Perfect for You (12 page)

She froze as she reached for a dandelion. Where had that thought come from?

She shouldn't be thinking about Greg. She hadn't heard from him all week, not that she expected to. It didn't matter, and she had Connor now. Tall, blond Connor, with cloudless blue eyes.

No
. She whacked her gloved hand against her forehead. Connor had brown eyes. Warm, brown eyes like melting chocolate.

She made a face and tried to think of something brown that was more appealing than chocolate.

"You have dirt smeared across your cheek."

She knew that voice, and when she looked up to see Greg standing before her, so virile in his baggy shorts and old tee shirt, she had a surge of feeling that she might have called happiness.

He reached down and rubbed what she assumed was the smudge he said she had. The shock of his touch made the words that she'd been about to say dry up in her mouth so, to her dismay, all she could do was gape at him like an electrocuted fish.

"I'm not sure this will do any good." His touch softened into a slow caress. "You have more on your forehead."

It made thinking hard, so she pushed his hand away. "I'm weeding, so it makes sense that I have dirt on me."

He picked up the spade lying next to her. She caught a whiff of the clean laundry tang of his shirt mixed with his own scent and sighed. A woman could get high off that smell.

Crouching at the other end of the flowerbed, he said, "It's the perfect day to be out here."

She shot him an incredulous look. "You like to garden."

"No, I like to enjoy the sun with a friend." He grinned at her. "I'd much prefer to ride along the coast in a convertible, but this isn't a bad second."

"You think of me as a friend?"

"I'd like you to be more than a friend, but we'll get to that eventually."

"Will we?" she asked, surprised at her thoughtful tone. At one time she would have vehemently told him
no way in hell
. But nowÉ

"Of course we will." He looked at her then, his blue gaze direct and open. "I'm not going to give up."

"But you haven't—" She clamped her mouth shut before she said he hadn't bugged her all week.

"I had a particularly gnarly case this week." He dug at a stubborn weed. "My client was, how should I put it? A bitch."

She grinned. "Are you allowed to talk about her like that?"

"After this week, yes. She's suing him, and she's the one who cheated on the poor guy." He gave it a hard tug and dropped it onto the pile she'd accumulated. "Some people shouldn't be allowed to get married. Ever."

Freya didn't have the heart to tell him he'd just pulled a daisy plant. "You're upset about this."

"Marriage isn't something to use and casually throw away."

"You really believe that."

"Of course." He frowned at her. "Don't you?"

"Well, yeah. But
you're
the divorce lawyer."

"Because sometimes we go in with the best intentions and it doesn't turn out the way we envisioned. And then you need someone on your side to help you get through it."

"Even your bitchy client?"

Scowling, he shook his head. "Normally I wouldn't take someone like that, but I knew I could keep her from completely decimating the poor fool who married her."

"A lawyer with a conscience." She shook her head. "What'll happen next? Flying pigs?"

"You going out with me."

She raised her brow.

"I have it on good authority that I'm an excellent date. That's what my goddaughter says."

"You have a goddaughter."

"Abby. She's great," he replied, beaming proudly. "Fearless and smart and beautiful. Like her mother."

"How did you end up with a goddaughter?"

"Don, Abby's dad, and I went to Columbia together. He was getting his MBA while I was in law school. We became good friends, but he got married and we lost touch. Anyway, one day he showed up in my office asking if I'd represent him in his divorce."

She finished the story for him. "After which he found his true love, married her, and had a baby."

"No," he contradicted. "Melinda
was
his true love. I facilitated their reconciliation and then they had Abby. They moved to the Bay Area before she was born. Abby is one of the reasons I moved out here from New York."

Okay. Well, she was a little surprised. Who ever heard of a divorce attorney saving someone's marriage? They were supposed to be heartless sharks—the worse breed of lawyers.

