The Accidental Virgin F Valerie Frankel Dedicated to Stephen Quint: Dry spell breaker; Magic spell binder. F Contents Dedicated to... Chapter One Stacy Temple, 32, redheaded and pink of... Chapter Two Stacy was 20 minutes late to the screening. Chapter Three In her three-year relationship with Brian... Chapter Four “My mother is a slut,” said Tom Strumph. Chapter Five Stacy’s mental shift—from never thinking... Chapter Six The outstretched arms on Stacy Temple’s... Chapter Seven On no sleep, heels were out of the question. Chapter Eight Two women, both lovely and young,... Chapter Nine By the time Stacy returned to work, she... Chapter Ten The coque au vin was delicious. For an appetizer,... Chapter Eleven The sun was singing. Birds were shining. Chapter Twelve “Shall I lie down?” asked Stacy. She and... Chapter Thirteen Stacy arrived first. She knew the restaurant... Chapter Fourteen Stacy had knocked on Vampire Boy’s door... Chapter Fifteen “I have you in pen,” said Fiona Chardonnay... Chapter Sixteen Fiona was disappointed and hurt. In her... Chapter Seventeen Stacy lugged the portable Hibachi, a bag of... Chapter Eighteen Sitting on the edge of her unused bed,... Chapter Nineteen As soon as she hit the pavement outside,... Chapter Twenty Stacy Temple, 32, red of head, pink of... About the Author Also by Valerie Frankel Credits Cover Copyright About the Publisher Chapter One Monday morning F S tacy Temple, 32, redheaded and pink of cheek, the very picture of health, if not hap- piness, lifted the pointed chin of her heart-shaped face and said, “Suicide on a roll.” She’d been waiting on line at the deli for over ten minutes, and had managed to apply full makeup and read up to page six of the New York Post before placing her order. “Butter, too?” asked the man in the apron behind the chrome counter. “No, thanks,” she said, turning the page of her paper. “Oh, go ahead,” said the deli man. “Two fried eggs with bacon and cheese on a roll? Why not add some butter to lube up your digestion?” Stacy had been coming to this hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon, crammed between two fifty-story silver towers on Park Avenue, for her weekday breakfasts for over a year. Never once had her conversation with the