"Come on in. Don't be shy." Mr. Bacchus lounged back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. "And shut the door, so we can have some privacy." He winked.

Darcy's eye twitched, and she prayed it hadn't looked like she was winking back. She shut the door and approached his desk. "I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Bacchus. I'm Darcy Newhart, a professional television journalist." She removed the resume from her portfolio and placed it on his desk. "As you can see—"

"What?" He lowered his feet to the floor. "You're Darcy Newhart?"

"Yes. You will notice on my resume' that I have—"

"But you're a woman."

Her eye twitched again. "Yes, I am, and as you can see" — she pointed to a section on her résumé—

"I worked several years at a local news station here in the city—"

"Goddammit!" Mr. Bacchus pounded a fist onto his desk. "You were supposed to be a man."

"I assure you, I've been a female all my life."

"With a name like Darcy? Who the hell names a girl Darcy?"

"My mother did. She was very fond of Jane Austen—"

"Then why didn't she name you Jane! Shit." Mr. Bacchus leaned back in his chair to glower at the ceiling.

"If you could look at my résumé, you would see that I'm more than qualified for a position on the Nightly News."

"You're not qualified," he muttered. "You're a woman."

"I fail to see how my gender has anything to—"

He rocked forward suddenly, pinning her with a glare. "Have you ever seen a woman on the Nightly News?"

"No, but this would be an ideal opportunity for you to rectify that error." Oops. Poor choice of words.

"Error? Are you crazy? Women don't do the news."

"I did." She tapped a finger on her resume.