Chapter 3

Leaning back, one arm over the back of the sofa and his body turned toward me, the rock king and phenomenal actor looked at me.

"So, when is the new album going to come out?" I asked, not wanting to be the kind of person who only remembered to talk about themselves.

"Oh, sometime early next year," he replied as he waved his hand. "But they'll no doubt ask me about that in a moment."

I frowned slightly. What could I get him to talk about if he didn't want to answer questions they might ask in the interview? As I caught him looking at me again, a slightly amused expression crossed his face, and a twinkle lit up his eyes. I lifted an eyebrow, an unspoken request for an explanation.

"You're very expressive subconsciously, aren't you? No secrets, no pretense, just this little, shy author who has some steel on the inside when she needs it."

"That's direct of you," I replied. "You think you know me already?"

"No, not at all. To truly get to know someone takes a lifetime."

I nodded, surprised by the words but not the wisdom in them. I just couldn't make out this man and what his angle was. On the one hand, he appeared mysterious, but on the other, confident and kind. A juxtaposition of self-assurance and a sort of shyness of his own. It kept throwing me off.

We weren't on the sofa sipping water together and trying to find interesting topics of conversation for long before someone wearing all black and hooked up to a radio came in.

"We're going to do Miss Fernsby first and then you, Mr. Starling. We'll just get you both pinned with a mic."

I lifted an eyebrow, but no one explained what they meant by doing me first. Did that mean I was going to be interviewed first? Just introduced first, or something else?

The newcomer came forward and attached a small clip-on mic to my blouse and then did similar to Jack, putting his on the edge of his collar.

"We'll be turning these on as you walk out, so feel free to talk to each other while you wait," the technician said, giving us both a brief smile before he retreated again.

I looked down at the small mic, noticing it was no bigger than an apple seed. How could something so tiny pick up my words? I had no idea, but I looked up to find Jack grinning at me again.

"First time with one of these kinds of mics, too?"

I nodded, feeling my cheeks flush.

"It's really obvious, isn't it?"

"A little, but not in a bad way. It's…" He trailed off, making me wonder what he would have said.

"So, do you have any tips for making a good impression out there?" I asked a moment later.

"Ugh, sure, I guess. I could give you some advice, although I wouldn't say I'm an expert."

"Compared to me, you're practically God, so…" As the words came out and I realized I'd just called him a god, I could have hit myself. Way to play it cool.

He let out a little chuckle but seemed to almost blush as well. We both took a moment to calm, the pause somehow less awkward than talking would have been.

"Well, try to relax, obviously. Women seem to be expected to sit properly, but you can also go for a more casual, laid-back look if you wish. Tilt your body toward Keith a little, even if I'm on the other side of you. And don't take yourself too seriously. If you can say something funny, do it because the laughter will help everyone relax and warm to you—even you."

I listened, trying to take it all in as he gently gave me all this info. He spoke slowly enough for me to follow, but my nerves made it hard for me to process all of it.

"I think you'll be great, though," he added and smiled.

I found myself returning the gesture, probably looking calmer than I was but still clutching my glass in one hand.

We didn't get much longer before the technician came back.

"Miss Fernsby, can you come with me, please? We're almost ready for you to go on."

Instantly, I got to my feet, going toward him. As I did, Jack reached out and took the glass from me, reminding me it wouldn't make a good prop.

"Thank you," I said, meaning more than just this latest rescue.

"I'll see you in a few minutes. Knock 'em dead."

"If I do that, there will be no one left to interview you," I replied, but I smiled as he chuckled.

"Just rough 'em up a little, then."

"Deal." I grinned and finally followed the technician, who had begun tapping his feet.

The black-clad man led me down yet another corridor and passed other people waiting in the wings, some with props and others monitoring elements of the broadcast. Out here, I could hear Keith O'Sullivan talking to his audience. It was a live audience, but the show wouldn't go out until later in the day. It gave them time to edit out anything absolutely awful, but the idea was that the whole thing was shown as it happened.

I tried to focus on my breathing and taking deep breaths, my hands clasped behind my back so no one could see how much they shook, but the nerves mounted so badly that I began to have full-body shakes.

The technician noticed almost instantly.

"That's it. Keep taking deep breaths, and why don't you tell me what your favorite color is?" he said.

"My favorite color? Do you need to know?"

"No, but it gives you something else to focus on," he replied, grinning.

"Oh… Purple, then. That deep purple they have on chocolate bars."

"That's a gorgeous color. Do you like the chocolate, too?"

I nodded as if it was just a passing fancy, but the truth was I loved it. It was the first thing I'd ever eaten. My grandma had broken a tiny piece off a bar and fed it to me on the end of her finger as a baby. I'd only been about four or five months old, and my mother had been horrified. Not that I remembered it, but it was a story I'd been told many times by both women.

"There. Whatever you just thought about, it helped," he said as I realized I'd drifted off into my thoughts. "Now, he's about to introduce you. You just need to walk past me and through the gap to your left. Then you'll see him standing in front of a chair and a sofa to your left again. All you have to do is wave at the audience and greet Keith before sitting down."

"You say ‘all,'" I replied. "But women have fallen on their faces doing far less."

"You'll be fine. All those women were wearing heels far too big for them and hadn't practiced. You've got gorgeous little boots on. Not going to fall at all."

I exhaled again and nodded, grateful for the pep talk from a stranger. In truth, I was only wearing the low-heeled boots because of my bruises and aches. It hurt too much to walk in anything else.

There were no more opportunities to think about anything else or even truly be nervous. Keith called my name as the technician moved to the side and ushered me past.

I appeared out of the gap and into the bright lights of the studio about half a second after he finished speaking. For a moment, I was almost too confused to know where to go, my arm waving automatically. Within seconds, my senses caught up, processing the audience clapping and Keith looking toward me.

Walking to him, I let him pull me into a brief top hug, and then I moved to the sofa.

I slipped onto the end closest to him more from a desire to be seated sooner than any other reason, curling one leg up and under myself without really thinking. It was how I sat when I was getting ready to write, and there was a chance my foot would go dead before I could move, but I'd done it now and didn't dare shift.

"Thank you for coming," Keith said, his words sounding sincere even if they now weren't.

"Thank you for having me," I said, hearing my words come out and, with them, most of my nerves.

I was doing this interview now, and I couldn't run away.