Chair. Well, actually, it would be three years on the morning show, and then … "
And then he dropped another enticing piece of produce.
"Six months covering Senator Dixon's presidential campaign."
And just like that, the job in which I had no interest was now a job I had to have.
***
"I forbid you to take this job."
My latest boyfriend's words out of the blue stopped me just as I was about to apply the whipped cream to his washboard abs. I sat up and put the can of Reddi-Wip on the nightstand. Obviously my plan for round two on this Saturday afternoon human dessert bar had been doused with a bucket of cold water. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," said Alexander Dumont, my significant other for the past four months. He put his hands behind his head and locked his fingers. "I forbid it."
The night's dinner reservations at the city's trendiest restaurant went right out the window. I got off the bed, stood up, folded my arms in front of me and stuck out one foot like an angry teacher even though I was wearing nothing but a bright red thong. "Who the hell are you to forbid me to do anything that pertains to my career?"
"I'm your boyfriend, the man who is going to take care of you. And if you take this job and start getting up at two o'clock in the morning, we won't be able to continue our relationship. I already put up with you working nights."
I raised one eyebrow. "Oh, you put up with that, do you?"
"Every other guy I know has a girlfriend who works normal hours. Or a wife who stays home."
"Well, these are the normal hours for my job. And I'll never be a Stepford wife. I don't need someone to take care of me. I can take care of myself. Always have."
"You could get them to put you on the day shift."
"The eleven o'clock newscast is the station's signature broadcast, and I'm the lead reporter—"
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard about how important it is for viewers to go to bed watching your channel so that's what they're watching when they turn the TV on in the morning. Real rocket science."
"What I do for a living is important, Alexander. And I love what I do. You should know that by now."
"I just figured at some point your biological clock would kick in and this little fling with broadcasting would be over."
Now he'd crossed the line. My pulse spiked as my eyes widened. "Little fling?"
"You tell stories for a living. C'mon, it's not a real job."
Annndddd… cue the anger. "And you sell stocks to people. You're nothing more than a legalized bookie taking bets that companies will make money. Wall Street is a glorified casino."
"Don't change the subject. You're not taking this morning show job. You're not a morning person anyway."
"You don't get it. This will lead to the main network anchor job in three and a half years. You know how many people have sat in that chair in the last half century? Three. I'll be the face of the network at thirty-five. And I'll get to cover Sydney Dixon's campaign, and she's a lock to be the next President. I'll get to travel the world, have the President of the United States on speed dial, take trips on Air Force One—"
"Great, I'll see even less of you."
"It's my dream job."
"It doesn't work for me. Or my plan for us. You're not taking the job. End of story. C'mon, get back in bed."
He reached out for me and I shoved his hand away. My blood reached its boiling point, but I'm one of those people who can still think rationally even when I'm seriously pissed off. Reporters often see things in black and white, with very few gray areas. And at that moment, I knew I had to step back and look at the situation as a reporter, not as a girlfriend. I took a long look at the thirty-five year old man my friends considered to be an incredible catch. Tall, classically handsome with (ironically) an anchorman's square jaw, deep set dark brown eyes that matched the color of his short hair, a rugged face. A seriously buffed body to die for and sex that was off the charts. But the realization hit me that the man I had planned to turn into a hundred and eighty pound chocolate sundae didn't even know me.
Or didn't want to.
And just like that, I reached a decision. I knew it was time to cut my losses. "Get out."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Get your underwear off the trapeze and your toothbrush out of my bathroom and whatever other stuff you've got around here and get out. You've got thirty minutes and after that anything I find that belongs to you is going down the garbage chute. We're done."
He reached out for me again. "C'mon, babe, calm down."
I glared at him. "Oh, I'm very calm. You just showed your true colors. You have absolutely no respect for my career, or for what I want to do with my life. Which, since you obviously didn't get the memo, is not yours to mold. And in case you haven't been to a wedding in a while, they took the obey part out of the vows, so you can't forbid me to do anything. You put up with me for the past few months? Well now you won't have to put up with anything. Go get yourself a nine-to-five girlfriend."
"You're serious."
I nodded. "We're done, Alexander. As you would say, end of story."
Scott Winter is known as "America's boy next door." One look at him tells you why.
Not classically handsome but beyond cute, he's got a mop of always-tousled black hair that leaves the impression it's been styled by some babe who ran her fingers through it after having her way with him. Combine that with devilish olive green eyes that make him look like he's up to something, a permanent five o'clock shadow, and a lean face accented by dimples that run the length of his cheeks, and you've got a guy with the highest "Q" rating in television.
That means viewers like him more than anyone else. On any network.
Women really like him. And they all want to sleep with him, even though he's happily married to his high school sweetheart and would never, ever cheat.
At five-foot-ten he's the biggest thing on television.
And he's been my friend for fourteen years since the day we met freshman year.
He stepped off the set to greet me as I entered the studio. "Hey, it's The Spitfire!" he said, using my nickname.
"Hi, Scott," I said, as he gave me a strong hug and almost lifted my hundred and thirty-five pounds off the floor.
"There's something I haven't seen between our co-anchors in awhile," said Gavin Karlson.
"Do we have to do a tryout?" asked Scott, as he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. "Can't we just hire her right now?"
"Sorry,"
