Perfect for You

shoulder as he reached to snag a piece of cheese from the cutting board as he watched her take care of the flowers. "My mom never cooked."
    She glanced at him as she set the vase on the counter. "What did you eat then?"
    He shrugged, handing her a glass. "Pre-prepared food. A lot of deli things. I grew up in Manhattan, so we ate out a lot."
    "My mom loved to cook. I used to help her make these elaborate dinners. We'd all dress up, and I even got a little wine with dinner."
    He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You miss her."
    "All the time."
    "I wish my mom would let me miss her," he said jokingly. Then he launched into a series of stories about his erratic mother that had her laughing all the way through dinner.
    He insisted on doing the dishes, so she sat on the counter and kept him company as she savored her wine. He'd found the frilly French maid's apron she received as a gag gift at last year's office Christmas party and had put it on. She laughed and shook her head.
    He glanced at her. "What?"
    "Nothing," she said, her heart warm.
    The feeling startled her. This wasn't about her heart—this was about her muse. Needing a little space to compose herself for what she was about to suggest, she hopped off the counter. "I'll wait for you in the living room."
    She'd equilibrated by the time he joined her, sitting on the floor. The better to be grounded, she thought.
    Greg took a few of her throw pillows and settled close to her. "Next time it's my turn for dinner. I can't cook, so unless you're really into sandwiches, we'll have to go out. But I know this excellent seafood place on the coast. The drive is spectacular at sunset. And then there's the sheer pleasure of being in Jezebel."
    "Jezebel?" She frowned, but then she remembered. "Oh, your car."
    "I thought I explained to you before that she's not just a car. She's a goddess to be worshipped."
    She laughed at his indignation. "What is it with you guys and cars? You'd think it were an extension of your Willie."
    "Willie?" he cried, outraged. "No self-respecting man calls his private parts ÔWillie.'"
    "So what do you call yours?"
    "Who said I called mine anything?"
    "Oh, come on. All guys have a name for it. Let me guess." She looked at him speculatively, letting her eyes fall below the belt for a second. She tapped a finger to her lip. "Not Peter. Too common. Thomas Jefferson? Or maybe after some upstanding judge that you admire. No pun intended."
    He had a dry expression on his face, but mirth lurked in his clear eyes. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
    "Winkie? No," she changed her mind, getting into it. "Not Winkie. Maybe Little Man though."
    He threw a pillow at her.
    Before she could cry foul, she was hit with another, and then another. Laughing, she grabbed one and launched it back.
    Then suddenly she was lying under him and he was kissing her.
    No slow languid kiss here—he devoured her. His teeth skimmed her lips, and she responded as if he took a torch to her and lit her up. Like a firecracker—not the tame sparkler variety but one of those explosive Chinese ones that shot smoke and sparks all over the place.
    One of his hands tunneled through her hair, and the other slid up her body, unerringly finding her nipple and teasing it into life.
    Pleasure shot through her.
    He swallowed her gasp. His legs tangled with hers, and when she felt his thigh come in contact with her, right there, and the delicious hardness that pressed into her belly, she threw her head back and moaned. "Wait."
    "Okay." He pulled back and sat on his haunches, trying to get his breathing under control.
    She scrambled back slowly and pulled her legs under her skirt. She pushed her hair back from her face. "I have a proposal to put to you."
    He nodded. "The answer is yes."
    "You don't know what I'm going to ask."
    "That doesn't mean I don't know how I'd answer you." He waved his hand. "But I understand the value of order, so ask first and then I'll say yes."
    She rolled her eyes. "I lost my muse, but she seems to like you."
    "I'm very likable."
    "Yes, you tell me that all the time."
    He grinned.
    Shaking her head, she focused again. "So I was thinking maybe we could hang out. A little. Sometimes. Just till I get this project done," she rushed to add.
    "What did you have in mind?" he asked mildly.
    She shrugged, her heart beating so hard she was sure he could hear it. "I don't know. Whatever you think. Things to inspire me. The design is supposed to be sexy soÉ"
    "You need to