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snippets in Variety : Peter Standish, the esteemed television executive poached from another network, the would-be savior to turn around our overall struggling ratings and revamp our identity. As the new CEO, he was technically my boss, another one of my rules for whom not to date. However, the morning I ran into him at the Starbucks in our building lobby, I granted myself an exception, rationalizing that I wasn’t one of his direct reports—the director of programming buffered us in the chain of command. Besides, I already had a name. My series was considered a modest hit, a tough feat for a mid-season show, so nobody could accuse me of using him to get ahead or jump-start a stalling career.
    Of course at that point, as I stood behind him in line, eavesdropping as he ordered a “double tall cappuccino extra dry,” the matter was completely theoretical. He wasn’t wearing a ring ( I noticed instantly), but he gave off an unavailable vibe as I tapped him on the shoulder, introduced myself, and issued a brisk, professional welcome. I knew how old he was by the press release still sitting in my in-box—forty-seven—but with a full head of dark hair, he looked younger than I expected. He was also taller and broader than I thought he’d be, everything on a larger scale, including his hand around his cup of extra dry cappuccino.
    “It’s nice to meet you, Marian,” he said with a charming but still sincere tilt of his head, pausing as I ordered my own tall latte, even lingering as the barista made my drink, telling me I was doing a hell of a job on my show. “It’s got a nice little following, doesn’t it?”
    I nodded modestly, trying not to focus on the elegant cut of his suit and the cleft in his clean-shaven, square jaw. “Yes. We’ve been lucky so far. But we can do more to expand our audience…Have you ever watched it?”
    It was bold to put your boss’s boss on the spot, and I knew the answer in his hesitation, saw that he was debating whether to admit he’d never seen my show.
    He sheepishly told the truth, then added, “But I will tonight. And that’s a promise.” I had the gut feeling that he really was a man of his word—a reputation he had earned in a business full of lecherous, egomaniacal slicksters.
    “Well, at least you know it’s on Thursday nights,” I say, feeling a wave of attraction and suddenly sensing that it wasn’t completely one-sided. It had been a long time since I had felt anything close to chemistry with someone—at least not someone so eligible on paper.
    The next morning, to my delight, we both showed up at Starbucks at 7:50 A.M. , once again, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had done it on purpose, as I had.
    “So, what did you think?” I asked with a hint of coyness—which wasn’t my usual style, especially at work. “Did you watch it?”
    “Yes. And I loved it,” he announced, ordering his same drink but this time opting for whipped cream, proving he could be spontaneous. I felt myself beaming as I thanked him.
    “Tight writing. And great acting. That Angela Rivers sure is a pistol, isn’t she?” he asked, referring to our up-and-coming, quirky, redhead lead who often drew comparisons to Lucille Ball. During casting, I had gone out on a limb and chosen her over a more established star, one of the best decisions I had ever made as a producer.
    “Yes,” I said. “I can see an Emmy in her future.”
    He nodded, duly noting. “Oh, and by the way,” he said, an endearing smile behind his eyes. “I not only watched the show, but I went back and watched the pilot online. And the rest of the first season. So I have you to thank for less than four hours of sleep last night.”
    I laughed. “Afternoon espresso,” I said as we strolled to the elevator bank. “Works like a charm.”
    He winked and said, “Sounds good. Around four-thirty?”
    My heart pounded as I nodded, counting down the minutes to four-thirty that day, and for several weeks after that. It