That promise had been harder to keep. Two and a half years of abstinence and several years before that of good but perfunctory sex had cooled his libido some, but having Jo in his bed hadbrought it back full force. A flicker of a memory of the night before came into his mind, Jo writhing above him, her bra strap hanging off one shoulder and exposing the dark circle of her areola, her eyes glinting under his dimmed ceiling lights. His name falling from those luscious lips, the flash of tongue as she bit down to hold back moans he wanted so desperately to hear.Fuck.Mal crossed his legs under the table, willing the blood back to his brain.
As if on cue, his phone vibrated on his desk. Amelia.
Wincing, Mal picked up.
“I’m working on it right now,” he started. “I’ll get it to you by the end of today—”
“No need to lie to me. I’m not calling about your proposal,” Amelia said.
Then she told him what shewascalling about, and Mal almost slid out of his chair.
“One more time?” Mal asked, catching himself on the table edge.
“TheLana Porter Show? You’ve heard of it, right?”
Had heheardof it? Lana Porter’s honeyed smile had been gracing televisions for as long as Mal could remember, her talk show a staple on daytime television. Mal had grown up watching Lana Porter interview everyone from basketball players to former presidents on her eponymous television show and imagined himself sitting in her famed green armchair, talking to her like an old friend.
According to Amelia, his wildest dream was soon to become a reality.
“They had a last-minute cancellation for today’s author spotlight, and they want to see if you can sub in,” she said. “It’s virtual. Today. At four o’clock.”
“So in two hours,” Mal said numbly.
“Yes. But it’s short. Just eight minutes,” Amelia said. “You can do it, right?”
Mal laughed so loudly that the girl sitting across from him threw him side-eye.
“Yeah,” he said, then more firmly, “Yes, of course.”
Ever efficient, Amelia sent him a Zoom invite for a last-minute media training session, an email with tips for how to create his video call setup, and a blurb about Lana Porter’s show, as if he hadn’t spent his mornings at his grandma’s house watching her over bowls of cereal. He drove a little too fast back home, thinking of how to set up his station. He still had a decent lighting rig from his photography days, though at four o’clock maybe natural light would be sufficient. There was a well-stocked bookshelf in his living room; if he shifted his desk in front of it, he could have a suitable backdrop. And then there was Ampersand, who had taken to yowling furiously every time he tried to deny her access to him, and well, who didn’t enjoy a kitty cameo?
Then, before Mal could fully comprehend what was happening, he was logging on to a video environment through a link Amelia had sent him, then talking to a producer in the virtual backstage room who checked his microphone, gave him suggestions for his lighting, and quickly ran through potential questions.
He was still reeling from the novelty when Lana Porter appeared on his screen. She looked exactly as he remembered her, her golden skin tight over her temples, signature honey-blond curls bouncing against her shoulders. She smiled at him with great white teeth.
“Lovely to meet you, Malcolm,” she said. She blinked at someone off-screen. “Are you ready?”
Not really, he wanted to say, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He was in too deep now. Lana didn’t wait for his answer, just held up a finger, and then, suddenly, they were live.
“I think you’ll all be excited to meet our next guest,” Lana said. “Malcolm Waters’s debut novel,She Blooms at Dusk, has been described as a ‘revival of the epic romance,’ and was recently optioned for film by En Garde Productions. Malcolm, it’s so great to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said. The lighting he’d rigged in front of his laptop softened and blurred his skin, and he hoped it hid the pinpricks of sweat that he could feel forming on his forehead.
“You’ve said in past interviews that you like to think ofDuskas a love story,” Lana said. “What motivated you to write about love?”
Mal inhaled. Questions like this, about his craft, he could handle. He forced himself to relax. To make himself charming. He gave a half-true answer about growing up feeling as though, as a man, he wasn’t supposed to aspire to or be concerned about love, and how writingDuskallowed him to explore those emotions. Lana made a comment about the quiet, cozy thread of magic interlaced throughout the novel, and Mal explained that he wanted its setting to feel like a fairy tale: “Like I could start off withavery long time ago in a land far, far awayand it would feel right.”
Eight minutes passed by at the speed of light. Lana ended the segment with a gracious smile, a thank-you, and a “quick question”: “So, Malcolm, are you writing about love from experience? The ladies want to know.”
“Ha,” Mal said, caught off guard.
Before he could respond, a third window opened, and there it was again, the video from Em-Dash. Jo facing off Lana’s live audience with a steelyHe’s mine, then handing him a bouquet. His awed, enamored expression, which served as answer enough. Mal laughed, because there was nothing else he could do in the face of his shock.
“This clip from a book signing you did recently is making waves online, and I think we can all see why!” As if on cue, her audience erupted in whistles. “It seems you’re living out your own romance!”
Mal’s smile stretched tensely across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Um. She’s incredible. So.”
Lana placed a hand on her heart, and a litany ofaaawws followed.
