Perfect for You (10 page)

"You're deep in thought." Eve dropped into one of the guest chairs. "Are you actually working?"

"I'm on fire today." She added a crosshatch texture to the red. Now it was perfect.

"What changed?"

Greg changed it. Not that she was going to admit that. She saved the mockup and raised her hands in triumph. "Two mockups done, and you know what?"

"What?"

"They're good." Freya closed her eyes and twisted her neck to relieve the tension from sitting there for so long. "Thank God, because Charles has been hovering."

Eve winced. "And he's going to hover more."

"Uh-oh." Freya studied her friend, noticing the drawn expression on her face. "What happened?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Claire called."

"Uh-oh," she repeated with more feeling. Whenever Claire called, Charles spun out of control. He loved his elder daughter most, probably because she was most like him. It was probably also why they clashed so much.

"Claire and Tom are taking Izzie to North Africa with them."

"How old is Izzie now?"

"Six. They're taking her out of school for a month."

"So Charles is pissed becauseÉ" Freya motioned with her hand.

"He thinks Izzie should have come to stay with him and Mom." She shook her head. "The real problem is that Claire hasn't come home in a long time. Underneath he's pissed that she's gallivanting all over the world but not coming to visit."

"If Charles was my dad, I might not want to come visit that often either."

"Tell me about it." Eve made a face. "The last time they came, he cornered Claire's husband and interrogated him about his finances."

"Nice."

"I know." Eve exhaled. "Tell me about your dates. I feel like I haven't talked to you so long."

Freya shrugged. "Nothing to tell."

"I find that hard to believe. You said you had a number of dates lined up for this week."

"I did." She frowned. "Something's weird. I've made five dates so far."

"That's good." Eve hesitated. "Isn't it?"

"You'd think so, but they've all gone wrong somehow. Something's off."

"Like?"

"Like I feel as though someone's sabotaging them."

Eve raised her brows.

"I know, it sounds crazy, except I have this feeling." She wrinkled her nose. "Last night my date took me to Bix and you know who we
happened
to run into there?"

"Who?"

"Cavanaugh. And he ruined my date."

Eve's brow furrowed. "Cavanaugh?"

"My upstairs neighbor."

"Satan's spawn?"

Freya winced. "Yes."

"Strange that out of the hundreds of restaurants in San Francisco he'd turn up at the same one you went to."

"That's what I'm saying."

"He was alone?"

"He was with his girlfriend, who isn't his girlfriend but actually his platonic childhood friend. She was stood up by her date and he took her out so she wouldn't be upset."

"Ooohh," Eve drawled.

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Just that he's free, and he's been asking you out." She let that linger in the room before she asked, "And he ruined your date?"

"Yes. Marcus, the guy I was out with, kept insisting there was something going on between Cavanaugh and me."

"What would give him that idea?"

"I have no clue." She remembered the way he'd slipped his hand between her thighs and flushed again.

"No idea, huh?" Eve's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Maybe you should think about going out with him now that you know he's free."

She shook her head vigorously even as something inside her leapt at the thought. "
No
. No way."

"Why not? He's been asking you out for the past couple months—"

"Six months." Not that she was keeping track.

"—And he seems like a nice guy."

"He's a smarmy lawyer," she said with less than solid conviction.

Eve, of course, picked up on it. "A smarmy lawyer taking his friend out to make her feel better? You're right. What a jerk."

She ignored her friend's sarcasm. "And I have another date scheduled and the guy seems promising. Plus I get messages every day. It's not like I don't have choices."

"Maybe you should still consider going out with the lawyer. It might be just what you need."

Now she sounded like Cavanaugh. "I'm not that desperate yet."

Eve stared at her silently for a moment before shaking her head. "I've got to go. I have a meeting with Charles that I need to prep for."

"Do you need help?"

"You have any tequila handy?" She stood. "Just feel lucky you're off his radar for another few days, or you might get desperate enough to go out with Cavanaugh."

