Just One Taste Read Free Page B

ashamed. There are some fine young men outside. It’s not hot out yet, but just wait until this afternoon when they decide to take off their shirts.”
    Alexandra had no wish to see any sweaty naked male torsos. They’d probably have tattoos, too.
    “Come on. Let’s go into the dining room so we can’t be tempted. Tell me a little about yourself, Alexandra. The stuff that’s not on your resume.”
    Alexandra followed the woman to an elegant dining room that was marred by a card table in the corner covered with post-it notes, files and two laptops. A third sat open on the glass dining table, showing the logo of one of Ms. Lassiter’s television stations.
    “Sit and spill.” Ms. Lassiter indicated a Chippendale-inspired chair. Or maybe it was even the real thing.
    “There’s really not much to say. I grew up here and went to the Rhode Island School of Design.”
    “I read that, hon. But there’s no employment history until two years ago. What were you doing? Backpacking through Europe?”
    Alexandra felt herself blush. “I wish. I got married right out of college, and it didn’t work out. I have a little girl—but you don’t have to worry,” she said quickly. “I have excellent daycare for her, and she’ll start kindergarten full-time next year.”
    The excellent daycare depended on staying at her mother’s, which was something Alexandra really, really wanted to stop doing some day. She saw herself in a charming little Cape Cod with a fenced yard for Emma and the dog her daughter prayed for every night before she went to bed.
    But that meant a mortgage, and with her bad credit, becoming a homeowner again was very unlikely.
    Ms. Lassiter’s lips pursed. “You’d have to travel some if you get the job.”
    “I know! I look forward to it. I’m very familiar with your market area—as I said, I’m a local girl. I grew up watching your stations.”
    Oh, God. Had she just called Tonya Lassiter old? Way to go, Alexandra.
    “In your opinion, who’s in most need of your services?”
    “Phil Andriotti in Providence,” Alexandra said promptly.
    “Good luck with him. The man is a dinosaur, very stuck in his ways. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Edward R. Murrow.”
    “Murrow dressed beautifully.” Alexandra had done her homework.
    “Yes. I don’t recall any parrot ties on him, not that I’m old enough to have seen him live.”
    Ouch.
    “The money you’d have to make changes is not much,” Ms. Lassiter continued. “And by not much, I mean practically nothing. We’ve had to retrench some. The Internet is killing off traditional news media. Advertising revenue is down.”
    “You’d want to invest in your talent and research staff; I totally understand. I’m pretty good working with a shoestring budget—I’ve been doing it myself since my marriage ended. I even sew.”
    Ms. Lassiter raised her eyebrow. What was happening here with all this eyebrow raising? Alexandra would have to practice in front of a mirror when she got home to see if she could do it too.
    “I thought you were Dr. Elliot’s daughter.”
    “I—I am. But I’ve tried to be independent. We do live with my parents, that’s true, but I’ve been entirely self-supporting.” Even when her mother tried to bribe and tempt her, she’d been resolute. Alexandra bought her own groceries. Her shampoo and toothpaste and chewable vitamins. But she hadn’t been able to stop the indulgent spoiling of Emma, and that bothered her.
    “He’s a good man, your dad. I’ve served on some charity committees with him over the years.”
    “He has Alzheimer’s,” Alexandra blurted.
    She hadn’t meant to say it. Didn’t want the sympathetic look in Ms. Lassiter’s warm brown eyes. They were all managing much better than most families in such circumstances, thanks to her family’s money. Her father had a team of caregivers, and her mother had Bridget to help keep the household organized. But it was expensive, and the money wouldn’t