Page 24 of The Grumpy Billionaire
My pulse screamed through my veins as I struggled to wrap my mind around what I’d just heard. “So, he actually called here and volunteered to do the interview with us.”
“Well, his assistant made the call. And not withus, withyou. He was very specific about that.”
I relaxed marginally. “We probably got punked. You said the assistant was male?” I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, thinking of my prank-loving photographer friend. Sheldon had to be behind this.
“Did someone verify this with Mancini’s office?”
“Of course. The assignment desk called there immediately.” Rob took his seat again. “I know—it’s hard to believe—but the first-ever interview with the mysterious founder of StillYours.com is going to air onour station.”
He looked like he might pass out or at least start salivating all over his desk. “Here’s the number. You’ll need to call and set up a time. I want you to start on this right away. We’ve only got two weeks till ratings start. I have to talk to promotions. I want to start airing promos.”
His words came out at machine gun speed as his frenzied brain planned for the ultimate sweeps story.
“But…” And now the panic started to set in. “But what about my report on modern day mobsters in Rhode Island? I’ve already set up the interviews. We’ve already pulled file tape.”
“I know,” Rob responded in a distracted tone, already picking up his phone to call Sue in promotions, no doubt. “That doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll give it to… I don’t know… Aaron can do it.”
“Aaron?” I nearly shrieked. “He can’t do it. You saw his report on the measles outbreak.”
Aaron Bryson was our main anchor. While a likable, handsome guy who gave good TV, he wasn’t exactly brilliant, and certainly not capable of doing a good job with the investigative story I’d enterprised and had already started researching for sweeps.
It’s not that I disliked Aaron. In fact, I’d considered him as a candidate for the role of Mara’s new himbo. He fit my requirements exactly—attractive, not-too-bright, andnotlooking to settle down.
But he was more suited to the weekly Adopt-A-Stray segment and stories on Tony the Dancing Cop than real journalism. In fact…
“Why can’t Aaron do the piece on Mancini? He’d be perfect. And it would be a great high-profile series for him as main anchor,” I said.
Rob frowned at me. “Mara. This isn’t up for negotiation. Mancini’s assistant was very clear. He wantsyou.”
I shivered. Why was the station wasting money on air-conditioning in October?
“But—”
“I’m surprised you’re not jumping at this,” Rob continued. “You told me you want to work at the network level someday. This is the kind of story that will get your name on the radar. In any case—we’re not missing out on this because you’d rather do a report on some tired old Mafioso.”
He waved a dismissive hand and looked down, punching numbers into his desk phone. Conversation over.
I went to my desk in the newsroom, silently fuming at Rob’s remark about my planned sweeps piece and growing warmer by the second. Couldn’t they turn on any air-conditioning in this place? It was only October, for God’s sake.
I stared at the number in my hands. Mancini Enterprises. I pictured calling Reid’s office, asking for his assistant, arranging a date and time to meet with him and get the behind-the-curtain view of the empire he’d built since I’d cut off all communications with him eleven years ago.
Of the life he’d built without me.
My desk phone rang, and I picked it up without thinking, without checking the caller-ID first.
“Mara Neely, Action News Three.”
“Mara? Mara, honey, it’s Dad. I’m so glad I finally caught you.”
My eyelids squeezed together, my face contracting in a grimace. “Hi,” I managed to get the word out.
“Hi. It’s so good to hear your voice. I wondered if I’d ever get through to you. I’ve left messages at the house, and I don’t have your cell num—”
“What do you want, Dad? This is not a great time to talk.”
“Oh, I know you’re busy. I don’t want to keep you. I can’t tell you how proud I am to turn on my TV at night and see you—it’s been so long.”
“Did you need something?” I asked, fighting to keep the acid out of my voice. The newsroom was open, our desks divided only by low partitions. There was no such thing as a private conversation here.
