by Jenna Sutton
“Hippos. They urinate on other hippos, and when they’re really mad, they kick their feces on them.”
Zeke stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. It rumbled up from deep in his chest. It sounded as if he hadn’t laughed like that in a long, long time.
“My former roommate was a hippo.”
“Well, I’m not, but sometimes I leave dirty dishes in the sink or kick off my shoes by the front door. Is that going to bother you?”
He shook his head slowly.
“And Roby sheds. I groom him regularly, but he still sheds. Not a lot, though.”
“I have a vacuum.” Zeke cocked his head. “So what do you think?”
The apartment was perfect. So was the backyard. But she didn’t know what to think about Zeke.
Instinctively, she knew he would be a distraction—one she didn’t need. She had more important things to worry about. Things like establishing herself as a valued member of the veterinary practice she’d joined, building a loyal clientele of four-legged patients, and feeding her bank account so it had more than a hundred bucks in it.
She had no backup plan. She had to succeed. And a handsome roommate would undoubtedly be a temptation.
Beggars can’t be choosers, she reminded herself. And at this point, she definitely was a beggar.
“When can I move in?”
CHAPTER TWO
Zeke crept from his bedroom at six o’clock the next morning. He was trying to be as quiet as possible, but he lacked the stealth that he’d possessed before losing half his leg in Iraq a little more than two years ago.
He didn’t want to wake up Margo, who was sleeping on the sofa in the living room because her furniture hadn’t arrived yet. Although he had suggested that she sleep in his bed and let him take the sofa, she’d declined his gentlemanly offer with a vehement “No!”
The idea had clearly horrified her, but he had no idea why. Maybe she was scared of him. Her behavior when they’d first met certainly indicated that might be a possibility. When he’d introduced himself, she’d just stood there silently, her blue eyes the size of saucers.
He sighed. That was the last thing he wanted—a roommate who acted like a fraidy-cat when he was around.
Maybe she had mistaken his offer as a come-on. Should he reassure her that he wasn’t interested in her? He wanted a roommate, nothing more. And even if he wanted a lover, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t pick someone like Margo.
As he crossed the threshold to the living room, he was surprised to see that Roby was the only warm body occupying the sofa. The Doberman was lying on his side, his sleekly muscular form stretching the entire length of the cushions. Apparently, Roby already considered Zeke a friend; his appearance warranted nothing more than a brief lift of the dog’s head before it flopped down again.
Glancing toward the dining area, Zeke spotted Margo. She was perched on one of the barstools at the table, her small frame swathed in a gray Cornell University sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants. He was wearing almost the same thing, but his sweatshirt was U.S. Army issue.
Her hands were wrapped around a coffee mug—his favorite mug—but he didn’t smell the enticing aroma of coffee. She must drink tea.
“Good morning,” she chirped.
He barely bit back a groan. Was she a morning person? God help him.
“Morning,” he replied.
He knew he sounded like a bear that had just emerged from hibernation. Hell, that was exactly how he felt: irritable, hungry, and itching to tear a strip off some unsuspecting human.
“How did you sleep? I slept great. Your sofa is more comfortable than my bed.”
“I need coffee before I can deal with you.”
Instead of offending her, his surly response elicited a laugh. It was surprisingly husky, not the high-pitched, shrill giggle he had expected … and dreaded.
“I’ll get you some.” She jumped down from the stool and headed for the kitchen. “How do you like it?”
If she wanted to serve him like a waitress in a diner, he wasn’t going to argue. “Black,” he answered as he settled himself on a barstool.
Moments later, she handed him a mug of steaming coffee and then hopped back on her barstool. He muttered thank you before taking a sip. It scalded his tongue, but he didn’t care. He needed the jolt of caffeine.
“I’m guessing you’re not a morning person,” she said, laughter coloring her voice.
He grunted.
“Why are you up so early?”
He took another sip of coffee before answering. “I spent a dozen years in the Army. It’s a habit.”
He was lying to her. But she didn’t need to know about the nightmares that made it difficult for him to sleep more than a few hours at a time.
He doubted she ever suffered from nightmares. She definitely didn’t look sleep-deprived. Her reddish-gold hair was in a loose bun on top of her head, and a black fabric headband held back the shiny strands around her face.
Her blue eyes were so bright they seemed to sparkle. And her skin… God, her skin… It reminded him of a cultured pearl—luminous and creamy with tints of peach. Not a single wrinkle or blemish marred it.
Had he ever been so fresh-faced? So eager to welcome a new day?
He didn’t need a mirror to know that he looked older than thirty-six. It wasn’t just the strands of gray in his hair or the patches of silver in his stubble. It wasn’t just the wrinkles from the harsh Iraqi sun or the puffy skin under his eyes.
It was the way he felt … the things he had seen … the things he had done.
Once the caffeine had worked its magic, he asked her, “Why are you up so early?”
“I’m still on East Coast time. It’s nine o’clock in Ithaca.” Her mouth curved in a small smile. “And I’m a morning person.”
