Yes, though you resolve to tell her who you are.

Greatly conflicted you walk back to your house and retreat to your study. Sitting down at your desk you ponder all the possible outcomes of the temptation before you. Remembering her campaign's web address from her well filled out t-shirt you creep on the curvy conservative. “Hmpt, this isn't good,” is your first reaction to how attractive and professionally made is her webpage. “She must have a ton of money,” you lament.

After reading her bio and exploring her stance on the issues you argue out loud with yourself, “Come on John, she is a right wing nut job.” Picking up the phone you begin to punch in her number to cancel the date when you glance back at her profile again, “and she is intelligent, educated, charming, fun, athletic, into politics, drop dead gorgeous and seems to like me.” You pause before hitting the last digit. “And she is a redhead with a great rack.” You surrender to the situation and hang up the phone.

Now committed to going over at six you resolve to immediately tell her who you, which will probably kill the date, but just in case you come up with two backup plans. First, you make reservations at a nice Italian place you know on the outskirts of town. Second, if she doesn't want to got out in public, you will invite her back to your place for your famous Chinese stir-fry.

After cleaning the house, prepping the kitchen and setting the table, you shower and put on your best Oxford shirt, a good pair of jeans, and your favorite tie, shooting for a causal dressed up look. Just before you head out you think a peace offering might be wise and grab an old book from one of the numerous bookshelves that are scattered throughout your house.

Heading across to street you walk over to Samantha's house. Finding the front door open, you knock on the side of the screen door. “Hello?” You call out.

A voice from within and up top a nearby stairway responds, “Come on in, I will be down in a minute.”

Heading on in first notice your sign in the entrance way. Looking around it is clear Samantha hasn't fully moved in, as unopened boxes can be seen in every room. The faint hint of her bewitching perfume can also be detected. Trying to focus you wander into her study, the most decorated room on the floor.

Your mind cringes at what you see.

Various plaques declare that she is a member of the Heritage Foundation and the Chamber of Commerce, a life time member of the NRA and a former President of the Harvard Chapter of the Young Republicans. A framed picture of Sam wrapped around a smirking Rush Limbaugh is particularly repulsive. “To one hot Rush Babe!” It demeaningly is signed. Her books are even more a horror, numerous titles about handguns, American exceptionalism, the stock market, finance, and a who's who from Fox News; Limbaugh, Palin, Hannity, Rove, Coulter and the like. The only solace is that she has a few academic texts, albeit from conservatives, such as Burke, Smith, Friedman, Rand, Buckley, Von Kuehnelt-Leddihin and Krauthammer.

“I hope my taste in literature doesn't scare you.” Sam's sultry voice surprises you from behind.

“Well I wouldn't exactly call it litera . . .” You spin around and for the second time today the mere sight of Ms. Kendrick silences you.

“Wow.” You stammer, not realizing you are speaking out loud.

A very sexy, but tastefully cut, black dress clings to Sam's voluptuous curves as if it where a second skin. A small golden necklace, bracelet and earrings frame the black dress, but nowhere nearly as effective as her perfectly stylized chestnut hair and those fiery hazel eyes. With the aid of heels, the mid thigh hemline exquisitely show off the 5'9” Republicans long, shapely legs. Finally, though the neckline is high, there is a strip of fine black mesh that runs from her left shoulder, across the front of her torso and curves to her right hip. With a casual glace this strip is not noticeable, being of the same color as the dress. A closer look reveals what appears to be like a racing strip on a fine sports car. If one dares to stare intently at the mesh, however, one can almost make out the cleavage, curves and lingerie hidden underneath.

Samantha gives you an appreciative smile, “Good to see you too.” Looking you over with an approving glance she raises her hand in a friendly, questioning gesture. “You know I don't know your name?”

“About that . . .” Your heart sinks. “I really need to tell you something.” You take a breath, “I'm John, John Hampton, your Democrat opponent for the 6th Congressional Seat.”

At first Sam goes to laugh, but seeing that you are serious she simply says, “Oh.”

“I tried to tell you when we met this morning, but you got that call and then had to run to a meeting.”

“Its okay.” Samantha's eyes drop in disappointment, “What are the odds? It is my fault, anyways. I'm sorry for being so forward.”

“No, you were fine, perfectly fine.” You smile a bit amused by the idea such a beautiful woman would apologize for asking you out on a date. “Look, if you want to cancel, I totally understand. But I still have reservations at a local restaurant, or if you don't want to be seen with me in public, I have a stir-fry ready back at my house.”

Sam seems to seriously ponder your invitation. That mixed look of caution and intrigue comes her face that you know every well.

“I brought you something, to apologize for the miscommunication.” You place the old book into Samantha's hands.

Inspecting the ancient leather tome the stunningly attired beauty, a bit puzzled, opens up to the title page and reads, “A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful?”

“Its by Burke,” you quickly add. “You have a few of his other works on your shelf.” You begin to worry if the gift was a bit too forward, or simply too boring. “I thought a book by the father of modern day conservatism about beauty would be perfect for you.”

Looking over the book again Sam seems still to be a bit surprised by your gift. “I've never had a guy give me a book before,” she answers, “especially an old book.” Holding the volume tight she finally smiles and steps towards you. “It's a great present.” Her eyes go soft as she leans in as a full sense of her enchanting perfume greets you. Her hair glides across your shoulder, the tips of her breasts gently press against your upper arm, as her full lips place a little peck on your cheek. “Thank you.” You can feel her warm breath against your face as she steps back.

Still standing very close to you Sam gives a playful smile. “Well Hometown,” she nicknames you from your sign, “why don't we do this . . .”