The Fireman Who Loved Me by Jennifer Bernard

number, she would have called him back and let him vent in person. Most producers and reporters hated talking to angry viewers, but Melissa loved it. Usually people just needed to have their say, and by the end of the call they would vow to watch only Channel Six from now on. She’d even gotten some story tips from initially furious viewers. But there was a fine line between furious and abusive, and this last caller fell into the latter category.
    As did the four messages from Ella Joy. “This friggin’ computer system . . . I can’t get on . . . someone’s supposed to e-mail me something . . . I don’t want to call IT, they take frickin’ forever . . . why don’t you get this god-awful, ridiculous computer fixed . . . I’ve only asked you a million times . . .”
    Delete.
    “Okay, I called IT, they’re saying it’s my fault, I don’t have to take this, Melissa, I really don’t, I’m supposed to be on the air in one hour, and I’m getting splotches from this stress. What’s the point of a hot stone massage during my break if I have to come back and deal with this crap?”
    Delete.
    “Melissa, where is your freakin’ cell phone number, I can never find it when I need it, I swear you do it on purpose . . .”
    Delete. On the bright side, if Ella Joy was checking her e-mail, that must mean she was attempting to do some work. Then again . . .
    “Okay, I’m on my computer now, and I finally opened that e-mail from the Absolut Vodka people, and you need to get me off the news this Friday night. They want me to host a party for their new Jalapeño Absolut, and of course I told them, absolutely! Get it?”
    Melissa deleted the last voice mail, and gave a long sigh. How was she going to break it to Ella that she could absolutely not host a party for a new flavor of vodka? And why should she be the one who had to break it to her? But there was no point in whining about that. The news director was terrified of Ella, and the general manager was in love with her. Nope—all bad news had to come from Melissa.
    “There you are! I called you a million times last night.” Ella Joy propped one tiny hip on Melissa’s desk, then crossed her legs so she perched like a hummingbird. Everything about her was tiny, except for her head with its lacquered helmet of hair. Her features were perfect for television—large brilliant blue eyes, slightly tilted; chiseled cheekbones; skin just a shade darker than her honey-colored hair. Rumor had it her father was Filipino, but she had never said so publicly. From the waist up, she was camera-ready in an electric blue blazer and chunky gold earrings. From the waist down, she was a slob in ratty sweatpants and flip-flops.
    “I was out. I turned my phone off right after I talked to you.”
    Ella’s attention sharpened. “Do tell.”
    “Nothing to tell.”
    “Well, what’d you do?”
    “Ate. Danced. Went home.” There must have been a self-conscious look on her face, because Ella refused to let it drop.
    “Who’s the lucky fella? You haven’t gone on a date since that sculptor or whatever he was.”
    “Ceramic impressionist.”
    “Like I said, whatever.”
    “This one wasn’t a ceramicist, that’s for sure.”
    Ella’s attention drifted to one of her nails, and Melissa found herself, for once, wanting to surprise her. “He’s actually a fireman.”
    Ella’s glance shot back to Melissa’s. “No shit.”
    “Honest to God. By the way, he said you’re the anchor of choice at their fire station.”
    Ella gave a smug smile and went back to her nail. “If your date wants a signed photo, just ask. Or maybe I’ll send them a calendar.”
    Melissa gritted her teeth. “Great idea. So about this vodka party—”
    “I already told them I’d do it, so don’t even try.”
    “Ella, remember that integrity workshop they made us take? They specifically said we can’t let anchors endorse alcohol use.”
    “Who’s endorsing? I’m just hosting the party. No