This time he didn’t bother holding back the groan. She laughed again, a light, happy sound—one that made him want to smile.
“I’m starving,” she announced. “I peeked into your fridge, and it looks like you have everything I need to make breakfast. If you’re willing to share your food, I’ll do all the work.”
“I’m not a two-year-old. I know how to share.”
“I plan to go grocery shopping later today,” she added.
He wondered if she had enough money for groceries. She’d been upfront about her current financial situation, admitting that she was “poorer than a church mouse” until she started her new job.
That was why she’d opted to move into the apartment immediately. She had told him that she couldn’t afford to waste any more money on a hotel.
“I’ll help with breakfast,” he said.
He stood slowly, worried that he would go down when he put pressure on his prosthetic limb. That hadn’t happened in months, not since he’d moved to San Francisco, but it was something he always feared.
By the time he’d reached the kitchen, Margo had already pulled the eggs and bacon out of the fridge. “I’m in the mood for an omelet. Sound good to you?”
“Yeah.”
He kept his fridge well-stocked, and he grabbed a block of cheddar cheese, a tomato, and a bag of spinach and placed them on the island. She must have conducted a thorough investigation of his kitchen before he’d woken up, because she easily found the grater. She passed it to him, and he got to work shredding the cheese.
“Do you have a baking sheet? I couldn’t find it.”
“No. Why do you need one?”
“For the bacon.” She sighed. “I’m going to have to add a baking sheet to my shopping list. I can’t go for very long without freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.”
“If you’ll share your cookies, I’ll buy the baking sheet.”
She looked at him, a mischievous smile on her face. “I’m not a two-year-old,” she pointed out, mimicking his earlier comment. “I know how to share.”
To his surprise, they successfully accomplished the task of making breakfast with very little talking. They worked r
emarkably well together, especially since they had known each other for less than twenty-four hours. In his experience, it took a while before people developed the kind of teamwork he and Margo seemed to instinctively have.
He handled the prep work, and she cooked. Roby helped, too, hoovering the pieces of food they accidently dropped on the floor.
After plating both omelets, she added a couple of strips of bacon and passed him a plate and fork. He started for the dining room, but stopped when she picked up her plate and fork, leaned back against the countertop, and dug into her omelet.
For a moment, he was nonplused, recalling innumerable times when his mother chastised him for eating while standing in the kitchen. With a shrug, he propped his ass on the edge of the counter and lifted a piece of bacon to his mouth.
“I got an email notification that the movers will be here tomorrow morning between ten and noon,” she told him.
“Do I need to move some things around so your stuff will fit?”
She glanced at him, surprise etched on her face. “You don’t have to do that. This is your apartment.”
“It’s our apartment now.”
He didn’t mind making room for Margo’s belongings. Although he’d told her that he didn’t want a roommate, that wasn’t entirely true. Because of his time in the military, he was used to sharing his space.
He had never lived alone, and the past two months without a roommate had been kind of lonely. While he’d made a few friends at work, he didn’t have any close friends nearby. His best friends were halfway around the world, wearing fatigues and driving Humvees, and the majority of his family lived in North Carolina.
Margo shook her head slowly. “I left most of my stuff in Ithaca. My furniture was old and cheap, and I thought it would be smarter to just replace it than ship it across the country. I only shipped my mattress, bedroom furniture, clothes, and a few boxes. I donated the rest.”
“Did you grow up in Reno, too?” he asked before taking a bite of omelet.
Margo looked at him blankly. “Reno?”
“Yeah. Your uncle is from Reno. Is that where you grew up?”
She laughed. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Uncle Dave isn’t from Reno. If you pick nicknames based on hometowns, his should be Wyandotte.”
“Where’s Wyandotte?”
“Just south of Detroit. A lot of auto and steel workers live there.”
Zeke had never been to Detroit, so he wasn’t familiar with the surrounding suburbs. “Is that where you grew up?”
She nodded. “My mom was a third-generation auto worker. Uncle Dave didn’t want to work in the auto plants, so he joined the Army.”
“What about your dad?”
“He died when I was three. I don’t remember him. It was always just me and my mom.”
“Does your mom still live in Wyandotte?”
“No.” Her glow seemed to dim a little. “She died when I was a sophomore at Michigan State.”
Except for her uncle Reno, Margo had no family. She was all alone.
A fierce yet unexpected feeling of protectiveness surged through Zeke. Margo wasn’t alone anymore. She had him to watch out for her now.
“What about you?” she asked. “Where did you grow up?”
“Asheville, North Carolina.”
“I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”
“It’s pretty. It’s right in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains.” He didn’t want to talk about himself or his hometown; he was more interested in her. “How did you end up in San Francisco?”
“I’ve always wanted to live here.”
“Why?”
“I usually tell people that I just had a feeling that I belong here.” A tinge of peach stained her cheeks. “But that’s not the truth. It’s because of The Wedding Planner.”
“What wedding planner?” He frowned in confusion, glancing at her bare ring finger. “You’re engaged?”
