Perfect for You

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