The Not-So-Perfect Man by Valerie Frankel Read Free Book Online

lip.
    “You’re flirting with me,” he said, “I’m flattered. From the waist up, you are an extremely attractive woman.”
    Her cheeks flushed bright red instantly. “That’s a courageous statement,” she said. “From the waist down, I could be monstrous.”
    “Show me,” he said.
    Frieda took the challenge, acutely aware of only one thing: She didn’t want Sam Hill to leave. She was having the most fun she’d had in over a year. The only fun she’d had in over a year. She stepped out from behind the counter and stood in front of this Sam Hill person, and allowed him to inspect her.
    “Twirl, if you please,” he said, his finger making a circle in the air.
    She did. The sleeves of her shirt ruffled, her hair lifting off her shoulders. He watched her, taking as much pleasure in her performance as she did in giving it.
    Sam said, “Stand still, please.”
    Doing as she was told, he walked a circle around her, clucking along the way. Finally, he stopped in front of her and said, “You look good.” And then asked, “Shall I?” He made a circle with his finger again.
    “Once around,” she said.
    He turned slowly, giving her a good two seconds to check out his ass, which was, most definitely, not a day over twenty-eight years old. He made it all the way around, and they stood toe-to-toe.
    He asked, “Have you had coffee yet?”
    She said, “I have.”
    “Breakfast?”
    “Yes.”
    “Lunch?”
    “It’s ten in the morning.”
    “I can come back in a few hours.”
    Frieda wanted to say yes. “I have to do a food shop at lunchtime.”
    “Dinner?” he asked.
    A date offer. One she wanted to say yes to. But she wouldn’t feel right unless he knew what he was getting himself into. Then again, revealing her personal history might kill his interest instantly. It was a risk she’d have to take. If he couldn’t handle her circumstances—kissable lips or not—he wasn’t worth her time.
    She said, “I can’t have dinner on such short notice. I’m not sure if I can line up baby-sitting. I have a son. Justin. He’s five.”
    Sam paused. Considering. She watched him closely. He didn’t seem to shrink back in horror.
    “Divorced?” he asked.
    She took a deep breath. “Widowed.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
    Frieda realized suddenly that this was the first time she’d thought of Gregg since Sam Hill walked into the gallery. She looked hard at his face, at the dark hair and eyes, the skin.
    “Oh my God,” she said.
    “Is something wrong?” he asked.
    “You’re not Not Gregg.”
    “Pardon?” he asked.
    He was not Not Gregg. He was Sam. She stared into his face, and saw his features, and wasn’t thinking about Gregg. She felt a cracking in her mind, a field of ice breaking, calving, fresh air rising from the fissure. Frieda took a deep breath.
    “You have a very strange expression on your face,” said Sam.
    She was all pins and needles, the physical result of waking up from an emotional coma. “Strange how?” she asked.
    He said, “You look like you’ve been slapped across the face.”
    “You don’t say,” Frieda intoned.
    “I do say,” he responded.
    She examined him, this man who’d just walked into her life and changed her outlook in minutes. She’d been right about being taken by surprise.
    Frieda said, “I know we’ve just met, and that my circumstances are probably intimidating to you. This may seem like a preposterous suggestion, especially so early in the morning. You haven’t had your coffee yet. You may think of me as an ancient crone.”
    “Actually, you’re quite the fox,” he said. “And, to be completely honest, which doesn’t endear me to most women, I’m not afraid of you because you’ve had hard times. I’m afraid of people who haven’t.”
    Frieda was impressed. Not many young men—not many men—would like the fact that she had a son and a dead husband to contend with. Sam interrupted her thoughts, and said, “So what was your