Page 3 of 7 Days and 7 Nights

He studied her for a moment as if weighing his words. When he folded his arms across his chest and then crossed his long legs at the ankles, Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. As body language went, his was not promising.

“I know you’re in a hurry, so I’ll spare you the gory details. The problem, as always, is the corporate office in Detroit.” He paused and shook his head in disgust. “Normally, I can handle the suits. But this time when I turned on my Prince Charming act and reiterated the benefits of live and local radio they refused to back off.”

The picture of T.J. in full Prince Charming regalia notwithstanding, Olivia found herself wishing theywerein a cartoon fairytale so that T.J. could just wave a magic wand and make this apparent threat to her show disappear. Uh-oh. She needed to stop thinking about fairytales because the image ofLiv Liveturning into a pumpkin and being left to rot was not a particularly pleasant one.

Looking away, Olivia stood and walked to the window, where she stared down at the lunchtime traffic inching along Peachtree Street. T.J. joined her there, and for a long moment they stood side by side watching the ant-like activity seven stories below. “Liv Live’snot in jeopardy, is it?”

T.J. ran a hand over the dome of his head and sighed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a hard look at it.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s one of our most expensive shows. It andGuy Talkpull the biggest audiences and have the most syndication potential, but they’re also the most costly to produce. You and Matt Ransom are WTLK’s highest-paid talent. Based solely on the bottom line, your shows are roughly equivalent.”

“How can anyone compareLiv LivetoGuy Talk? They don’t even belong on the same planet.”

“Yes, well, that’s pretty much what Matt said. But WTLK is owned by a public company, Olivia. They don’t care what you’re talking about, only how your show affects the bottom line.”

“Okay. So, how do the bean counters expect you to handle this problem?”

“Basically, they’ve informed me that I can’t afford two live and local shows. Both of your contracts are up for renewal. They’re sending the consultant down and well,” he sighed, “I may have to give one of you up.”

Chapter Two

Olivia made the drive to Taverna, Atlanta’s trendiest new Italian restaurant, in record time. Screeching into valet parking, tossing her keys to the attendant, and hurrying around the car toward the canopied entrance, she arrived for her appointment out of breath and totally out of sorts. She hated being late or unprepared, and at the moment she was both. She also hated being interviewed—which left her zero for three. And that was without T.J.’s bombshell thrown in for good measure.

The reporter fromAtlanta Leisurestood as the maitre d’ ushered Olivia to the table. He was young and self-consciously hip in a blazer paired with hiking boots and beaded bracelets surrounding his Apple watch. A long but groomed beard completed the look, and although he seemed relatively harmless, the red warning light in Olivia’s head flashed just the same.

She’d acquired the warning light and other survival techniques when the social media vultures decided a talk-radio therapist whose own marriage had crashed and burned made great fodder for Twitter. Keeping her current motto, “Never forget the potential for disaster,” firmly in mind, she chatted amiably with the twenty-something reporter. When he pulled out his iPhone and tapped the voice recording app, she didn’t bat an eyelash, but the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

"Do you mind if I record?” he asked, not waiting for her answer to tap the record button.

“No, no, of course not,” she said as the warning light in her head grew brighter. For the first fifteen minutes or so, he stuck to the safe and predictable. Yes, she loved Atlanta. Yes, she was thrilled at the buzz about her show’s syndication potential. No, she didn’t think being divorced disqualified her from advising others. A millennial Dr. Phil? No, she hadn’t thought of herself in quite that way. After all, she wasn’t ordering DNA tests or forcing her listeners to talk to their long-estranged mothers, she was encouraging women to stand up for themselves.

More like a Dear Abby, then, with Gloria Steinem tendencies? Though that description came a lot closer to the mark, Olivia didn’t come out and say so. Between bites, she bobbed and weaved, trying to duck both the pigeonholes and pitfalls. But even while she was carefully managing her answers, she couldn’t stop thinking about the decision T.J. would be making.

She was waiting for the question about how Tampa, the city whereLiv Livehad been born, compared to Atlanta, when the tone of the interview began to change.

They’d just finished their Caesar salads, and she was in the middle of dipping a hunk of crusty Italian bread in seasoned olive oil when her companion brought up the one name guaranteed to kill her appetite. “Atlanta Leisurenamed your colleague, Matt Ransom, ‘Bachelor of the Year’ again this morning. As a therapist, what do you think makes him so appealing to women?”

He stared at her expectantly, his sheep’s clothing beginning to slip, but Olivia was busy sorting through her real feelings for a socially acceptable response.

"Well,” she hedged, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my listeners, it’s that there’s no accounting for what women find attractive in men.”

“So, you don’t find the host ofGuy Talkattractive?”

Unfortunately, only a blind woman could get away with calling Matt Ransom unattractive. Olivia tried not to squirm as her brain reached into its memory banks to replay her first glimpse of Matt years ago at WZNA. Then, as now, he was movie-star handsome. In fact, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a young George Clooney. Though taller and broader, Ransom possessed the same close-cropped dark hair going prematurely gray at the temples, the same brown eyes under thick dark brows, and the same sort of perfectly chiseled features over a square-cut jaw.

Personally, Olivia found him too good-looking, too argumentative, too egotistical... too... everything. Eight years ago in Chicago, he’d ground every one of her romantic illusions into dust, but this hardly seemed the time or place to say so. “I didn’t say that.”

“Do you think he deserves the title ‘Bachelor of the Year’?”

Olivia took a sip of water and swallowed. Matt Ransom was thirty-six going on twenty and wouldn’t recognize a committed relationship if it bit him on the…

Olivia looked up, caught the feral gleam in the reporter’s eye, and knew how Little Red Riding Hood must have felt.

“I honestly can’t think of anyone who deserves the title more. Mr. Ransom brings a whole new meaning to the definition of bachelorhood.”

“And the sniping on-air and in interviews? What’s the problem with you two?”

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