Excerpt

The next day, Christie found herself back where she'd never expected to be again: sitting across the desk from Rick Fox.

She'd traded in yesterday's rose dress for a navy blazer and slacks, hoping to erase any impression of a ditzy girl. Maybe it helped, because this time, as she sat down, he offered her coffee.

"No, thanks. Coffee makes me bounce off the walls."

"Okay. But if you take this shift, you may find yourself wanting to bounce off the walls by six in the morning."

A joke, and a reference to possible employment, right off the bat? Must not be the same man.

Rick sipped his own coffee from an impressive-sized black mug with a huge handle. As he looked across the desk at her, his gray eyes were quietly assessing, but definitely more approachable than yesterday. Christie shifted her gaze back to the giant coffee cup, determined this time not to be distracted by a simple case of good looks. Focusing on the cup, she noticed two things: Rick Fox was left-handed, and he didn't wear a wedding ring.

He sat back, coffee cup in hand. It was a much more relaxed posture than she'd seen yesterday, although it put him at more of a distance. He'd cleaned the top of his desk, or at least condensed it into one large stack of papers in the far right-hand corner. A lone manila folder sat at the center of the desktop in front of him. She assumed her resume was inside, but he didn't glance at it.

"Your tape surprised me," he said. "You read commercials very well. And whoever helped you out on the sound effects did you proud."

"No one helped me," she said, trying not to sound indignant.

"I didn't think so." He surprised her with a grin. "Sorry. Trick question." He sipped his coffee. "First off, I want you to think again about the hours. I mean, really think about it. You'd be driving to work in the dark; part of the year it would still be dark by the time you went home. In between, you've got six hours alone in the building. It's a strange schedule."

"I have thought about it. I wouldn't want to do it for a million years, but to be honest, I don't plan on doing overnights for a million years." Too outspoken?

He didn't show any reaction either way. "How do you feel about the drive? Remember, it's two trips a night, and you have to drive it with your eyes open both ways. Do you live far from the station?"

"About fifteen minutes," she hedged. It was more like twenty-five.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Excuse me?" She felt her cheeks warm. He was way out of bounds with that one.

As if he'd read her mind, Rick Fox held up a hand. "Don't sic the labor relations board on me just yet. What I mean is, the hours of this job can put a real strain on personal relationships. The questions I'm asking you right now, I want you to ask yourself. You don't have to answer out loud if you don't want to. Do you have a boyfriend, husband, fiancé? High-maintenance cat? Anyone who'd be affected by your hours?"

"No." It wasn't any big secret, she reasoned. And, dicey questions or not, she wanted this job.

"This gig also cuts down your chances of starting up a new relationship, at least for those first million years when you're doing overnights. Any problem with that?"

"No."

He studied her for a long time, and a silence stretched out. Christie found that having Rick Fox's full attention was no less nerve-racking than his preoccupied attitude the day before. He could look very serious when he wasn't smiling, and very intent. She wanted to shift her eyes to his coffee cup again, but didn't dare. It seemed important not to look away. Instead, she lowered her glance toward his full, firm mouth, and found that didn't help at all.

Just when the moment began to feel like a long freeze-frame, he took one more sip from his mug. "Last question," he said.

Already?

"It's a biggy." Rick sat forward, setting his coffee aside and resting his arms on his desk. "Here's where I turn into the bad guy. But I have to. I've got to take one last shot at being the voice of reason here."

Uh-oh.

"Miss Becker, you're about twenty-three years old --"

"You're not supposed to ask me that. It's illegal."

"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you."

"Twenty-six."

A smile flickered in his eyes. "Okay, you're roughly twenty-six years old, and -- I can't stress this enough -- you have a viable career. In a stable business. Broadcasting is not stable. We happen to be a privately-owned station with a pretty low turnover, but that's not the norm. Radio stations are bought and sold. Music formats change. All of which can put you out of a job. And since, as you mentioned, you're interested in advancement, there's a good chance it won't be here. Remember -- low turnover. So eventually you'd probably want to move on, which means relocating, which means more instability." He paused. "And the hours -- nights, personal appearances on weekends -- can turn your personal life upside down. Are you prepared --"

"You said that last one already."

"Right." He smiled ruefully. "I'm not getting through to you, am I?"

It was the strangest interview she'd ever had, but it was still better than the one yesterday. Today, at least, he was really talking to her. Maybe that was what gave her the nerve to ask, "I don't mean to be rude, but do you always try to talk your applicants out of the job?"

"No. Most of them already know better. It's just too late." He shook his head. "You see, Miss Becker, besides everything else I just mentioned, radio's an addictive job. If you don't crack in three months, you may not want to go back to anything else. It's kind of like the priesthood: if you can be happy doing anything else, you probably should."

"What about you?"

He paused a moment before he answered. "One divorce," he said quietly. "Other than that, it's been a piece of cake."

Oops. She hadn't been going for anything that personal. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"You're still here," she noted.

"Still here. But I'm an addict, remember?" If he was any the worse for wear, Christie could see it only in the faint lines around his eyes when he smiled. All the lines really did was make him look a bit more complex than a man in his twenties. And much more interesting. She bit her lower lip.

"Would you do it again?" she asked. "Radio, I mean. Not the divorce."

"Hold on. I'm supposed to be asking the questions."

"You asked me to think about it. I'm just trying to make an informed decision."

He grinned. "Okay." He shifted his glance just beyond her, drumming the fingers of his barren left hand on the desktop as his smile faded. "Would I do it again."

Christie suspected she'd stumbled onto something. She'd asked the handsome program director a question he'd never asked himself. Whether that was good or bad, she'd soon find out.

She didn't have long to wait. When Rick's eyes returned to hers, they were decisive. "Yes," he said. "I'd do it again."

In return for that honest answer, she tried for a few seconds to consider everything he'd warned her about. She couldn't. She wanted this job too badly. She went out on one more limb. "Well," she said, "how about if we make a bet on whether or not I crack in three months?"

Rick Fox didn't miss a beat. "That just happens to be your probationary period." He picked up the manila file folder in front of him and flipped it across the desk in front of her. "You'll need to fill these forms out for our personnel office before you start. And forget it. I'm not betting against you."