Read Mine Are Spectacular! for Free Online

He could announce his name in American Sign Language and Koko the gorilla might get it, but I still won’t be able to place him.
    Kate tries to come to my rescue. “Owen Hardy. You must see his name all over the city,” she prompts. “On buildings. H-A-R-D-Y. Hardy.”
    So then it hits me. Those great big twenty-foot-high bronze letters on top of half the skyscrapers in New York. Owen Hardy is one of New York’s most prominent real estate moguls. Ads for his buildings say
He Trumps Trump!
Owen definitely trumps Donald in the hair department. But I wonder if he can say “You’re fired” with as much élan.
    â€œNice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.
    But my audience with the fabulous and famous Owen Hardy is apparently over, because he glances at his watch and raps his finger on the dial. Is he hyperactive, or is that how he winds his fifty-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe? He grabs Kate’s elbow, clearly ready to lead her away. “Sorry to rush, but we better get going. I only have an hour for . . . lunch.”
    â€œWe were just heading into The Cafeteria,” I say innocently. “Why don’t you come along.”
    â€œNot the kind of lunch I had in mind,” he says looking meaningfully at Kate. “I already stopped at the front desk and got us a suite.”
    Oh, that kind of lunch. And why not? A rich, powerful, well-dressed man about town with his name on dozens of New York buildings. He seems like a pretty good match for my Kate—who might as well enjoy her afternoon tryst without worrying about me.
    â€œListen, you guys, I just remembered I have to . . . go.” Great excuse and very clever. Maybe I can get a job as Dick Cheney’s speechwriter. I look at my watch for emphasis and try rapping it. But that’s apparently not how you wind a Swatch.
    Kate and I say hasty good-byes and she promises to call me later. She and her real estate mogul head to the elevators, and I go in the opposite direction, through the revolving doors and out of the hotel. If I’m buying my own hamburger, it’s not going to involve foie gras. But this must be an upscale neighborhood because I have to walk a whole two blocks before hitting a McDonald’s. At the counter, I turn virtuous and order a chicken Caesar salad. While I’m eating, I study the nutrition information and let out a gasp. A zillion calories in the Paul Newman dressing. This is as big a con as he pulled off in
The Sting.
    I’m taking another stab at my salad when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I see the words i love you flashing on the screen, the message Bradford programmed into my phone months ago along with his number.
    â€œSo you’ll know how I feel every time I call,” he’d said, handing it back to me and kissing me gently on the lips.
    And kissing him is still the best part of my day. Even when he comes home from work at midnight, exhausted, he still cuddles next to me before falling asleep. And he swears that once the deal he’s working on now is done, he’ll be more relaxed. Or—as he says—as relaxed as a man who was born in a three-piece suit can possibly be.
    â€œHi, honey,” he says now when I answer the phone. “Where are you?”
    â€œHaving lunch,” I say, wiping the last incriminating trace of salad dressing from my mouth. As if my cell phone might suddenly turn into one of those camera models.
    â€œSomeplace good?” he asks.
    Here’s a dilemma. Bradford usually eats broiled fish and steamed vegetables for lunch, whipped up by his company’s executive chef and delivered to his desk on Limoges china and a silver tray. Should I tell him I’ve been eating plastic fast food with a plastic fork? Not exactly his style. But I can’t lie.
    â€œI just became McDonald’s hundred-billionth customer,” I say. “I’m hoping I won a free apple turnover.”
    â€œGo