Free The Not-So-Perfect Man by Valerie Frankel Page A

start and a withering finish. But I had to see it to the end.”
    “Once you hook onto something, you stick with it,” she said.
    “Until the last word,” he agreed.

Chapter 12
    Wednesday, October 23
8 P . M .
    “You’re right on time,” said Sam Hill as he opened the door.
    “I walked around the block so I wouldn’t be early,” said Frieda.
    “You should have just come up,” he said.
    “Next time, I will.”
    Frieda shed her pea coat. Sam Hill hung it on a hanger in the closet by the door.
    “You look good,” he said.
    She wore a black A-line miniskirt, black tights, and a lavender stretch T-shirt, three-quarter sleeves. She’d changed outfits several times before the babysitter arrived, and would have continued the fashion show of her entire wardrobe had she not felt the urge (the urgent urge) to sprint to Sam Hill’s sublet, a universe (eight blocks) away from her apartment. She’d been thinking of nothing else— had for days—ever since they’d made the date. The laundry had gone unfinished. There was no food in the house. She’d missed a couple of delivery dates on frames. Who had time for work when she could, instead, lie down on her bed to think about kissing Sam Hill? Five minutes would turn into two hours. Time evaporated in thought. She’d lost mornings. Afternoons. Entire evenings after Justin went to bed. To stare at the ceiling in her bedroom and drift.
    What would it be like? she asked herself repeatedly. The first time with Gregg had been lovely. Perfect. She’d had a number of lovers by then, but hadn’t been shown much generosity by them. Gregg was so sweet and worried about her having a good time. Along with other things, she enjoyed the trust she felt with him. Over the years, they’d learned together. She’d grown up with Gregg, in so many ways. Naturally, in a marriage, she thought they were each other’s final sexual destiny. She had been his. But he wasn’t hers. Not that Sam Hill would be the last man she ever slept with. She wasn’t thinking of this as a first date that would lead to a second and, eventually, to the altar. Having the goal of marriage was laughable. She’d been married. She had a child. Her life experiences made the single-(and simple-) minded goal of lifelong commitment irrelevant. Tonight, with Sam Hill, Frieda was looking for a good time.
    He’d been forthright when they’d made plans. “Would you like to come over to my apartment?” he asked on the phone.
    “What about dinner and a movie?” she replied.
    “You have to pay a baby-sitter, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “What’s the going rate?”
    “Ten dollars an hour.”
    “Dinner and a movie would be a poor use of time and money,” he said. “Wouldn’t you rather be alone together for four hours instead?”
    It was a naked invitation to come over and have sex. For four hours. He hadn’t even offered to cook her dinner. Is this how people dated these days? Frieda wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. Nerves. If she’d Learned Nothing from Gregg’s Death, Frieda believed that formalities were often useless—especially if the formality at hand was getting to know a man before she fucked him.
    Despite the clarity of her prime directive, Frieda was still anxious. Much of the edginess was forgotten when Sam opened the door. She hadn’t seen him for over a week. But when she beheld him again, she couldn’t believe how beautiful he was. He wore jeans, a faded red T-shirt. No shoes. He hadn’t agonized over his wardrobe choices. She focused on his face, anyway. Something about him, the skin, in particular, and his dark brown eyes and dark brows instantly drew her complete attention like a loud clap or the pop of a balloon. She was staring. How rude.
    He said, “I love the way you look at me.”
    She loved the way he looked at her. Like she were a magnet, as if she could draw him to her and he’d do exactly what she wanted without her having to say a single word.
    “You really look good,” he