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Boss Girl
Nic Tatano
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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.
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