The Perfect Fit (Riley O'Brien & Co. #2.5) (7 page)

Did that make him middle-aged? Probably so.

Zeke and his teammates stood in a circle near the edge of the softball diamond. He didn’t know any of them personally, but he knew
of
one of them: Cal O’Brien, the great-great-grandson of the company’s founder. He headed up Riley O’Brien & Co.’s global marketing and communications department, managing a massive group of people.

The dark-haired man appeared to be just a few years younger than Zeke, in his early thirties. His tall, lean frame hinted at an active lifestyle.

Cal spoke first. “Hi, everyone. Let’s start by introducing ourselves. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Cal O’Brien.” He pointed at the twenty-something Asian guy standing next to Zeke. “Bohai, why don’t you go first… tell us your name and what you do for Riley O’Brien & Co.”

After everyone had introduced themselves, Cal said, “We need a team captain—someone who can represent the team during the games, assign fielding positions, and create the lineup.” His light blue eyes skimmed over the group. “Anyone want to volunteer?”

Silence greeted Cal’s question, and he chuckled. “I feel like that teacher in
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
… Anyone? Anyone?”

It was physically painful for Zeke to just stand there. The military had conditioned him to step up.

He waited, counting off the seconds in his head.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
No one raised their hand.

With an internal sigh of resignation, he said, “I’ll do it. I’ll be the team captain.”

Cal’s eyebrows arched. “Yeah?”

Zeke nodded. “I played baseball in high school, and I also played on the intramural softball team in college.”

“Sounds like we’re in good hands, then.”

Being the team captain wouldn’t be all that terrible. At least it would allow Zeke to decide what position he played. And he would be able to substitute other players in the lineup so he wouldn’t have to run bases.

“Let’s go sit down and decide who’s going to do what,” Cal suggested, tilting his head toward the bench inside the chain-link dugout.

As the group started toward the dugout, the O’Brien heir fell into step beside Zeke. “This is a first,” the younger man said.

Glancing sideways, Zeke asked, “What’s a first?”

“Usually, I get stuck being the team captain. I think it’s because no one wants to step on my toes.”

Zeke stopped mid-stride. Everyone except for Cal continued on. They turned to face each other.

“Am I stepping on your toes?”

“Hell, no! I’m glad someone had the balls to volunteer. I’m tired of always being the team captain. It’s a pain in the ass.”

Cal’s candor made Zeke laugh. “I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Zeke shrugged. “It’s not the first time I’ve volunteered to do something unpleasant.”

The other man stared at Zeke, his gaze assessing. “You’re one of the veterans we hired through our new program, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.” When Zeke arched his eyebrow in a silent question, Cal explained, “It’s the way you stand.” He held out his right hand. “Thank you for your service to our country.”

It made Zeke uncomfortable when people thanked him for his military service. He had always felt fortunate that he could serve. But he was glad people recognized the sacrifice that servicemen and women made every day.

Shaking Cal’s hand, Zeke said, “It was an honor.”

“How do you like working for us?” Cal asked as they resumed the trek toward the dugout. Before Zeke could answer, the other man snorted derisively. “I doubt you’d tell me if you
didn’t
like it … since I’m one of
the
O’Briens.”

“You’re right,” Zeke agreed. “But I wouldn’t lie and tell you that I liked it, either.”

Cal laughed, clearly delighted by his answer. “I think Riley O’Brien & Co. is lucky to have you, Zeke,” he said, slapping him on the back.

Zeke spent the next thirty minutes assessing his teammates’s batting and fielding abilities. Their level of skill surprised him. Apparently, Riley O’Brien & Co. employees took their softball pretty seriously.

With Cal’s help, Zeke assigned positions and created a lineup. It had been a no-brainer to assign the pitcher position to Norah Williams, a young black woman who worked in the company’s e-commerce department. She had played softball at the University of North Carolina and had a fluid underhand toss.

No one had wanted the catcher position, so Zeke had forced his teammates to draw straws. The loser was Jake Lilliard, a vice president in the finance department who had roared into the parking lot on a black Triumph motorcycle.

