Perfect for You

Dark. It looked like no one was home. Wrong apartment or did he go out?
    "Can I help you?" a deep, accented voice said from behind her.
    With a yelp, she whirled around to find a guy standing only a couple feet away. At first glance his jeans, tweed coat, and wire-rimmed glasses made him look preppy and disarming.
    But that first glance was wrong. The closer she looked, the more unrestrained he seemed. Wild and passionate. His long hair framed his angular face like a dark Latin poet, and his intense green eyes pinned her to the door. Was he Spanish? He certainly looked like a conquistador.
    Silly. She shook her head. "I'm looking for Greg Cavanaugh's apartment."
    "This is my door. Greg lives upstairs." He pointed to door on the left.
    Ah—he was the new downstairs neighbor. She studied him again and then shook her head. Freya needed her eyes checked if she didn't think this guy was hot.
    He tucked his hair behind his ear. "Is something wrong?"
    "No, not at all." She edged around him and pressed the doorbell. God he smelled good. Like warm, sweet onions and salty bacon. Weird, but delicious. Maybe he'd had dinner at a restaurant with poor ventilation. She sniffed again and her stomach growled with hunger.
    When he didn't make a move to leave, she faced him again. "Thanks for your help. You can go now."
    He folded his arms. "I'll wait with you."
    Before she could ask why, the door swung open and Greg stood in the threshold. He glanced at the two of them. "No one told me there was a party on the porch tonight."
    The downstairs guy nodded at Greg. "She said she was here to see you. I wanted to be certain she got in okay."
    Greg's eyebrow arched at her.
    She smiled winningly. "You didn't get the memo that we had a meeting scheduled?"
    He rolled his eyes. "I'll have to speak to my assistant about that."
    The guy gazed back and forth between them. "You two know each other well then."
    "Not really," she and Greg said at once.
    The guy waited for a reply, but Greg didn't seem inclined to give him one, so she didn't either. His disapproval was written on every inch of his face, but he just nodded at Greg and let himself into his apartment. "Good night then."
    She watched the door close behind him, feeling an odd sense of disappointment when he was out of sight. Weird.
    She shook her head and focused on the lawyer. "Are you going to let me in, Shrek, or are we standing out here all night?"
    He stared at her silently for a moment. "Should I be scared you're here to see me?"
    "You should be thrilled." She brushed past him and tromped upstairs. Greg didn't smell nearly as good as the downstairs guy. "I hope you have something to eat. I canceled my dinner date for you."
    "The kitchen is this way," he said when they reached the top. "Can you cook?"
    "I can't even boil water," she said cheerfully as she followed him back.
    "That makes two of us. But you're in luck, I make a mean club sandwich." He waved to a bar stool on one side of the island in the middle of his kitchen. "Sit."
    "No questions about why I'm here?" She perched on the stool and dropped her coat on the floor next to her.
    He started to pull stuff out of the fridge. "I figured you'd get to that in your own time."
    "You're not the least bit curious?"
    "Oh, I'm curious all right." He nudged the door shut and reached for a baguette on the side counter. "Specifically because I'm sure your sister doesn't know you're here."
    "Hell no." She shuddered dramatically. "If Freya knew I was here she'd give me a time out."
    Greg chuckled. "You seem too old for a time out."
    "I'm twenty-one."
    He paused in the act of cutting a large section of bread for her sandwich. "You say that like you aren't sure whether you're old enough or not."
    "It's complicated. Are you ever old enough where your parents are concerned?"
    "Freya isn't your parent."
    "She might as well be. She raised me." She pursed her lips. She'd come here to quiz him and he'd neatly started pulling information out of her. Slick. No wonder he was a hotshot lawyer. "Don't your parents still treat you like you're their little boy?"
    He snorted. "I'm surprised when my parents remember to send me a card on my birthday."
    "Really?" Her memories of her parents were dim, but she remembered that they'd been loving. She leaned in, her chin resting on her palm. "How does that make you feel?"
    He cocked an eyebrow at her as he stacked her bread with an assortment of meat. "Are you studying to be a psychiatrist?"
    "Nah, I'm in art