Boss Girl
~Sydney Hack is the single, thirtysomething VP of news for a failing network… and she also has a taste for younger men.She soon realizes a whole lot of over-thirty female viewers do as well, so she sets out to give these women what they want; a chiseled, trophy buck in his twenties sitting on the anchor desk next to a woman…Just.Like.Them.With nothing to lose she does the unthinkable; along with three female managers who happen to be her best friends she brings out the casting couch and turns it into a sleeper sofa. Doesn't matter that the men have no television experience. As long as they look good. And there’s a hint of romance in every newscast.Ratings skyrocket as a result, but Sydney and her female cohorts discover something else along the way…True love is not always age appropriate.
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Contents
I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.
For Myra, my love and source of inspiration.
I used to think I was Eve in a previous life. But then again, if that were true, I would have made the serpent eat the apple.
Doesn't really matter. These days, no Adam stands a chance against me.
Because I'm the new keeper of the Garden of Eden. Right now it's known as a television news network. I, Sydney Hack, a/k/a Neutron Syd, (Okay, okay, so I've fired a few people) have been running it for a year and a half.
I'm the Boss Girl.
And the ratings have not budged one inch with news anchored by the pageant fembots (those beauty queen androids.) If they don't move in six months, I'm out of a job.
That scraping sound you hear? Someone upstairs sharpening the guillotine.
Sydney Hack, white courtesy phone, please. Your career is calling.
Time for a pre-emptive strike.
So I'm changing the rules tonight. I'm going to start giving our target demographic, women over thirty, what they really want.
And what they want on their "to-do" list is on his way from the front door. He struts, as if in slow motion, a chiseled six-foot-two trophy buck with tousled black hair and a chin that could carve granite. I cross my legs and playfully rock a Kelly green four-inch heel on my toe and smile, calling my dimples and high cheekbones into service as he makes his way through the crowded, dimly-lit restaurant. The brass rails and colorful Tiffany lamps are suddenly painted in sepia tones as his powder blue eyes stand out like they were surrounded by black velvet. His five o'clock shadow is a light brushstroke of virility.
Members of my target demographic drool, posture dramatically improves as c-cups raise their hands for attention, and forks are suspended in mid-air over crème brûlée as he passes.
I can see it in their eyes as they note my bar stool is his destination.
He's ten years younger than her.
Why not me?
And I know he's the key to the ratings.
Damn, it's so simple. Robbing the cradle. Age inappropriate. Cougar newscast. Or call it whatever. Older woman, younger man.
I shove my long copper tangles back behind one ear, widen the eyes that have been dipped in the Caribbean (thanks to the kind folks at Eye-World, with several convenient locations to serve you) and stand to greet him, my heels taking my five-ten slender frame up to his level. I'm the long-stemmed Red Queen of the Garden.
Scott Harry extended his hand. "Good to see you again, Ms. Hack." His deep, smooth voice flowed, the edges of the words smoothed over as they segued into one another.
"Sydney, please," I said, sliding back onto the stool. "Our table won't be ready for a half-hour. Would you like a drink?"
"Never drink on a job interview," he said, smiling, dimples to match mine, then hopping up onto a bar stool. He leaned toward me, and the faint scent of his Polo cologne followed.
"The interview was this afternoon," I said. "This is the negotiation."
He tried to hold back a smile, but couldn't. The twenty-nine-year-old Ken-Doll didn't have a poker face. "So, you're making me an offer?"
"Well, I'm still considering two other candidates." I paused, watched the color drain from his face as if I had pulled a plug.
Gotcha.
I ran my eyes up and down his body. "But I like what I see." I turned my attention to my glass of bourbon and took a sip. "Your agent tells me you've been looking for an anchor gig for a while."
"The job market's tough."
"Well, to be brutally honest, your reporting skills aren't the best."
His head dropped.
Okay, he's ready to swallow the hook.
"But you're a decent enough anchor for our purposes." The head raised up, a hint of hope crept back into those powder blues. I downed the rest of the drink in one gulp and checked my watch. "Tell you what, Scott. I don't feel like waiting here thirty minutes for dinner, and the service is slow anyway. I'm thinking room service."
He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"
I reached into my beaded bag, pulled out a Montblanc pen, and grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on the bar. "Tell you what, if you want to continue our negotiations, here's my room number at The Plaza." I wrote 1634 on the napkin and slid it over to him. "If not, well, I'm sure you'll have a nice career in Indianapolis."