Freya shivered, remembering the way Cavanaugh's fingers had felt on her skin. Sometimes she wondered if being desperate wasn't as bad as she'd always thought.

Nine o'clock at night. Freya sat in her living with her computer on her laptop, staring at a blank Photoshop file.

Two more days. She had forty-eight hours before she had to show Charles the initial mockups she'd come up with for the Sin City account.

"This is ridiculous." She stretched her arms overhead. It shouldn't have been
that
hard to get inspired.

Maybe she just needed a break. She opened a browser window to check the email address she'd set up just for her craigslist ad.

Eleven messages. A couple were spam, some of them were automatic deletes. But the last one she read, from a guy named Connor Blair, was actually promising. He sounded intelligent and sane, which was almost too much to ask for. And he left her his phone number.

She checked the time. 9:20. Too late to call him back?

No, she'd do it. She reached for her cell phone and dialed his number.

The phone picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Could I speak to Connor?"

"Speaking."

"I'm the goddess you left a message for."

"And you're rightly assuming I don't leave messages for many goddesses."

"There aren't many of us left."

His voice lowered conspiratorially. "You know, you saved me from a fate worse than death. I'm sitting in my office, going over the most boring business plan ever created, and contemplating putting myself out of my misery. But speaking to you is much better than a sharp pencil in the eye."

She laughed. "That's so sweet. I'm touched."

"I'm a sensitive guy like that."

"Do you work late often?" She leaned back in the chair and propped her feet on the desk.

"Unfortunately. Which is why I don't meet many women. But I'm reorganizing my priorities, and I'm finding that adventure is just the thing I need."

Feeling impulsive, she asked, "How adventurous do you feel?"

"Fairly adventurous. Do you have something in mind?"

"Meet me at Hotel Biron. It's a wine bar off Market Street. Let's say at ten thirty."

"It's a date, goddess. See you in an hour."

"Wait," she said before he hung up. "Don't you want to know what I look like or anything?"

He chuckled. "Somehow I don't think that'll be a problem. See you in a bit."

She hung up and ran to her room to change. After she pulled on a fresh tank top, jeans, and boots, she swiped her lips with gloss. She inspected her topknot—messy but good enough. Throwing on her patchwork coat and wrapping a scarf around her neck, she headed out the door to catch a cab.

Freya beat Connor to the wine bar, so she grabbed a table in the front and sat down. She drummed her fingers on the table and watched the door.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and the cause wasn't anticipation for the date. For some reason, she half expected Cavanaugh to walk through the door. Not that she'd have any reason to believe he frequented this wine bar.

The fact that Cavanaugh caused more nerves than Connor wasn't lost on her. But she hadn't met Connor yet. He'd sounded like he had potential.

A man walked in the door, scanning the room. He was about her height, his blond hair neat and recently trimmed. The clothes weren't remarkable, but his shoes were shiny. She wondered what that signified—was he anal or just proud in his footwear?

But he had nice brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. Abandoning her thoughts of his footwear, she waited to feel the excitement of meeting someone new but settled on warm interest when excitement proved elusive.

"Goddess?" he asked as he approached her table.

She felt a moment of disappointment when his voice in person didn't make her want to strip and throw herself at him. Trying not to compare it to the raspy sensuality of Cavanaugh's, she smiled and held out her hand. "Freya Godwin."

"Connor Blair." His grip was a little too hard but brief. "A pleasure meeting you."

His smile was friendly and open, so she shrugged off her misgivings. "I'm glad you were willing to come out."

"So am I." Rubbing his hands together, he looked around the bar. Then he stood again. "Excuse me."

Frowning, she watched him go to the bar. To order drinks? He hadn't asked her what she liked.

He returned with an open bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in another. "I thought that since this was an auspicious occasion we should order something festive."

Okay, maybe she jumped the gun by being annoyed. From this moment on, she'd relax and be open. "I love champagne."

