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stayed with Eric, but it wouldn’t have been my life. Even at twenty, I knew I didn’t want to live in any man’s shadow.
    I stand up and wrap my arms around him. The very early morning sun streaking into the room is getting brighter and I give Eric a long kiss. “I love you,” I tell him exuberantly. “I really love you.”
    “So we’re having sex or are you coming to Bermuda?” he asks, slightly unsure of where we stand.
    “Neither,” I say. “Definitely neither. But you’re still sexy and funny and gorgeous. Exactly what I remembered.”
    “Then why aren’t you sleeping with me?” asks Eric, the man who never lets a deal slip through his fingers.
    “Because I remembered a few other things, too.”
    Eric shakes his head and then smiles. “You’re going to come back to me, you know. Maybe not tonight. But you’ll come back to me.”
    “Awfully confident, aren’t you,” I parry.
    “The key to my success,” he says, kissing me one more time.
    I slip into my high heels, give him one last hug, and head for the door. I’m a single woman now. I have to be careful how I spend my nickels.

Chapter FOUR
    AS I’M LEAVING ERIC’S BUILDING, the doorman who ignored me when I arrived walks me toward the heavy glass door and pulls it open for me.
    “I hope you had a marvelous evening,” he says.
    “Better than you can imagine,” I tell him, tossing back my head and striding into the now quiet street.
    He raises an eyebrow, clearly registering my remark. I don’t mind burnishing Eric’s reputation, and I haven’t lied. It was a marvelous evening, though not the way the doorman thinks. I just had my first date in twenty-one years and everything went the way I wanted. I was charming and sexy, and I left a virgin. I can only hope Emily’s dates end the same way. And just to prove that I’m not sexist, I hope Adam’s do, too.
    I stroll into early morning New York, feeling almost heady. The three A.M. revelers have finally gone to bed and the businessmen and store owners haven’t started their day. Six forty to six forty-five may be the only time that New York sleeps.
    I’m not ready to go home, so I decide to walk the few blocks over to my office. I’m officially starting back on Monday, but I might as well get a jump on organizing my sure to be overflowing inbox. A hansom cab comes clip-clopping by me, and the driver tips his cap. “Morning, ma’am. Need a ride through the park?”
    “No, thank you,” I say automatically. And then I think, why not? All these years in New York, and I’ve never splurged on a horse-drawn carriage. Sure, you’re supposed to take this romantic ride on your first trip to Manhattan or with a man you love, but I’m playing by my own rules now.
    “Wait,” I call before he can get too far away. The driver stops again and I climb up into the buggy. I’m just settling into the faux-fur–lined seat when my cell phone rings.
    “Hello,” I say cheerfully, for once forgetting to screen the number before I pick up.
    “Hi.”
    One syllable and my good mood disappears. And I’m not the only one affected. As if on cue, the dappled mare stops dead in her tracks and takes her daily dump. An apt editorial comment. Good horsey.
    “Hello, Bill,” I say. How is it that he happened to call me ten minutes after I left Eric? Did he pick up some electricity in the cosmos? A somebody-else-is-interested-in-her vibe?
    “Hallie, I’m glad you’re finally talking to me. Want to have breakfast?”
    Does “hello” really count as talking to him? Maybe saying “Bill” was a little too intimate.
    “Why are you calling me at seven o’clock?” I ask coolly, biding my time.
    “I wanted to catch you before you went to the office,” he says.
    I pause. It’s Saturday morning and my first day of even thinking about going to the office, and he knew that, too?
    “Quick, what color pants am I wearing?” I ask, testing just how far his spousal ESP goes.
    “Black,” he says with