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Blake set the scene. ‘All right. Picture this: charming wine bar, ambient lighting, perfect acoustics, so we could actually hear each other talking. Surprisingly solid start.’
‘Impressive,’ Mack said, delighted.
‘Then I reached innocently for a bread roll and catapulted an entire glass of red wine into his lap.’
Mack winced. ‘Colour?’
‘The pants? Camel. Devastating.’
Sam cringed behind the panel, shaking his head sympathetically. Blake caught his eye, grateful for his reaction. At least someone in here understands her pain.
‘I figured the night couldn’t get worse,’ Blake continued. ‘So, I went all out and ordered fettuccine.’
Sam’s hand hovered over his mic button, his mouth forming a silent ‘No’ as he visibly cringed. Blake caught his reaction and almost broke, fighting back a laugh.
‘Oh yes,’ Blake said, voice thick with exaggerated grief. ‘First mouthful, sauce everywhere. I looked like an extra from CSI: Little Italy.’
Mack chuckled. ‘I’m not that interested in you staining another shirt. But tell me you offered to pay for dry-cleaning.’
‘I did. He refused, probably worried I’d find a way to set fire to his dry-cleaner too.’
‘All right, Melbourne,’ Mack jumped in, leaning towards his mic. ‘Give us your first-date disasters on fourteen-sixteen-twelve. Bonus points if carbs are involved.’
Before Sam had a chance, Chelsea’s voice came urgently through their headphones, for only Sam, Mack and Blake to hear, her tone unmistakably amused. ‘Uh, Blake…Line one.’
Blake froze. Her hands gripped the desk edge, knuckles whitening. This wasn’t happening. Dates never called the station. How did he even get through the crush of callers? She was going to murder Chelsea.
Mack gleefully jabbed the button before she could object. ‘Line one, you’re live with Mack and Blake!’
A familiar voice filled the studio. ‘Hi, long-time listener, first-time date.’
‘Oh no,’ Blake whispered, colour draining from her face. Her mind raced. Why is he calling the studio number?
‘Oh yes,’ Mack jumped in. ‘Good morning, mystery date! Care to set the record straight?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ he chuckled. ‘And for the record, it honestly wasn’t as bad as Blake thinks.’
Blake leaned closer, mortified. ‘I ruined your pants. Please let me pay for dry-cleaning.’
‘How about you pay me back with a second date?’
Sam gave a soft whistle; Chelsea smirked from behind the producer’s glass. Mack whooped triumphantly. ‘Melbourne, we have a contender!’
Blake hesitated; her mind tangled between amusement and anxiety. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Dates never called back, especially not live on air.
‘Do you own merlot-proof pants?’ she finally ventured.
‘I could invest in Scotchgard,’ he replied, confidence radiating through the line.
‘Well then,’ Blake hedged, ‘I suppose…we’ll see.’
‘I’ll take that as a soft maybe.’
‘A wobbly maybe,’ Mack clarified cheerfully. ‘The saga of Fettuccine Guy continues.’
The caller laughed, warm and genuinely amused. ‘No wine, no pasta. Just perhaps coffee?’
Blake hesitated again, heart skipping. ‘We’ll see. Coffee’s low-stakes. Harder to fling across a table…in theory.’
He chuckled. ‘But low risk, high reward. And I promise to wear something wipeable, just in case.’
Blake relaxed slightly, appreciating his easy humour. ‘Item two on my vetting checklist.’
‘What’s item one?’
‘Sauce-dodging agility, obviously.’
‘Can I redeem myself with meatball forecasting?’
Blake felt herself smiling. ‘Advanced-level dating skill. We’ll see if you qualify.’
Mack leaned in, eyes twinkling. ‘I could listen to this awkward flirting all day, but you know how Keira gets if we’re late to the news. That’s up next on Melbourne’s number-one breaky show.’
As the segment ended, Blake slipped out of the studio airlock, her cheeks still flushed, emotions swirling.
The unexpected call had thrown her completely.
