Perfect for You

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