It's wild how far I've come in just a few years. Summa Cum Laude from Syracuse, Communications major. The accolades meant something--but I always knew I'd come home. Long Island was in my blood. So when WABC in New York offered me a cameraman job straight out of school, I didn't hesitate.
I've never been cocky--but I know the effect I have. Tall, lean, lacrosse-sculpted, with that easy grin and hazel eyes that tend to linger in memories. Back in college, they called me Wood. It wasn't about trees. That reputation followed me like a rumor you can't quite outrun.
The party-boy fog cleared fast in the newsroom. Real stakes. Real talent. Smarter women. Sharper energy. Amy Freeze caught a glimpse of me during my first week and said, "Who brought the hot cameraman?"
That stuck.
Five years later, I'm 27, and GMA taps me to shoot hurricane coverage in Florida. A real gig. Big exposure. I was all in. Flight, rental car, hotel blur--and then, at check-in, I heard a voice. Low. Warm. Confident.
"Excuse me, are you Tyler?"
I turned--and forgot how to breathe.
Ginger Zee.
In a cap and white tee, jeans hugging every curve like they were sculpted just for her. Effortless. Devastating. She had that kind of presence you feel before you see.
"Yeah," I managed. "Tyler. You must be the talent."
She smirked. "It's just Ginger. Especially if we're riding this storm out together."
My heart skipped. Together. That landed differently.
"Fair enough. I'll drop my bags. Meet you at the bar?"
As I turned toward the elevator, I felt her eyes on me. I glanced back. She didn't look away. I grinned. This trip just got interesting.
I came down just after eight, still damp from a quick shower, hair towel-messy. The bar was tucked into the corner of the lobby--low ceilings, amber lighting, the low hum of conversation rolling like distant thunder. Some of the crew had already staked out a booth near the back. Camera cases slouched beneath the table like sleeping dogs.
A few shoulder claps. Some bourbon passed my way without asking. Someone cracked a joke about who'd end up soaked first. Typical pre-storm energy: too little sleep, too much caffeine, and just enough alcohol.
Then I saw her.
Not at the booth--at the bar. Seated alone, elbow resting lightly on the counter, sipping her drink like she had nowhere better to be. Her profile was poetry. Rain-damp hair curled slightly at the ends. A black tank clung to her torso, jeans slung low on her hips.
She didn't have to compete for attention. She made gravity do the work.
Her eyes found mine. Not a flick, not a startle--just recognition. Slow. Certain. Like she'd been waiting.
I crossed the room.
"Cameraman makes an appearance," she said, voice low and amused.
"Couldn't let the talent drink alone," I said, sliding onto the stool beside her.
She raised an eyebrow. "Flattery already? We haven't even hit landfall."
"Just warming up."
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Not guarded--just layered. Seasoned. The kind of woman who's seen storms coming before.
Behind us, someone laughed too loud. FEMA maps. I didn't look away from her.
Her fingers twirled the straw in her drink like it was a timer running out. When she looked back up, the air changed.
"Long day," she murmured.
"Longer night?"
Her mouth curved. "Maybe."
Her knee brushed mine under the bar. Deliberate. But she didn't pull back.
"You always this confident?" she asked.
"Only when I feel the storm coming."
"Is that your line?"
"No. My line's behind the camera."
She laughed, and this time, it reached her eyes. A soft unraveling.
We clinked glasses.
"To storms," I said.
She held the pause just long enough to make it matter. "And trouble."
We didn't stay long. Just enough to feel the tension rising--electric and close.
By dawn, the wind was already alive. Salt-heavy gusts rattled tents and grip cases as we prepped the first live shots for GMA. Generator hum, lens checks, crew banter. A practiced chaos.
Ginger was locked in. Hair pulled back, rain jacket zipped mid-chest over a thermal that hugged her curves, mic clipped, notes tucked into a sleeve at her back. Composed. Stunning. She belonged out there.
I stayed behind the camera, framing her against the churning horizon. She didn't just look incredible--she radiated calm. Like the storm wanted to impress her.
Between takes, crew stepped in. Powder, earpiece, hood adjustments. She barely blinked. But between those quiet seconds, her eyes would find mine. Lingering. Like a hand that brushes yours--and stays.
Before one segment, she glanced back.
"How do I look?"
"Gorgeous," I said before I could stop myself.
She didn't correct me. Just smiled--soft, knowing.
As we returned to the hotel
from a long day, the producer texted:
one more hit before wrap.
She glanced at her phone, then at me, eyes sparkling.
"My balcony's got the best view," she said. "You in?"
I didn't answer. I was already grabbing the gear, i stopped by my room first to geab some extras and rhen headed to her room. Tenth floor. End of the hall
She opened the door barefoot, wearing a white tank and jeans. No makeup. Hair damp. Just skin flushed from wind and rain, curves draped in cotton and denim. Effortless.
"You ready for this storm?" I asked.
"Storm's easy." She turned toward the glass. "I'm more curious how you handle pressure."
We shot one last segment on her balcony, wind whipping her hair, rain misting in. She nailed it. One take. She laughed, cheeks flushed, then turned back toward me.
"I'm gonna change," she said, heading inside.
"Let you know when I'm decent."
"Define decent," I muttered.
I sank into a chair, camera down, storm howling beyond the glass.
When the door opened again, she was in sleep shorts and a worn GMA tee--no bra, legs bare, hair curling softly at her shoulders.
"You drink?" I asked, unscrewing a vodka bottle.
"Only when I'm trapped with a charming cameraman."
