Perfect for You

way. Close to her.
    Too close. She wanted to inch away but forced herself to raise her chin and stand up to him. Even if her insides were quivering.
    "One day you'll say yes to me," he said softly, twisting one of her curls around his finger.
    She knew it was silly, but she swore she could feel his touch on every strand of hair. His breath caressed only her cheek, but for some reason her nipples reacted, jutting out shamelessly.
    Weird. But promising. If Cavanaugh could get her to react this way, maybe the plan was working. Maybe everything would turn out okay.
    "See you." He let go of the curl and shifted to let her open the door. Before she closed it again, he turned around and smiled—a smile that promised all manner of wicked things to come.
    That's it . Her heart thudded erratically. She slammed the door, ran upstairs to her office, and turned the computer on. Opening Photoshop, she grabbed her stylus and quickly began sketching the vision she got for the Sin City site. The first mockup would have a woman peeking in a doorway, her eyes inviting you in. She'd do another one with a man. A tall man with blue eyes.
    "Perfect," she muttered, saving the first graphic. In the morning she may feel differently, but she didn't think so. The design was hot .
    But even if this wasn't the one they liked, it didn't matter. She'd broken through her block.
    Pausing mid-stroke, she frowned. She'd broken through her block, and she had Cavanaugh to thank for it.

 
Chapter Nine
     
     
    Greg arrived home from work to find Freya on the landing. She gripped a long, colorful patchwork coat closed with one hand while she fumbled with her lock.
    His first impulse was to rush to help her, but he knew she'd take exception to any aid from him. So he waited.
    And he pictured her in that coat with nothing on under it except a pair of heels. Plus the ankle bracelet, of course. She'd come to him, all her secrets bared.
    In his fantasy, she wanted him—bad. He could picture her nipples hard, and his head lowering to lick them. Her groan would be low and needy as his fingers inched into her to feel her wetness.
    He almost groaned himself, imagining it. But he snapped out of his fantasy when he heard Freya kick the door with a curse.
    "Hey." He jogged up the rest of the steps. "Sneaking out?"
    "I haven't snuck out since I was fifteen when I went to Donny Robinson's house to watch the season premiere of Star Trek: The Next Generation." She wiggled the key forcefully.
    He was surprised it didn't break in the lock. "I didn't know you were a Trekkie."
    "I'm not. I was into Donny Robinson. Unfortunately, Donny was more into Star Trek than me."
    "He obviously wasn't aware of what he was missing."
    "No big loss. It was eons ago." She huffed and turned around. "I can't lock the freaking door. I've been meaning to have it changed but with work and Sin City—"
    "Sin City?" He arched an eyebrow. Somehow he doubted she was into porn.
    "I'm redesigning their site. Maybe." She shook her head, her brow furrowed. "And now I'm going to be late."
    "Let me help you." Resisting the urge to smooth the frustration from her face, he stepped closer and pried the keys from her fingers.
    "Fine. I'm in too much of a hurry to argue."
    "Where are you headed?" Not to a date, he hoped. Just the thought caused unfamiliar jealousy to burst in his chest.
    "Out," she said so succinctly he was surprised when she offered more information. "To a class."
    He exhaled in relief. Not a man then—thank God. He slid the lock smoothly into place. "What kind of class?"
    "Dancing." She grabbed the keys from his hand. "Thanks for the help. I really have to go."
    The image of her dancing took root in his mind, vivid and evocative. He wanted to take her dancing. He wanted to touch her and breathe her in. He missed her, which didn't make sense at all.
    Impulsively, he said, "Have dinner with me Thursday night."
    "No."
    "Come on. A friendly gesture between neighbors."
    She blinked as if being friendly with him was a foreign concept. "Sorry, I can't. I have my cooking class Thursday."
    "How about Friday?"
    "I have a date on Friday." She moved to leave.
    A date?
    "I have to go," she called as she ran down the stairs, her coat flying behind her. "Thanks again."
    He watched her race off. A date ? He didn't know whether to admire her tenacity in making a decision and acting on it or to curse the fact that she'd already found someone to go out with.
    Although how could she not? She was fabulous,