The Perfect Fit (Riley O'Brien & Co. #2.5) Read Free Page A

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 remarkably well together, especially since they had known