liam or Mark would behave if they lost Bev or Rose, and failed.

  Humbled by her own small life, she pulled over in front of the florist’s shop below the stairs up to the station. The cloudless night was cold, and she suppressed a shiver. “Here you are.”