"You know, this garden reflects who you are." He paused in his work and was looking at her. His eyes mirrored the sky, and for a second she felt like she was soaring through them. "It's organized, not haphazard. But at the same time it's not overly restricted. More organic and natural, with an abundance of life. It's tamed, but still wildly. The colors are bright and vibrant, and it has a hint of sophistication." He touched one of the scarlet roses in front of him in a way that made her wish she had petals. "Passion too. Just like you."

She swallowed, speechless and unsure of what to say. She took the coward's way out. "Tell me about Abby," she blurted abruptly.

"Abby is two and a half and an absolute terror. She's very good at getting her way and isn't afraid to use her wiles." His lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Kind of like you."

"If she has you in thrall like this, she must be a master."

He laughed. "I'm twisted around her little finger like a pretzel."

"To tell you the truth, it's surprising," she said as she dug out some plant overgrowth. "Honestly, I wouldn't have pictured you as a godfather. Or maybe I should say as an involved godfather."

"It's good practice," he said, getting up to stretch.

"Good practice for what?" Stretching made his tee shirt ride up to expose a deliciously tanned strip of chiseled abs. She gulped and stood up, twisting her shoulders to one side and then the other in the pretense of stretching so that she wouldn't overtly stare at the dark arrow of hair that pointed the way south.

"For having children. It's a daunting task if you don't have any experience with them." He kneeled down again and began to attack the next plot of dirt.

"You want to have children?"

"A whole passel of them." He glanced at her as she got back to work across from him. "How about you? Do you want children someday?"

She shrugged. "I've never really thought about it. I suppose I do, but I think it largely has to do with finding the right man. You wouldn't have kids with just anyone, right? It's an expression of love that you wouldn't necessarily engage in except with some special."

"Who's the right man?"

"I don't know—I haven't met him yet."

He laughed softly. "No, I mean, what makes a man Ôright?' What are you looking for?"

She looked up with a slight frown of confusion. "I don't know. I always assumed that I'd just recognize him."

His head popped up and she saw that his brows were furrowed. "You don't know? Shouldn't you know? You did place an ad about it."

"I didn't put the ad to find a husband. I just wanted to kick-start my—" She stopped abruptly, surprised that she'd been about tell him.

"What?" he prompted.

She took a deep breath and took a chance. "My muse had gone missing, and I've been trying to get her back. I've been stale at work, and I have this site I need to redesignÉ"

Greg nodded slowly. "Hence the ad and the cooking class."

"And the dance class." She hadn't started painting again yet.

"Has your muse come back?"

Her muse had a thing for him, apparently, because she always turned up after seeing him. Not that Freya was going to tell him that—he was bold enough already. "I see glimpses of her."

"You know what your muse needs?"

"What?"

"Food." He sat back and brushed his hands off. "It sounds like your muse has been starved. I bet if you feed your muse she'll help you out for Monday."

"You think so?" she asked, a smile flirting with her lips.

"I know it." He stood and reached out his hand. "Have dinner with me tonight."

She looked at his hand. She couldn't think of a reason to say no.

She didn't want to say no. Especially not if he could inspire the last of her designs.

Tugging off her glove, she put her hand in his and let him help her to her feet. "Okay, but only if I can make dinner."

He grinned. "You're on."

By the time she'd taken a shower and gotten dressed, Freya had come to a decision. Now all she needed was Greg, because she had a proposal to put to him.

She checked the time—he said he'd be here in half an hour. She almost wanted to call him and ask him to come early. But she couldn't rush this. She'd ply him with food and be pleasant and
then
ask. Given the way he'd been pursuing her, she didn't think he'd say no but she wanted to hedge her bets.

Cooking always relaxed her, so she focused on dinner. She was making salad dressing when her buzzer sounded.

Renewed anticipation shot through her. Wiping her hands on a towel, she went down to let him in.

His hair was still wet from his shower. He changed into a clean T-shirt and baggy cotton pants that looked perfect for an afternoon on a Caribbean beach. In his hands were a bright bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. "For you, and for dinner."

"I love them," she said, taking the flowers. "They aren't roses."

"You aren't a rose kind of woman."

