Boss Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "Not a problem," I said. "The driver is waiting downstairs right now. He's going to take you through Central Park for an hour." I reached into my purse and pulled out a little vial filled with sand and handed it to her. "It's a little cold for the beach, but this is Coney Island's finest." I cocked my head toward the window. "And it's a full moon tonight. A shame to waste it, don't you think?"

  Jillian's eyes grew misty and she gave me the most soulful look I'd ever seen. I finally knew what it must feel like to have a sibling. She then wrapped her arms around my shoulders and gave me a strong hug. "Thank you, sweetie."

  She pulled back and Shawn took both my hands, then glanced up over my head. "Wow, look at that," he said, turning toward Jillian and pointing at me. "Beautiful woman standing under mistletoe."

  "A shame to waste it," said Jillian. "Don't you think?"

  Then Shawn got up on his toes, took my face gently in his hands, and, even though it only lasted a second, he gave me the softest, most sensual kiss I'd ever had.

  * * *

  The place was clearing out, as the band was packing up.

  Jillian and the Snack were back from their ride, standing in front of the tree again, its flashing lights providing backlight and giving them a heavenly ethereal look, like a pair of angels.

  I stopped a moment to look at them.

  Jillian, radiant in a red, off-one-shoulder cocktail dress, hair put up on one side, long dangly rhinestone earrings reflecting the light. Looking at him and totally oblivious to what was going on around her, like they were the only two people on the planet.

  Shawn with his hands on her waist, looking up to his dream girl. Literally and figuratively.

  And when you think about it, isn't that all any woman can ask for?

  Funny, we started out looking for ratings and instead found the meaning of love.

  He’d said it first, by the way, in case you were wondering.

  EPILOGUE

  I know, I know, I have a lot of loose ends to tie up here, but let me take my time. The piña colada I'm sipping is made with fresh pineapple and coconut, and the natural taste is just exploding in my mouth while the island rum that accompanies it is helping me float along with the ship. So I'm on very low power and operating on autopilot.

  Oh, yeah, I'm on a week-long Caribbean cruise. We all needed a break after the launch and the trial, so Amanda sprang for some first-class vacations. Too bad we can't all be together at once, but someone's gotta stay behind and mind the store. So it's just me, the clear azure waters off the coast of Grand Cayman, the pristine salt air that fills my lungs, and my poolside bartender friend who calls me "rum runner" since everything I order contains that wonderful sugary alcohol. There's something to be said about having a little pink umbrella in your drink on a floating hotel in which the outside world doesn't exist. The country blew up? Eh, so what. I've got an ice sculpting demonstration in ten minutes and that chocolate buffet is at two this afternoon and then there's ballroom dancing at four with a really cute instructor who had his hand on my ass yesterday afternoon and elsewhere last night. When you're at sea, you have to keep your priorities straight.

  But anyway, there's a gentle ocean breeze blowing through my hair right now, so I guess revisiting the real world for a few minutes won't kill me.

  Final random thoughts:

  —Just before I left we actually shot a shampoo commercial. Originally the ad agency guy just wanted Neely, but then realized the four of us represented the entire hair color spectrum of blonde, brunette, redhead, and raven. So while Neely is the spokesperson in the spot, we all got to have those invisible electric fans blow our hair around one afternoon in a studio. Neely's line at the end of the commercial is just dripping with lust. She pulls off the glasses and drops the hair, then turns to the camera and says, in that sultry voice of hers, "A woman should never be afraid to let her hair down." Then she deftly slides the straps of her dress off her shoulders and says, "Or anything else."

  The network also taped Neely dropping her hair for New Year's Eve, and ran it in super slow motion, one frame at a time, complete with a countdown clock. Ratings for the fifteen minutes before midnight were off the charts.

  —Speaking of Neely's alter ego, we never got blown off the cable systems in Alaska. As it turned out, some of our highest ratings came from the last frontier. The Republicans may have lost the election, but I'm sure Democrats don't have the same fantasy about Joe Biden that the GOP guys have about Sarah Palin.