She hadn’t felt this exposed in years. Morgan sat beside Britt and Chelsea at the producer desk, tapping at her iPad.
Blake approached, still riding the adrenaline of the unexpected call.
Chelsea glanced up, one eyebrow raised. ‘Flirting on air before nine? Bold.’
Blake forced a laugh. ‘Do you think Melbourne’s buying it?’
‘You’d think your best friend might hear about it first,’ Chelsea murmured, though warmth coloured her mock hurt.
Blake softened. ‘Honestly, Chels, I didn’t think there was much to share.’
The news theme spilled into the corridor. Blake jerked alert. ‘Shit, it’s already eight-thirty.’
‘Language,’ Morgan murmured, her lips twitching.
‘Sorry, but also, shit. I haven’t even packed your lunch!’
Chelsea smiled, producing two paper bags like a magician. ‘Relax. I snagged these from the promo stash from this morning’s cross.’
Blake peeked inside gratefully. ‘Cheesymite scroll, apple, popper. You’re a saint.’
‘At this point I’m more your life’s executive producer,’ Chelsea smirked. ‘Go. Beat the bell.’
Morgan rose steadily. ‘We’ll make it, if we run.’
Blake grabbed the lunches and without thinking took Morgan’s hand, squeezing lightly before letting go and beginning a panicked half-jog. ‘I’ll be back for the post-show meeting.’
They hurried towards the car. Her date had called the studio hotline. His easy laughter, the way he’d joked with her. She hadn’t felt this hopeful in a decade. As she drove the familiar streets to Morgan’s new school, she could feel the tense silence.
‘You okay, Morgs?’ Blake asked gently.
‘Why couldn’t I just go to the school near home with my friends?’ Morgan’s voice was tight. ‘I don’t know anyone here.’
Blake’s throat tightened with empathy. ‘You’ll find your people. Just look for Buffy lunchboxes or a protractor emergency kit. Your weird, wonderful tribe is out there waiting.’
Morgan cracked a small smile. ‘I don’t carry a protractor.’
‘No, but you carry a calculator NASA would envy. You’ll find them.’
Morgan nodded uncertainly as Blake pulled into the drop-off zone and reached to undo her seatbelt.
‘Mum, no.’
Blake blinked, hurt flickering briefly. ‘What?’
‘You can’t walk me in,’ Morgan said. ‘It’s high school.’
Blake recoiled, mock-wounded. ‘Right. Obviously. High school. Too cool for your mum.’
Morgan paused, looking apologetic. ‘I’m not too cool, Mum. But I’ve got this.’
Blake’s chest tightened. Of course you do. She forced a bright smile, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. ‘You totally do. Go get ’em.’
Morgan stepped out of the car, turning back with a small, reassuring smile. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
Blake watched her disappear into a sea of uniforms. Sitting alone now, she caught herself reflected in the rear-view mirror.
Her own voice played through the radio speakers, pre-recorded, confident, the complete opposite of her real self, sitting in a school car park with tears threatening right now.
Back at the station, Blake moved through the familiar motions. The staff kitchen’s espresso machine cooperated for once, delivering her a perfect long black without protest. She cradled the mug like a talisman as she headed into the morning’s post-show meeting.
Steve’s office door was open, voices drifting out. Blake squared her shoulders and stepped inside. Chelsea and Mack were already seated. Steve, their content director, looked up from his iPad.
‘Emily Blake. Nice of you to join us,’ he murmured.
Blake winced inwardly. ‘Traffic,’ she said, smiling thinly.
‘Then consider this a friendly warning.’
Chelsea shot Blake a look and Blake sank into her chair without a word. The room felt cold, the air thick with tension. Steve finally looked up, his eyes brightening with predatory interest. ‘Let’s talk about the date.’
Blake hesitated, wary. ‘What about it?’
‘It’s a hit,’ Steve declared. ‘Socials are pinging, callers loved it. We want a second date.’
She frowned, her defensive instincts flaring. ‘I don’t even know if I’m seeing him again.’