Tempted Read Free

room, intending to light a fire and enjoy the rain.   But my romantic plans come to a screeching halt the moment I dare open my laptop and ‘check in’ on my various social media pages.   Looks like my primary personal account has 147 notifications and 3 2 new private messages.   April has forwarded me a couple of t hings that are darkly comedic, which pleases me very much.   Scrolling down my page, my eyes take in a potpourri of loving affirmations, redneck jokes, photos of puppies in costume, ‘oh wow, cool’ images and interesting status updates.
    Well , whaddaya know?   Peter Hamilton is fresh back from Barcelona, and waxing witty on his page.
    “You run into Julian Carax during your travels?” I quip, citing the enigmatic character in Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s novel Shadow of the Wind – a book we both love and occasionally refer to .
    “Funny you should ask. I did the whole walk-in-the-footsteps of Daniel thing while there,” he responds, referring to the story’s young protagonist .
    “No way!” I lamely return, trumped as usual by Mr. Perfect, as my friend April has dubbed him.
    Peter Hamilton is everything a girl could ask for in an adult male.   A divorced/no kids/shared-dog custody literary agent living in the Presidio, he is 6’3” (my favorite height), with an unruly shock of dark, thick, straight hair and pale , piercing eyes. In his younger years , he qualified for the Olympic decathlon team , but never saw competition due to a training injury.   While an undergrad at Berkeley, he double-majored in Business Administration and English.   As if that weren’t attractive enough, he dabbles in plein- air painting as a hobby, and occasionally sneaks away to do a bi t of World Cup Yacht Racing.     To be sure, he enjoys the finer things in life, including his gleaming , black Range Rover and all t he latest i-toys on the market.
    I engage in what I consider to be incredibly witty banter with Mr. Hamilton as I continue to attend to my online social business, all the while taking baby nibbles of my new favorite dinner concoction , which I think I shall ingenio usly name ‘that potatoey, chickeny, gooey thing . ’ I am all caught up on my correspondence, and before I know it, have arranged to go on a bonafide date with Mr. Per fect.   I immediately text April and stare at my phone , awaiting her response.   But , unlike me, she has an actual life and cannot text back right away , as she is busy at back to school night with her young son.   Thus, I am left to panic, strategize, and sort out a date outfit , with only the aid of the menagerie.
    Peter is p icking me up tomorrow night at seven, which means I’ll have to skip my new Tantric Yoga class – the one Mom has no idea I am taking and, God willing, never will.   Then again, it is more than likely she wouldn’t even understand what it’s all about anyway.   Perhaps I’ll mention it to her in passing just to see what happens.   If she clues in , I can always tell her she misheard me and blame it on her advancing years.   I can just imagine how well that would go over.   Either way , I’ll be in hot water, but it is awfully tempting.
    A little later, as I drift off to sleep, thoughts of tomorrow’s impending perfection crowd out all plots of maternal harassment, and I fall into a peaceful and unhurried sleep.
    * * *
    The next day , I awake refreshed and cheerful, ready to face that sociological experience I’ve heard so much about, but really know so little of: dating.
    With a tinge of regret at missing out on one of my weekly rituals, I forgo my usual Thursday plans, including the Farmer’s Market at the Embarcadero.   Instead, I feverishly start Googling beauty salons.   I’ll need a blow dry and styling session, finger and toe nails that look human, and should probably swing by a department store makeup counter for a mini makeover.   Heck, I’ll even buy whatever it is they’re promoting, just to have an