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stunned, but not nearly as stunned as I was. I couldn’t believe what I was doing; it was like having an out-of-body experience. And I don’t know what I would have done next if Jake hadn’t started to laugh. Then he put down his camera, walked over, and put his arms around me.
    “Smart, foxy, and unhinged,” he whispered, into my sexy new hairdo.
    “But in a nice way,” I added.
    Then he kissed me. And while I’m not going to go into details, he was, and is, one hell of a kisser. Personally, I could have kept on with that scenario for a while—like maybe the rest of the day or the rest of my life. But after a second he murmured, “Everyone will be coming back from lunch, but my loft is near here.”
    “Define near,” I murmured back.
    “Two doors down from this building, on your left, and up one flight. We can be there in five minutes.”
    “I’m not sure how long it will take me to change.”
    “Don’t bother.”
    IT TOOK US much less than five minutes to get to Jake’s loft. And again, I’m not going into details except to say that we would have stayed there all afternoon if it hadn’t been for his five-o’clock photo shoot back at the studio. He raced through it, while I raceduptown to pick up some clothes and a toothbrush—and congratulated myself because Jake wasn’t the kind of man who stocked spare toothbrushes just in case. In fact, in every way I could think of, Jake was perfect. I stayed over that night. And every night afterward until my clean underwear ran out. And, yeah, I was stunned by that too. I’d never done anything like that before in my life.
    From then on, Jake and I were inseparable. And when I think about that time, I know it wasn’t quite real. Or at least I wasn’t. My book was about to be published and the advance buzz on it was good, and it seemed like Jake had about a million friends—acquaintances—who wanted to meet me. We were always going to drinks or brunch or dinner with someone. I’m not wild about social stuff but Jake loved every minute of it, and I loved watching him love it.
    Jake asked me to marry him two weeks before my pub date—when we’d been together for four and a half months. We’d gone to a party my publisher was throwing to introduce their hot new writers to the press. The bash was held in the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Terminal—a space that had been the wildly luxurious office of a mover and shaker in the twenties and was reborn as a party venue during the remake of Grand Central. I’d been so excited I couldn’t eat any of the hors d’oeuvres at the party. That had been happening often—being successful and in love seemed to kill my appetite, which had resulted in a fifteen-pound weight loss. I was daring to hope the sturdy thighs were history. Also, you should know that I had taught myself to put on false eyelashes. And for this party I’d bought a pink dress that cost so much I had to breathe into a paper bag when I looked at the bill. But I can say it without reservation: On that particular night I was a fox.
    After the festivities ended, Jake took me to the food court inGrand Central so I could eat. While we were standing in line at the Feng Shui Chinese food station he looked at a spot over my head, drew in a deep breath, and said, “I’ve been married twice.”
    “Really?” I tried to be casual, but my heart started imitating a trip-hammer. He’d never said the word married before. Or anything that even suggested it.
    “I bet you want a big wedding.” He continued staring at the spot.
    “Define big,” I said carefully. I was concentrating on not passing out.
    “More people than two. See, I’ve had a couple of blowout weddings. The first took place in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. It cost about as much as the national debt, but less than our divorce. My lawyers added a wing to their office after I got through paying them. I think they have a memorial plaque with my name on it.”
    “Oh,” I said. The food court