  —Rica got a commercial off her little "Hair Club for Men" comment during the trial. A New York City hair replacement clinic that only advertised locally wanted a hot woman over thirty with an accent, so she fit the bill. In the spot, she's sitting in a bar, having just blown off a bald guy who'd hit on her. "You think this girl's goin' out with some cueball? Fuhgeddaboudit!" The commercial then extols the virtue of hair transplants and finished up with Rica walking out of the bar on the arm of a buck with thick, wavy dark hair. (And yes, she checked his references when they were done shooting.)

  —Speaking of loose ends, I realized I mentioned the laxative brownie story but never told it to you. So here goes. There was a food thief at Rica's station in Los Angeles, as lunches would routinely disappear from the break room fridge. Everyone had a pretty good idea who the culprit was; a male reporter who hated Rica. So she whips up a batch of brownies and instead of chocolate chips adds a powerful laxative. She put them in a bag, marked it "Rica's brownies: do not touch!" and placed it in the break room. Naturally, the bag disappeared shortly thereafter. That afternoon the reporter in question was seen doubled over in pain at his desk, then making a mad dash for the news department men's room. The toilet paper had already been removed, and as soon as the guy bolted inside Rica actually wedged the door shut. Since she had put enough laxatives in the brownies to uncork a platoon, moans of agony were heard while the staff stood on the other side of the door laughing their asses off. Rica left him in there for an hour, and only sent in a roll of Charmin after the guy had slid a hundred bucks under the door. She took the money and bought lunch for those who'd had theirs stolen. I'm telling you, you don't want to get on that woman's bad side.

  —On the subject of practical jokes, I actually got up the nerve to pull one on Mother for the first time ever. I called Dad and asked him to describe the legendary Buick in which he had sent her over the edge. Then I tracked down a blue, 1967 two door Skylark on eBay for a hundred bucks and had the rusted bucket of bolts towed from a Queens junkyard, in the middle of the night, and left in Mother's driveway. I decided to make this a special event, so I rented a limo and took the girls along for the ride as we followed the tow truck. We put two blow-up dolls in the back seat. (At first we had them just sitting there, but then Rica and Neely arranged them in compromising positions, so that the female doll had her feet sticking up in the air. Jillian then took a bar of soap and wrote Just Hitched on the back window. The limo driver shook his head in amazement at all this.) Then we parked down the street, sipped champagne and ate chocolate dipped strawberries all night while waiting for Mother to come out for the morning paper. The resulting scream could be heard all over Old Southwich, after which she passed out and did a header into the koi pond.

  —We'll be transferring Scott to the new affiliate we just launched in San Francisco. I just didn't have the heart to let him go, and besides, the guy is a ratings magnet. I made a big show about how much I'd miss riding Secretariat and even treated him to a night being attacked by a woman in blue sequins, though we skipped the stop at the billiard hall. Sadly, this means I'll have to find someone to take his place. So many references to check, so little time.

  —And I know you're dying to find out what's up with Jillian and The Snack. Though they're together just about every night they maintain separate residences, as some nights The Snack hosts poker nights for the guys while Jillian is out with us doing girl stuff. They're both far too sensible to rush down the aisle, and are just enjoying each other right now, taking
their time as their relationship grows stronger. It should be noted that the ratings during The Snack's time slot (three till six in the afternoon) are higher than those of any other, and when I get back I'm going to move him to prime time for February sweeps. And to think I was ready to dismiss the guy for being too short. Jillian has something really special in him.

  Jillian also got her picture taken for a magazine ad… for pantyhose, naturally.

  —Amanda actually sold the movie rights to our story and gave us another nice check on New Year's Eve. Some guy supposedly working on a screenplay called me and wants to get together with me and the girls when I get back. I got an email from him the other day and the subject line read Untitled Cougar Project.

  —Neely's manual, "The Cat's Meow: The Over-Thirty Woman's Guide to Men" will be out the day before Valentine's Day. My chapter on checking references is bound to send every human resources manager in America into a meltdown. And, just for fun, I'm having the publisher deliver a copy to everyone on Mother's street. (The thing with the Buick was so much fun, I just can't stop.)