She laughed lightly. “No. I don’t even have a boyfriend. I’m talking about the movie with Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey. It’s one of my favorites. I saw it for the first time when I was eleven, and from that moment on, I wanted to live here.”
“Yeah, I remember that movie. I was in college when it came out. I took Andrea to see it.”
“Who’s Andrea?”
He blinked, unaware that he’d uttered that last sentence out loud. When he didn’t answer her question, Margo repeated it.
Reluctantly, he said, “Andrea is my ex-wife.”
Margo froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, a hunk of omelet dangling from it. “You’re divorced?”
He nodded curtly.
“Oh.” After a beat of silence, she asked, “How long were you married?”
“Almost twelve years.”
He glanced down at his plate, his stomach turning over at the sight of the congealed cheese. The omelet had tasted pretty good until he’d opened his big mouth and mentioned Andrea.
He hated to talk about his ex-wife. She was just another one of his mistakes … another one of his failures.
“How long have you been divorced?” Margo prodded, setting her plate down on the counter.
Jesus, she’s nosy.
Choosing to ignore her question, he moved to the trash can and scraped the remainder of his omelet into it, his fork making an ugly screeching noise against the porcelain. He hoped his silence gave her a clue that he didn’t want to discuss Andrea.
“How did you end up in San Francisco?” Margo asked.
Zeke gave an internal sigh of relief that she had dropped the subject of his failed marriage. He was so relieved he happily answered her question.
“After I left the Army, Riley O’Brien & Co. offered me a job I couldn’t turn down.”
The company, which was headquartered in downtown San Francisco, was the oldest manufacturer of blue jeans in the United States. People around the world wore their signature blue jeans, known as Rileys.
Margo held out her hand for his empty plate. “What kind of job?”
“The company has a hiring program specifically for veterans,” he said as he relinquished his plate to her. “And I have a special skill set that it needs.”
She looked up at him, the smooth skin between her eyebrows furrowing. “A special skill set?”
He could tell by the tone of her voice what she was thinking. It was what everybody thought: the only skill a soldier possessed was the ability to kill. But that was a fallacy. Soldiers, even the lowest-ranking ones, had a lot of skills, and smart companies like Riley O’Brien & Co. realized that fact.
“I’m an expert in supply chain and logistics,” he explained.
Seeing the blank look on her face, he added, “Supply chain and logistics involves moving goods and materials from one place to another as quickly and efficiently as possible. It’s what I did in the Army.”
“Oh, like FedEx or UPS?”
He nodded. “They’re logistics providers that work in partnership with other companies. Most big corporations have entire departments dedicated to managing their supply chain. It’s a really big deal right now, especially for retailers that are trying to fine-tune their omnichannel strategy.”
He found his job fascinating and could talk about it for hours. But most people thought it was boring. They only cared about free shipping.
“I have no idea what omnichannel is,” she said wryly. “But I don’t feel bad because I doubt you know what pyuria is.”
“You’re right. I have no idea what pyuria is. What is it?”
“The presence of pus in the urine, usually caused by a bacterial infection. It’s often a sign of a urinary tract infection in humans and animals.”
Her answer was so unexpected a surprised chuckle escaped him. The same thing had happened yesterday when she’d told him that hippos were the dirtiest animals. She delivered bizarre information so matter-of-factly that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, I guess I should tuck that
piece of information away in case I’m selected to compete on Jeopardy!”
She smiled widely. “Is that one of your life goals?”
“What?”
“Is competing on Jeopardy! one of your life goals?” she clarified.
“No.”
At this point, he had only a few life goals. He wanted to sleep through the night without any nightmares. He wanted to run in marathons again. He wanted to end his three-year dry spell and fuck a soft, sexy woman until he came so hard he passed out.
But all those things required him to do one thing: deal with the toxic emotions he had from getting his leg blown off in an IED attack.
The clink of dishes caught his attention. Margo was loading their plates and utensils into the dishwasher, her movements fast and economical.
“As soon as I’m finished cleaning up, I’m going to get ready and head to the grocery store.” She glanced at him, the bottle of dishwashing liquid clasped in her hand. “Do you want to come with me?”
A trip to the local Safeway would give him an opportunity to get to know her better. And more important, it would give him the opportunity to pay for her groceries. If she protested, which she probably would, he’d just tell her to add the cost of her food to next month’s rent.
“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said.
CHAPTER THREE
There were fat cats. And then there were fat cats.
Margo rubbed the round belly of the feline stretched out on the exam room table. Adele, an eight-year-old tabby, tipped the scales at nineteen pounds.
Margo glanced at Adele’s adoring owner, who stood on the other side of the table. If she had to guess, she’d estimate that Greg McNeil was about her age.
Tall and lanky, he wore his light brown hair in a man bun—a look she did not endorse for any guy except Charlie Hunnam. Silver hoops pierced his left eyebrow and nostril, as well as his lower lip.
“Mr. McNeil, I think it’s time to change Adele’s diet. She weighs almost double what she should. That extra weight puts her at risk for diabetes, and it will eventually cause problems with her joints.”
“What do you suggest?”