Page 16 of Heavy Shot

"Yeah well. What can I say? You're intoxicating and I couldn't wait.”

"Aw, I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she said, though she could hear him smiling.

"Just the smart, pretty ones."

"Know a lot of those, do you?"

"Lots of pretty. Lots of smart.Very few pretty and smart at the same time. So," he grinned, "I had a great time last night. We're still on for Wednesday, right?"

"Absolutely. I never turn down a free meal," she said, then laughed. "I'm awful. I really need to stop talking. Just ignore me."

"That would make for a very one-sided and boring conversation. Please, continue."

"Glutton for punishment. Wow, I learn something new about you every day!" she said, the smile still in place. "Thank you for the flowers."

"My pleasure. I've got some Callas growing in my back garden.I love them.I thought you might."

"Callas are very pretty, but so are the Easters you sent. Lovely blooms," Rhiannon said. "I've been getting a lot of attention today. Condolences mostly."

"Easters?" His voice went up an octave. "Fuck!Easters?Aw, Rhiannon, I'm sorry.They were--heh--I can only imagine what you thought that meant," he started to laugh.

"Thad asked me who died," she said, seriously.

"Oh no," he said, shaking his head at the mistake. "What did you say?"

"Celibacy. You should have seen his face."

Kline laughed again. "I didn't tell him shit.He asked.”

"He said he did."

“You two seem close?”

She chuckled, “He calls me his work wife, which is confusing because he has an actual work wife.”

“He has all kinds of wives. Work, ex, current, next. All kinds.”

They chatted until she heard a voice in his background. “It’s my PA,” he said, apologizing. “I have to go. I’ve got an appointment with the stylist and I’m meeting her down on Rodeo.”

“Playing dress up?”

“Shopping for the Lone Star press tour. I’m trying to get edgier.”

“Wear a kilt.”

“So you can look under it?”

“Maybe.” She grinned. “Definitely.”

“Definitely. No, though. No kilts. I will call you later and make arrangements for you to see everything you want, though. Good?”

She laughed, “Good.”

Rhiannon got back to work. Kline aside, she felt like she had a lot to prove. She had come into Simon Says in its fourth season. The show had won an Emmy in its first season as a spinoff from Higher Ed, but egos and tempers between the show runner and head writer meant a revolving door until both were out. She had walked into a mess that wasn’t sure whether it was a sitcom or a sitdram, with a schizophrenic storyline and a leading man who had basically become a handsome Homer Simpson.

The cast was phenomenal, and the writing team was strong. All they really needed was a direction and for the powers that be to stop fighting like jealous gods, and give them room to be great. And thank god for that because when Rhiannon had stepped into the role it was widely known that the executive producer had hired her to put the last nail in the coffin.

By all accounts she was too young, too inexperienced, and too much of a New York late-night writer to be a good fit for the job. Even she agreed with that, but she wasn’t about to pass up a chance at the title and the salary. So, she’d put her serious glasses on and gotten down to business digging out the threads of what had made the show great in its debut, and finding ways to knit that back into the current story arcs. It was like darning an old sock, and frankly, the sock was toast when she got to it.

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