Pouring them each a glass, he handed her a glass and picked up the other for himself. "To this moment and those yet to come," he said as he clinked his glass to hers.

She smiled and sipped. "That was a lovely toast."

He grinned sheepishly. "I stole it from James Bond."

"Does this mean you like your vodka martinis shaken, not stirred?"

"I don't drink vodka anymore." He shuddered violently. "Not after a boat party two years ago. Don't ask me any details. I don't remember much from the weekend."

Grinning, she leaned back in her chair and studied him. "So, Mr. Connor Blair. You don't drink vodka but you like champagne—"

"And tequila," he admitted.

"Champagne and tequila," she amended. "And you go out late at night to meet strange women you've barely talked to over the phone. What else should I know about you?"

"I'm a Pisces and live on Russian Hill. I have two older sisters. I'm in business and travel extensively for work." Connor eyed her speculatively as he drank more of his champagne. "And now you, Ms. Godwin."

"Well, I have only one younger sister, but I find that's more than enough. I design websites." She tapped her fluted glass as if in deep thought. "I don't read newspapers or watch the news. I don't like chocolate, so in the off chance that I get angry with you at some point, giving me a box of it would be like pounding the last nail into your coffin."

"Impossible," he stated with authority.

"What?"

"If I've learned one thing over the years—remember that I have two sisters—it's that all women need chocolate daily, if not on the hour. If you don't like chocolate, it must mean you're an alien. Or a man." His eyes narrowed. "But you're definitely not a man."

"It's nice that you noticed."

"You'd have to be six feet under not to notice."

"What were you expecting when you walked in tonight?"

"Your ad said you were a goddess, but in my wildest, most lavish dreams I wouldn't have conjured you up." His eyes roved over her face. "It's like waking up on Christmas morning to find out that you just got the thing you've been pining for all year long."

"Does that mean you've been a good boy?"

"Oh, I can assure you that I'm very good." Something more than warm humor shined in his eyes, a little vein of naughtiness that should have sparked her excitement.

Should
being the operative word. She was having fun, but the same kind of fun she'd have with any random guy.

Taking another sip, she told herself to relax. She was being too attached. She'd just enjoy herself and let this go wherever it went.

So she sat back in her chair and tipped her head. "I like that you're spontaneous. How many people would talk to a woman on the phone after answering her ad and then agree to meet her minutes later?"

"I'm not spontaneous as much as I follow my instincts," he said, regarding her steadily.

"So your instincts told you to come out tonight?"

"My instincts told me that I had to meet you. And now they're telling me to take you to the beach." He grinned as she blinked in surprise. "Do you have an early day tomorrow? Do you need to go home?"

"No, I don't have to be at work at any specific time."

"Come with me for a walk on the beach then."

A midnight walk on the beach—just what she'd been waiting for. Why wasn't she jumping for joy?

Because she was an idiot. He was perfect—obviously successful, smart, and entertaining. So what if she wasn't dying of excitement? She was just tired—it'd been a long day.

Determined to make the most of it, she drained her glass and pushed the seat back. "I'm ready when you are."

While Connor paid the bill, she checked out the photographs hanging on the walls. She studied one that looked like sand dunes but was actually the curves of a woman's body.

"The composition is a bit trite, but the use of light is beautiful in this one," Connor said as he rejoined her. "It's reminiscent of Rembrandt."

She turned to him in surprise. "That was an educated comment."

"Don't sound so astonished." He guided her out the door with his hand on her back.

She fought the urge to shrug it off. "Not surprising, just unusual. Not many people comment on the weakness of the composition or compare the use of light to a Dutch Master."

"Art is a passion for me." He opened the car door for her.

They discussed art the entire drive to the beach. As he pulled into a parking space, Freya slipped off her shoes and left them tucked under her seat in the car. While he locked the car up, she wandered down the steps to the beach and sank her feet into the sand.