Jake looked way too young to hold such a high-ranking position with one of the biggest apparel companies in the world. Zeke would guess the tall, auburn-haired man was thirty years old, max. But Jake was supposedly a genius with numbers, and Quinn O’Brien had recruited him directly from Stanford’s MBA program.

Grumbling, Jake donned the catcher’s protective equipment and took up his position. Everyone had a turn at bat, and by the end of the hour-long practice, the team was playing pretty well.

“Good job, everyone,” Zeke praised his teammates as they shoved their equipment into the mesh bag. “See you at the game.”

The violet of twilight had given way to an indigo night sky. Zeke shrugged on his fleece jacket, grateful for its warmth. As he began the walk back to his Jeep Cherokee, Cal and Jake flanked him.

“Want to grab a beer?” Cal asked.

“Magnolia Brewery is pretty close,” Jake said. “Have you ever been there? They make their own beer.”

“Sure,” he answered, partly because it had been a long, long time since he’d grabbed a beer with anyone, and partly because he had no desire to commit career suicide and ignore an invitation from an O’Brien.

“It’s too far to walk, though,” Cal added. “Do you mind driving, Zeke? My Caddy is a bitch to park, and Jake only has his bike.”

Zeke readily agreed, privately relieved by Cal’s suggestion. Since the IED attack, he had a hard time being a passenger in any vehicle. He preferred to be in the driver’s seat—literally and figuratively.

During the short drive to Magnolia Brewery, Cal and Jake talked about the monthly poker game that Quinn hosted at his house in Laurel Heights. Apparently, it was a tradition that had started when Quinn and Cal lived together, and invitations to the game were highly coveted.

A memory of playing poker with his buddies in Iraq floated through Zeke’s mind. He missed the camaraderie … the good-natured ribbing that always occurred when a group of men got together to play a card game.

“Do you play poker?” Cal asked Zeke from his place in the backseat.

“Yes. Badly.”

Jake laughed. “Then you and Cal have something in common.”

“Asshole,” Cal muttered. “I’m a fucking awesome poker player.”

Looking over his shoulder at Cal, the young VP smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The brewery was more or less what Zeke had expected. A big bar, lots of dark wood, long tables with benches, and an old-fashioned tile floor. For a Tuesday night at eight thirty, it was quite crowded, but they managed to find some space on one end of a table near the back.

Once Zeke was settled on the bench, he asked, “So what do you recommend?”

“If you like IPAs, you should try the Proving Ground IPA,” Cal suggested. “It’s won a lot of awards.”

“I like dark beers,” Jake added. “I always get the Lightning Imperial Stout when it’s on tap.”

“Or you could get a beer flight,” Cal said. “Then you could try several different brews.”

Zeke took Cal’s suggestion, ordering a three-beer flight when the server came by. It didn’t take long for her to return with their beers.

Cal held up his pilsner glass of blond ale. “Here’s to not being the worst team in the softball league.”

Laughing, Zeke and Jake tapped their own glasses against Cal’s. “Hear, hear,” they chimed.

Zeke took a sip of his wheat beer. He’d already forgotten its name, but it was pretty good, leaving a tangy, citrusy aftertaste.

“What branch of the military were you in?” Cal asked Zeke.

“Army.”

“Did you join right out of high school?”

Zeke shook his head. “After college. I was part of the ROTC program.”

Reserve Officers’ Training Corps had paid for his college education. In return, he had been required to commit to five years in the Army.

“How long were you in the Army?” Jake asked.

“Twelve years.”

Zeke took another sip of his beer, wondering if a casual outing with colleagues was going to morph into the Spanish Inquisition. He sure as hell hoped not.

“How long have you worked at Riley O’Brien & Co.?” he asked Jake.

“Almost five years.”

“Why did you leave the Army?” Cal asked.

Obviously, Zeke’s efforts to redirect the conversation hadn’t worked.

“I was injured.”

He could tell Cal and Jake wanted to follow up with more questions, but his tone made it clear that they wouldn’t be answered. He didn’t talk about the IED attack, and he wasn’t going to start now.

It was bad enough that he had to relive it in his nightmares. He didn’t want to spend his waking hours talking about it. In fact, he’d never talked about the IED attack with anyone except the counselor in Maryland who had specialized in combat injuries and PTSD.

