The Best Laid Plans by Tamara Mataya Page A

days was long enough to deprive herself. She tapped the screen and waited for him to pick up. It rang three times.
    “Jayne Griffin.”
    Every muscle in her body relaxed at the sound of his voice. “Hello. Is this a good time, or did I catch you in the middle of playing with your G string?”
    His laughter was warm and she knew she’d gained points for the guitar reference. Playing it forward worked.
    “Now’s fine. How have you been?”
    “Oh, you know. Work tried to kill me, but I wrestled it into submission.” She cringed. Why had she said that? He didn’t need to know the reasons she didn’t call. The whole point of not calling him sooner was so he’d think she had a fabulously busy life!
    “I bet you did.”
    Why couldn’t he live in her bed? His voice was hot sex on a cold day. She already felt better than she had for most of the afternoon. “Play me something,” she demanded. It was that, or ask him what he was wearing, and phone sex definitely wasn’t nonchalant. She moved to her bedroom, removed her towel, and sat on the bed.
    “Did you have anything in mind?” he asked after a moment.
    “Something beautiful. Something relaxing. Unwind me.”
    “Let me grab my guitar.” She heard a tapping sound and a scrabbling. “I’ve put you on speaker.” He strummed a few slow chords and Jayne slipped between the crisp sheets, letting the soft melody seep into her skin like cool lotion, soothing her further.
    “Malcolm?”
    “Yes?”
    “Sing to me.”
    She couldn’t tell when the random strumming became a song, but chills claimed her body when he began singing. It was stark, and pure, and gorgeous. About uncried tears and a closed heart. His voice wasn’t flawless, but it was perfect, and the high notes broke her heart with their beauty. She curled up against the onslaught of raw emotion that welled up.
    But somehow, his singing and playing were a release. The notes, the words reached inside her heart and pulled her from the tarry pit of her past she’d been sinking into. He should be on stages giving this gift to millions, and he should never sing to anyone else because someone would whisk him away and she’d never be able to call him up late at night and have this again. Instead of mourning the loss, she lived inside the product of his hands and voice. It was transcendental.
    The last chord faded away, and his last note ended softly, high, fragile.
    “Please,” she whispered only when the song truly ended. “One more.”
    He didn’t speak a word, only held her safely in the shimmering tendrils of another song immediately played. This afternoon had torn her down and he was rebuilding her one note, one skillfully sung breath at a time.
    He played another without being asked. This one, Jayne smiled through the whole thing. He finished and she heard him set the guitar down and pick the phone up. Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
    “Are you still with me, beautiful?” His voice wore white gloves to handle her delicately.
    “Yes. Thank you for that.” She couldn’t even joke right now, too grateful for what he’d just unknowingly given her.
    “Anytime.”
    “I might take you up on that.”
    “I can work with ‘might.’”
    She smiled, remembering the last time he’d said something similar. But the conversation was beginning to be a bit too emotionally charged, from her end anyways. It had been an emotional day.
    “Thank you again, Malcolm.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    She didn’t want to initiate plans right now, too full of peace to be shaken up by excitement. “You have my number now.”
    “I do.”
    “Use it.”
    “I will.” A thousand smiles hid inside his voice, not quite showing themselves.
    “Goodnight.”
    “Goodnight, Jayne.”

 
     
     
     
     

     
    Malcolm walked into the Dead True Studio right on time. He prided himself on never being late after one too many artistes had kept him waiting, disrespecting everyone’s time. He swore he’d never be That