  Oh, hold on a minute. An exponentially cute guy just got out of the pool, was toweling off, and heading this way. Medium height, slender but nicely muscled, dark hair, mid-twenties. He weaved his way around the white deckchairs and black bikinis, getting several looks from the latter, tossed the towel in a giant drum and walked to the bar as the ever-present calypso music fills the background.

  He stopped two chairs down and waited for the bartender to finish up with the customer at the other end of the bar. I'd gotten a close up of spectacular olive green eyes and a perfect set of shoulders that were hunched up just a bit.

  He nodded at me and smiled, bringing tiny dimples into play. I could tell he was a little shy. I slid my drink across the bar toward him. "You can share mine if you can't stand the wait," I said. "You ought to try one of these. I'm Sydney."

  He loosened up, the first move having been taken off those perfect shoulders. "Will Caplin," he said. He pointed toward the glass, which was three quarters empty. "You sure?"

  "Go ahead, I don't have cooties."

  "I didn't think you did." He grabbed the glass and took a sip, which brought an instant smile to his face. "Oh, that's fantastic."

  The bartender moved down to our end. "Two more," I said.

  "Very good, rum runner," he said, and started to cut up a pineapple.

  "You don't have to do that," said Will.

  "I do if I want you to sit next to me," I said, spinning the next chair so that it faced him. "I won't bite." He moved toward it and sat down.

  "Actually I've been kind of wondering who the mysterious redhead was who sits by the pool every afternoon."

  "I'm not all that mysterious."

  "Well, you've got the hat and sunglasses and never go in the pool."

  I removed my sunglasses and put them on the bar. "The sun down here is too strong for redheads," I said. "We're very fair-skinned. If I went out there with SPF one thousand I'd still look like the lobster they served last night."

  "I didn't know that," he said, as the blender whirred into action. "About redheads." The bartender finished whipping up the blend and poured out the two coladas, stuck the appropriate garnish and umbrellas in the drinks, and slid them toward us. "Thank you," he said to the bartender. "And thank you," he said, turning to me, holding his glass up in a toast. "To perfect strangers who buy men drinks."

  "Thank you, kind sir, but I'm not perfect."

  "You look pretty close to it from here."

  "By the way, I do go swimming. But at night, after dinner," I said, grabbing my drink. "Very refreshing and no one's here. Really neat under the moonlight."

  "So if I wanted to see what the mysterious redhead looked like in a bikini, that would be the time."

  "It would be a lot easier if you just had dinner with the mysterious redhead, then you could follow her to the pool. And back to her cabin."

  "So… you're not cruising with anyone?"

  "Nope. Just depressurizing from some long days at the office. How about you?"

  "Flying solo," he said. "I did some PR work for the cruise line and they threw me a free cabin."

  "No one you wanted to bring?"

  He shook his head.

  I nodded toward the pool. "I'm sure those bikinis are keeping you busy."

  He smiled and shook his head. "Nah. They're looking for Mister Perfect."

  "You look pretty close to it from here," I said.

  He started to blush like Jillian. "You're very kind. But they're in search of tall and rich. When you're five-eight and clipping coupons, that kind of takes you out of the equation with girls my age."

  "Height's overrated," I said, an image of The Snack and Jillian popping into my head. "So is money."

  "Nice to hear a woman say that. I'm just not sure if I believe you."

  "Why don't I take you to dinner and prove it to you? It's formal night. I have some blue sequins I'm dying to wear. I don't want them to go to waste and you look like the kind of guy who would appreciate them." I took a long sip of my drink as I dipped my head and looked at him. "That is, if you think you can handle me."

  "I'd love to escort you to dinner," he said.

  "I'll be taking you," I said. "My rules are different than most women's."

  * * *

  The light Caribbean breeze seemed to caress my wet skin as I sat on the edge of the pool. The crystal clear sky offered a spectacular view of the stars, a high-def version away from the light pollution of New York City.

