Perfect for You

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.
    The top layer had cooled with sunset but underneath it was still warm from the heat of the day. She dug her toes in, savoring the warmth.
    "Be careful of glass," he said coming up behind her. He took her hand and led her along the water line. His hand was smooth, not soft but also not like a blue collar worker's hands. Or like Greg's, whose were not only wider and longer but also slightly calloused.
    Why would a lawyer have calloused fingers?
    Why should she care? Especially while she was out with a perfectly nice man.
    They walked in silence. She tried to admire the way the moon shined on the waves, but she all