A lot of soldiers refused to acknowledge that they needed help to deal with their emotions, but Zeke wasn’t one of them. He’d known that he needed help, and he’d gotten it.

The counselor had assured him that the attack hadn’t been Zeke’s fault. But the fact was, it had been his decision that put the supply convoy in harm’s way. He was the one who had insisted that they take that specific route, believing it to be safer and faster.

Sometimes Zeke wished he couldn’t remember the attack. Most people who experienced traumatic injuries like his had no memories of what happened immediately before, during, or after.

But his memories were so clear they were like a movie playing in IMAX—a loud, violent, stomach-churning movie.

He remembered the lead Humvee exploding first, creating a cloud of smoke and dust. He remembered the IED hitting his vehicle with an ear-deafening boom and a bone-jarring quake.

He remembered seeing his best friend with half his face blown off. And he remembered looking down and seeing nothing but bone and blood and charred flesh where his left leg had been.

He carried the memory of the attack with him—emotionally and physically. It would always be with him.

But he was alive, and he was grateful that his life had been spared when so many of his buddies lay in a grave. He hadn’t always felt that way, but he did now.

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his sweat pants, startling him. He reached for it reflexively.

The screen displayed a text from Margo: “How was practice? I made spinach lasagna for dinner. Have you eaten?”

Glancing up from his phone, he asked the guys, “Are we just drinking or are we eating, too?”

“Eating,” Cal and Jake answered simultaneously.

Zeke replied to Margo’s text: “Practice was good. I’m the team captain. Having dinner with a couple of co-workers. Home around eleven.”

She responded with two emojis: a baseball bat and a smiley face.

He placed his phone on the table, facedown, and met the curious gazes of the men across from him. Cal cocked his head toward Zeke’s phone.

“Wife?” he asked.

Zeke shook his head. “No. I’m not married. It was my roommate. She was just checking in.”

He realized his mistake immediately. The military had taught him to answer only the question asked and then to shut up. But he had just over-shared in a big way.

“
She?
” Jake repeated. “You have a female roommate?”

“Yeah.”

Zeke could tell by the looks on their faces what they were thinking. For some unknown reason, he felt compelled to set the record straight.

“She’s
just
my roommate. It’s completely platonic. I don’t think about her that way. She’s attractive, but I’m not attracted to her. Not even a little.”

Cal smiled slowly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Not even a little?” He glanced sideways at Jake. “Our man Zeke doth protest too much, methinks.”

Jake nodded. “Methinks, too.”

“It’s not like that,” Zeke protested.

But then he realized that maybe, just maybe, it
was
like that.

Margo had paid only a hundred dollars for her evening gown, but she felt like a million bucks in it. After weeks of searching consignment boutiques around the city for the perfect dress for the Pictures & Paws Gala, she’d finally found it.

The art auction and gala benefited the Fog City Animal Shelter, a nonprofit, no-kill shelter that served greater Marin County. Every year, the event was held at the Four Seasons San Francisco on the third Saturday in May and featured an art auction consisting of pictures by famous photographers followed by dinner and dancing.

Margo’s veterinary clinic had sponsored two tables at the gala, and all employees had been invited to attend and bring a guest. Zeke was the only person she’d wanted to go with, and a few days ago, she had finally worked up enough courage to ask him. She’d lied and told him that her date had canceled because of a business trip.

She was turning into quite a liar when it came to Zeke. But she’d instinctively known that he wouldn’t have agreed to go with her unless he’d thought that she had been deserted.

He had agreed to escort her, albeit reluctantly, and not before expressing his displeasure about wearing a tux. Apparently, he’d never worn one; in the past, he’d always worn his formal Army uniform, which he called his “mess dress.”

She, meanwhile, had never spent so much money on a single piece of clothing. But this dress… Oh, it was totally worth it. She had immediately fallen in love with the mermaid gown, with its navy blue lace and nude underlay.

The cap sleeves and plunging illusion V-neck kept it modest. But it was sexy, too—snug and formfitting, especially around her hips and butt. Plus, the underlay gave the impression that she was nude under the lace, and the curves of her breasts were visible through the nude material of the V-neck.