  Ah, the afterglow of reference checking.

  "You're right," said Will, swimming up to me and pushing himself out of the water so that he sat next to me. "This is a better time to go swimming." I handed him a towel and he ran it through his hair. "I've really enjoyed the evening," he said.

  "You say that like it's goodbye," I said. "We still have three nights left on the cruise."

  "I wasn't sure if you were interested."

  "You made me scream so loud the cabin steward came to the door and you're actually wondering if I'm interested?"

  "I guess when you put it that way it's a stupid question. I haven't had much luck with women."

  "Well, your luck just changed. And I'm certainly not going to spend the rest of this trip learning to fold napkins into swans if I've got you around."

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I just figured maybe you're one of those women who, you know, likes one-night stands with younger men—"

  "Ah, I know the term to which you are referring. That a problem?"

  "No way," he said. "I've just become a cat person."

  Loved Boss Girl? Then don’t miss the next book in this fabulous series,

  It Girl

  It Girl

  CHAPTER ONE

  "My network's twenty–million-dollar-a-year morning anchor just got arrested for soliciting a prostitute."

  While I've made a habit of getting major exclusives as a television reporter, this latest juicy scoop brought the conversation at our dinner table to a screeching halt.

  And the next words you hear should tell you that you need to get out of your conventional mode of thinking.

  "She hired a prostitute?"

  That's right. She.

  See what I mean? You naturally assumed said morning anchor was a man looking for a hookup with some silicone babe on a Manhattan street corner. But nooooo, in this case we're talking about television's reigning "It Girl" who heretofore was assumed to be pure as the driven snow by the network executives who hired her.

  At least they got the driven part right.

  Snow White in handcuffs.

  Film at eleven.

  This simple text message from my contact at the cop shop meant the bigwigs who ran my network would be looking for a replacement. Immediately. You can't exactly get the kids ready for school while watching an anchor who thinks half 'n' half is something other than what you put in your coffee. Anyway, it wouldn't take long for the vultu
res who wanted the job to start circling.

  I would not be one of them. But even the chance that the network might pluck me from the local affiliate for this job from hell sent a chill up my spine.

  Yeah, you heard me. Twenty million dollar job from hell. It was a gig this intrepid television reporter didn't want.

  And in the back of my mind I knew, thanks to Murphy's Law, they'd want me for it.

  Sonofabitch. I hate it when people offer me huge contracts.

  My best friend Layla raised one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow like a question mark. "Veronica, you gonna throw your hat in the ring?"

  "Hell, no!" I said, as I grabbed my wine glass and took a bigger sip than normal. A pre-emptive strike in case said hat ended up in said ring.

  Since you're probably wondering why a local TV reporter wouldn't want a network anchor slot that pays a fortune, I should probably tell you a little about my method of deductive reasoning. I'm Veronica Summer, the top hard news reporter for the network's New York City flagship affiliate. The local version of an "It Girl." And at the age of thirty-two, this tall, green-eyed redhead has her career just where she wants it. I get the lead story almost every night, take no prisoners, and am generally considered to be the best old-school journalist in town. So the last thing I need is a job that forces me to talk about purses, hair color and breast feeding at the crack of dawn. There's a network job I want, a dream job, and that aint it.

  Even if it pays about a hundred times more than my current salary.

  "Why the hell don't y'all apply?" asked Savannah, the sultry Southern brunette who is the most logical in our group.

  "Because the morning show is a bunch of soft bullshit," I said. "That's not me."

  "I watch that show while I'm on the treadmill," said Layla, who probably saw the dollar signs that came with the job before anything else. "They do some serious interviews. You could still do your Brenda Starr thing."

  "Yeah, and that's about ten percent of the show," I said. "The operative word being show, not newscast. The other two hours are a flying Mongolian cluster of fluff consisting of musical guests, dieting tips and how to avoid picking up killer germs from shopping cart handles." I threw up my hands and shook them. "Run for your lives!"