Just in time for the six-foot-three slice of prime beef to notice.
He extended his hand as he reached the bar. "Sydney?"
"Yes," I said as I shook his hand.
"What's a nice News Director like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.
Good. Sense of humor.
"It's a good place to relax after work," I said.
His cobalt blue eyes stole a glance at my legs, then locked on my own, looking right into my soul and almost putting me in a hypnotic trance. He smiled, revealing dimples that ran like trenches along his rugged twenty-eight-year-old face that bristled with a three-day growth. A shock of coal black hair cascaded over his forehead. He hopped onto the bar stool next to mine and swung it around to face me. His knees gently brushed mine, sending an electric charge through my body.
Damn, he makes Scott Harry look like a Boy Scout.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
"I hope that's good."
"Oh yeah."
"And you look good in clothes," I said.
His face flushed a bit as he shook his head. "I can't believe you actually saw that Off-Broadway disaster."
"Hey, Shakespeare in the nude wasn't all that bad."
"Right. That's why I'm still waiting tables uptown after playing opposite Lady McBare."
"Did you have a problem doing nudity on stage?"
"Nah. I just needed the work. At least I got discovered by you, right?"
"Right."
"I'm frankly surprised you'd actually consider an actor to be a news anchor."
"Well, we've had an actor as President and one was the Governor of California. It's all about being able to communicate. What's the difference?"
"True." He looked off to the side for a moment, then turned back to me. "I do have one question that we didn't cover during our phone conversation."
"Shoot."
He bit his lower lip, then fired away. "I've read the tabloids about your… hiring practices. And the regular weekly—"
"Let me answer your question with a question," I said.
"Okay."
I leaned forward and slid my hand on the smooth bar toward his so that our fingers lightly touched. "Hypothetically, mind you. If you were to be offered a job, a great job that paid really well, and one part of the interview process was to take care of the sexual needs of your future boss, how would you respond?
"Hypothetically?"
"Of course."
He shrugged. "Well, that depends."
"On what?"
"On who the boss is. If the boss is some twenty-five-year-old ditsy blonde looking for a commitment, then I'm not the guy. Romance can't be part of the picture. If it's some wrinkled sixty-year-old prune, forget it." He looked around, then leaned closer while putting his hand on top of mine. "The boss would have to be, say, a very attractive tall redhead with a great pair of legs and spectacular eyes. It would also be nice if she were a little older than me. I like women who are… seasoned."
Well, rub some spices on me and toss me on the grill.
"So," he continued, "to answer your question. If I were to be offered a great job that required me to have sex with my hot boss, and no romantic strings attached, well…"
"Yes?"
"I'd jump on it."
Gulp. (I don't even want to describe the image that flashed through my head, but let's just call it the really Off-Off-Broadway nude production of Taming of the Shrew.)
"Really," I said, feigning surprise. "You wouldn't consider it any sort of sexual harassment?"
"Oh, please. Hell, I'd let her be in charge in the bedroom too. Great job, free sex, where do I sign? Hypothetically, of course."
"Of course," I said.
"You know, the service at this place is really slow," he said, looking around at the lack of empty tables. "I oughta know, I used to work here. And the food's not that great either."
"True." I reached into my beaded purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. "You know, I think we should continue our conversation elsewhere. I have a room at the Plaza."
"They have excellent room service there."
"They do. Are you hungry?"
He licked his lips, hungry eyes looking directly into mine. "I think I will be in a couple of hours."
He hopped off his stool and extended his hand. I took it and slid off the chair, then stood straight and tall, inches away from his face, breathing in his musky cologne.
"Oh, I do have one more question," he said.
Uh-oh. "Sure."
"All I have to do is read and look good, right? No reporting in the field, no journalism stuff, no writing. I mean, I'm an actor, not Edward R. Murrow."
"That's the deal. You're not a real news anchor, you just play one on TV."
"Okay."
"You only have to remember one thing, Jason," I said. "It's not brain surgery. It's just television news."
If you get the punchline to this joke, you probably understand the mission statement of the Consolidated Broadcasting Network's entertainment division:
What do a Mississippi divorce and a tornado have in common?
Somebody's gonna lose a trailer.
As networks go, Consolidated Broadcasting is not what you'd call the purveyor of highbrow programming.
If your idea of a big night is a six-pack and a bug zapper, you're part of our target audience. Congratulations!
(Of course if you're reading this, and your lips don't move when you read, you're obviously not. I am presuming the only books in the homes of CBN viewers are sitting next to a box of Crayolas, so I feel pretty safe in sharing our secrets.)
CBN prime-time shows have simple formulas. Every show needs at least one, and preferably more, of the following:
—Women
