From Lorelei’s blog

      Do you believe in love at first sight (LAFS)? I don’t, either. If you go for the romantic theory, two people can meet at, say, a key party, feel an instant connection, and somehow know that they fit together as well as his key fits into her lock. But if you’re not a romantic, you laugh at LAFS. Love, you say, is a series of chemical connections and neural synapses and is built up over time, so it’s pretty much impossible for LAFS to be real.

      Sure, Man sees Woman and says, “Ugh. Must have sex.” Woman sees Man and says, “Hmm. Lots of tools and good cave. Make strong children. Possibilities there.” But LAFS? Uh-uh. Not gonna happen. Feel free to disagree with me.

      Lorelei

      4

      “OKAY, SO IT ISN’T LOVE.” Lauren poured herself another glass of orange juice and offered the ceramic jug to her foster mother, Emma Constable, who smiled and shook her head. “But damn, the guy gave me an orgasm with our first kiss. I have to follow up.”

      Michaela and Aurora exchanged amused glances. Contrary to what Lauren had expected, Rory made no wry comments about her instant lust with Josh. Was she too preoccupied with an unexpected attraction to her own key partner? With Rory, it was sometimes hard to tell.

      “So what are you going to do?” Michaela cut a piece of their mother’s amazing tourtière from the ceramic pie dish and dug into it. Mikki enjoyed food the way she consumed life—with enthusiasm and complete disregard for such consequences as weight gain and cholesterol. “You don’t even know his last name. Honestly, girl, maybe you’d better stick with motorcycles.”

      “Research—the journalist’s primary tool. As soon as the magazine office opens tomorrow I’m going to call and find out if he’s there.”

      Michaela scraped pastry from her plate with the back of her fork. “I think you need a cooldown period before you go jumping into this.”

      “I agree.” Emma drained her herb tea and got up to put the kettle on the stove for another pot, detouring out of habit around an eight-foot macrame sculpture that had hung from the beam that divided the open kitchen from the living room as long as any of them could remember. “If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.” Her sage-green linen skirt swirled around her ankles as she moved, and the tail of her long auburn braid, threaded now with strands of silver, brushed her hips. There was something very graceful about Emma Constable, as if every movement, every moment of living, were valuable and therefore should be made as beautiful as possible.

      Emma made art out of living. Only one of the many, many reasons her foster kids loved her. One of the other reasons was her slightly unorthodox way of managing them. Lauren knew from experience that you hardly knew she was doing it until you found yourself doing the right thing in spite of yourself. Look how she and Michaela had turned out, after all. Now Mikki fought for other kids in the foster care system and Lauren had gone from being a silent, sullen teenager who viewed even a smile with mistrust to the most talked-about woman in San Francisco. Even if no one knew who she really was.

      “If it’s meant to be, no one will mind me helping it along a little,” Lauren said.

      “Yes, but what if things have changed in the light of day?” Rory speared a tomato in her salad and pointed it at Lauren. A drop of homemade dressing slid off it and back onto her plate. “That’s the problem with giving in to a moment of passion. You always have to deal with the morning after. It’s a cosmic rule.” She glanced at her mother with a fond smile.

      “Tea?” Emma brought the kettle to the table and filled the teapot. The fragrance of smoked jasmine filled the air.

      “No, thanks.” Michaela lifted a paper cup with a lid. “I’m still working on my venti latte.”

      “You are so addicted to that stuff,” Emma said. “And check out the nonbiodegradable packaging.”

      “But it tastes so go-o-o-d,” Michaela sighed, and winked at Lauren.

      “I’ll have a refill.” The strong Indonesian tea wasn’t terribly high on Lauren’s list of faves, but she drank it because she loved Emma and she’d do almost anything to bring a smile to her face.

      “So you guys think I should back away.” She brought the conversation back to ground. “Thanks a lot for your support.”

      “We just don’t want to see you get hurt, honey,” Rory said. “After all, you only just met the guy, and he didn’t go out of his way to give you important details like his number. You don’t know anything about him. Well, except about the orgasm part.”

      Lauren thought about Josh. About the sin in his eyes and the strength in his shoulders. About the sure way his fingers moved to bring her pleasure and the control in his body when they danced. About the way he smelled—clean and yet compelling. And yes, about the orgasm. She’d thought about that practically nonstop since the key party.

      The fact was, she knew quite a lot about him. That was why, despite her sisters’ advice, she was going to come out of the bushes tomorrow and launch a full-scale attack.

      WHEN SHE WASN’T IN CLASS, Vivien worked part time as a clerk/receptionist/minion at one of the venture capital firms in Palo Alto. Three weeks into her contract she’d discovered that Benjamin, Roy and Simons Company, or BrasCo for short, had masterminded the funding for Left Coast. As a courtesy, the magazine always sent over an early edition of that month’s issue. When Viv called as Lauren was driving back to their apartment on Monday after doing some research for an upcoming column, it was to tell Lauren she’d gotten her hands on the May edition.

      “You’re not going to like it,” Vivien warned.

      “Why not?”

      “Because Vivien Li, girl detective, has solved the case of the mystery man.”

      “Viv, if you confuse me any more I’m going to get dizzy and miss my exit. What are you talking about?”

      “I’m talking about this two-page spread under a byline by Mr. Joshua McCrae, with a very nice picture, I might add. Speaking strictly from an aesthetic point of view.”

      A pickup blared at her as she swerved onto her exit ramp in the nick of time. “Josh McCrae? The Josh McCrae? The one that got that award last year for his interview with George Lucas?”

      She needed to pull over. Fast.

      “Well, your guy’s name is Josh and this article happens to be about key parties, speed dating and other social disorders, so by using my highly developed skills of deduction, I would say yes, they’re one and the same.”

      “Read it to me.”

      “Sweetie, I have twenty trunks and four of them are ringing. I have to go. See you at supper. I’m making shui jao.”

      “Vivien!” Lauren wailed, but the line went dead.

      There was no point dashing to the nearest newsstand because the issue wouldn’t be there yet. And Palo Alto was half an hour away, not to mention the fact that she couldn’t very well bust in on Vivien in her professional capacity. There was nothing for it but to wait.

      When Lauren was nervous, she cleaned. Cleaning was the ultimate therapy—it