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buy yourself one. My treat,” he says with a laugh. “Is Kate with you for your fancy lunch?”
    â€œNope. Turns out she had other plans.”
    â€œSo do you, if you can manage it,” he says cheerfully. “Can you meet me in an hour? I’m taking your advice and working hard to be more relaxed.”
    I laugh. “What do you have in mind?”
    â€œA little surprise.”
    He tells me where to meet him and ten minutes later I’m in a cab, zipping down the FDR Drive. I look appreciatively at the cityscape, glowing in the sunshine, and suddenly hardy seems to be looming everywhere. When did that happen? Once something hits your radar screen, it seems to pop up all over. I’m pretty sure the family didn’t acquire fifty new buildings since lunchtime. Especially since Owen’s tied up at the moment.
    Owen. So Kate’s got a new guy. Good. She’s the most gorgeous woman I know but it’s been a long stretch between boyfriends. If this works out maybe we can have a double wedding—since I don’t seem to be doing anything about planning one on my own. But I don’t care what Kate says, no way that fancy pastry chef Sylvia Weinstock is making us one of her famous eight-layered confections. Unless she jumps out of the wedding cake, I’m not spending the twelve hundred dollars.
    Still, I’m getting ahead of myself. Owen seems interesting. But does he deserve Kate? Is he good enough? Nice enough? I need more details. I start dialing Kate’s number, but then snap my cell phone closed. Occurs to me that she might not be done with . . . lunch. And I know she wasn’t having a Caesar salad.
    I arrive at Wall Street in record time, and Bradford’s waiting in front of a large, corporate-looking building. I see him before he sees me and feel my heart skip a beat. The tall athletic body, curly dark hair and sparkling green eyes get me every time. And that dimple in his right cheek—that God surely put there so he could get away with anything—makes me melt. With the rush of anticipation I still feel every time I see him, I bound over to give him a hug.
    â€œYou look great,” he says. He gives me a big kiss and flashes the dimple. Melting, part two. Will I still feel this way once we’ve been married twenty years? It’s a risk I’m willing to take.
    He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze as we walk toward the elevator. What are we doing at this Wall Street enclave, anyway? Maybe it’s Take Your Fiancée to Work Day. Well, I don’t care. Whatever Bradford has in mind, I’m game.
    When we reach the twenty-third floor, I’m half expecting to see rows of cubicles and computer screens, but instead the door opens into a jungle with a huge cascading waterfall, a thicket of towering elephant-eared plants and the whooshing, hooting and chirping sounds of a rain forest. If this is an office, the workers must swing through trees.
    A barefoot woman in a leopard-skin miniskirt bounces toward us with miniature martini glasses filled with a brown, bark-colored liquid.
    â€œPomegranate cocktails!” she says cheerily. “Filled with antioxidants—protects you against cancer, and just as important, every sip makes you look younger!”
    Bradford chugs his down immediately but I eye the murky potion more warily. What is this with pomegranate juice? A month ago, I’d never heard of Pom and now it’s the Fruit of the Month. Whatever happened to the purported healing powers of grapefruit, blueberries and cranberries? And given the rising cost of health care, shouldn’t we all just stick with apples, which at least keep doctors away?
    The leopard-clad woman of the forest takes a gulp of the drink herself. “By the way, I’m Jane,” she says. As if I couldn’t have guessed. I look around the room for Tarzan, but he must be off getting his diptheria shot because he’s nowhere in sight.
    We