The Not-So-Perfect Man by Valerie Frankel Read Free Book Online Page A

suggestion?”
    “Let’s kiss.”
    He stumbled back in mock horror. He laughed at his own theatrics. “You widowed mothers don’t waste time.”
    She shook her head. “We don’t. Wasting time falls under the category of ‘Have I Learned Nothing from Gregg’s Death?.’ ”
    “That must be a long list,” he said.
    She nodded. Sam stepped toward her, lowered his head and very sweetly pecked her on the mouth. Frieda licked her lips afterward, to grab the taste on her tongue. Sam watched her.
    She said, “More, please.”
    He put his hands on her shoulders, and leaned in for a real kiss. It knocked her socks, shoes, and pants off. Would have, anyway, had they more privacy.
    He broke away for a breath and said, “There is one thing you should know about me before we go on,” he said.
    Dreading the worst, she asked, “You have cancer?”
    “I am in perfect health,” he assured her. “And I have great medical insurance through Actors Equity.”
    “What then?” she asked.
    He said, “I’m from Maine.”

Chapter 9
    Tuesday, October 15
5:44 P . M .
    Peter should have worn a heavier jacket. New York went from summer to winter overnight. What happened to fall? When had the middle ground given way to extremes? He wrapped his suit jacket as tightly around his girth as he could, feeling the tug across his back, fearful he might tear the seams. He had to rush, having promised his sister-in-law, Betty, that he’d get from his office in midtown to the Union Square Burton & Notham by 6 P . M . to pick up his order of books, namely The Zone and Dr. Atkins’ New Diet Revolution. He would attempt a life without bread for a week, but first he would read all about it.
    He walked quickly out of his office building on Madison Avenue and 45th Street, past the Cosi sandwich shop, the Sugar ’n’ Spice pie shop, and the seven street vendors outside of Grand Central Station selling hot knishes, beef on skewers, pralines and hot dogs. The scents shot into his brain like bullets, hitting all his hunger receptors. With superhuman strength, he avoided the temptations and pushed through the revolving doors into Grand Central.
    Blessed warmth. The relief made him shudder. He hurried along a passageway, intending to take the escalator (past Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse and the Cucina takeout) to a subway platform. But first, a quick stop at the Hudson News. He loved New York newsstands, especially this one. It was massive, selling hundreds, maybe thousands, of journals, papers, and magazines. When he’d been promoted to editor of Bucks, he’d come to Hudson News every lunch hour to watch if people bought the magazine. If they flipped through it, he wanted to know which articles made them stop. Good research, he thought. More useful than the contrived focus groups where housewives were paid $50 to bash his hard work while he watched behind a two-way mirror.
    He did a quick scan by the financial journals. Miraculously, a fantastically attractive woman—the whole package: blonde, tight as a tiger in a leather skirt, black boots up to her knees—was reading his magazine. It was like the opening to a Penthouse “forum” letter. He could approach her, introduce himself as the editor of Bucks . She’d be impressed, worshipful—an aspiring young business writer looking for her break into publishing. She’d be eager to please, and who was Peter to discourage her?
    He leaned against the wall of sports and fitness titles, pretending to read Shape, and let his imagination take over. She was incredible, legs as long and curvy as a river. And she’d stopped flipping to read an article on municipal bonds that Peter himself had written. A hot woman, reading his words (not moving her lips), with the crease of concentration on her otherwise unlined forehead. He had to arrange his shoulder bag to hide a growing erection.
    Beautiful women, they had to know men stopped to stare. How could they not? With the sweep of his eyes, Peter realized he