No, she wasn't, but most men weren't that observant. She motioned him in. "Come up. You can open the wine."

"Dinner smells delicious," he said as they headed into the kitchen.

She handed him a wine opener and pointed to the glasses she'd already set out. "Pasta with roasted eggplant and smoked mozzarella, and a salad."

"I'm impressed." He expertly opened the bottle and poured two glasses. He brushed her shoulder as he reached to snag a piece of cheese from the cutting board as he watched her take care of the flowers. "My mom never cooked."

She glanced at him as she set the vase on the counter. "What did you eat then?"

He shrugged, handing her a glass. "Pre-prepared food. A lot of deli things. I grew up in Manhattan, so we ate out a lot."

"My mom loved to cook. I used to help her make these elaborate dinners. We'd all dress up, and I even got a little wine with dinner."

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You miss her."

"All the time."

"I wish my mom would let me miss her," he said jokingly. Then he launched into a series of stories about his erratic mother that had her laughing all the way through dinner.

He insisted on doing the dishes, so she sat on the counter and kept him company as she savored her wine. He'd found the frilly French maid's apron she received as a gag gift at last year's office Christmas party and had put it on. She laughed and shook her head.

He glanced at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, her heart warm.

The feeling startled her. This wasn't about her heart—this was about her muse. Needing a little space to compose herself for what she was about to suggest, she hopped off the counter. "I'll wait for you in the living room."

She'd equilibrated by the time he joined her, sitting on the floor. The better to be grounded, she thought.

Greg took a few of her throw pillows and settled close to her. "Next time it's my turn for dinner. I can't cook, so unless you're really into sandwiches, we'll have to go out. But I know this excellent seafood place on the coast. The drive is spectacular at sunset. And then there's the sheer pleasure of being in Jezebel."

"Jezebel?" She frowned, but then she remembered. "Oh, your car."

"I thought I explained to you before that she's not just a car. She's a goddess to be worshipped."

She laughed at his indignation. "What is it with you guys and cars? You'd think it were an extension of your Willie."

"Willie?" he cried, outraged. "No self-respecting man calls his private parts ÔWillie.'"

"So what do you call yours?"

"Who said I called mine anything?"

"Oh, come on. All guys have a name for it. Let me guess." She looked at him speculatively, letting her eyes fall below the belt for a second. She tapped a finger to her lip. "Not Peter. Too common. Thomas Jefferson? Or maybe after some upstanding judge that you admire. No pun intended."

He had a dry expression on his face, but mirth lurked in his clear eyes. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Winkie? No," she changed her mind, getting into it. "Not Winkie. Maybe Little Man though."

He threw a pillow at her.

Before she could cry foul, she was hit with another, and then another. Laughing, she grabbed one and launched it back.

Then suddenly she was lying under him and he was kissing her.

No slow languid kiss here—he devoured her. His teeth skimmed her lips, and she responded as if he took a torch to her and lit her up. Like a firecracker—not the tame sparkler variety but one of those explosive Chinese ones that shot smoke and sparks all over the place.

One of his hands tunneled through her hair, and the other slid up her body, unerringly finding her nipple and teasing it into life.

Pleasure shot through her.

He swallowed her gasp. His legs tangled with hers, and when she felt his thigh come in contact with her, right there, and the delicious hardness that pressed into her belly, she threw her head back and moaned. "Wait."

"Okay." He pulled back and sat on his haunches, trying to get his breathing under control.

She scrambled back slowly and pulled her legs under her skirt. She pushed her hair back from her face. "I have a proposal to put to you."

He nodded. "The answer is yes."

"You don't know what I'm going to ask."

"That doesn't mean I don't know how I'd answer you." He waved his hand. "But I understand the value of order, so ask first and then I'll say yes."

She rolled her eyes. "I lost my muse, but she seems to like you."

"I'm very likable."

"Yes, you tell me that all the time."

He grinned.

Shaking her head, she focused again. "So I was thinking maybe we could hang out. A little. Sometimes. Just till I get this project done," she rushed to add.