He leaves the number. I don’t remember ever giving him my home number or Jonas or Star or In Touch. Though evidently all of Manhattan and all my past lives have found it.
But Matthew is the first one who’s getting a call back. Matthew’s voice is the one I want to hear most right now, even if he’s a reporter. At least he’s not a reminder of all the ways I was fooled. I grab a sweatshirt, make my way through the living room and open the sliding glass door to a tiny balcony that overlooks my quiet block. It’s chilly, but I’m a Maine girl at heart, so I don’t mind the cold.
I pick up the phone and dial.
Chapter Five
I’ll admit I have a big thing for British accents. When my brother produced an album last year for British singer-songwriter Jamie Withers, Owen kvetched that it wasn’t fair that Jamie was not only a musician, but also a Brit. “I have no chance when I hang out with him,” Owen said. “If the women aren’t already falling all over him because he’s a rock star, they’re swooning for that oh-so-proper accent. American guys have zero chance against that.”
I nodded and laughed. Because it was true.
“Hello,” Matthew says in his oh-so-proper accent, which instantly makes me want to flirt with him against my better judgment.
“You know, I know you were listening to Johnny Cash,” I say, after hearing the faint sounds of “Folsom Prison Blues” fade away as Matthew says hello.
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. You see, when you turn down the volume after you’ve picked up the phone, the other person can still hear what you were listening to.”
“Really? I did not know that. I suppose next time I’d better be more surreptitious.”
“Yeah, you don’t want anyone to know that a music critic might actually have personal preferences.” I sit down in my deck chair. “By the way, it’s Jane Black.”
“Yes, I know. Caller ID is a beautiful invention, don’t you agree?”
“Speaking of, and not that I care, but how did you get my home number?”
“The day you called me to say thanks, I took your number off caller ID and saved it.”
“Resourceful,” I remark, leaning back into the chair, feeling the wooden slats through my shirt.
“I believe I can speak for most journalists here when I say we’re quite good at harvesting numbers. Between you and me,” he says, as if he is about to share a tawdry secret, and I simply love the playfulness in him, “I have a database of more than six thousand names because I’m completely obsessive with phone numbers. Anytime I get one, either on my mobile, the office, or home, I record the number in my database. You never know when you might need it.”
“Well, my e-mail is janesecretmail at gmail, in case you want that too,” I say quickly, and perhaps it’s because there’s a part of me that hopes he uses it. “So you’re a big Cash man?”
“You have to love the man in black, don’t you?”
“I thought you didn’t play and tell?” I say, teasing him.
“Well, this is Johnny Cash we’re talking about. They’d have to take my credentials away if I didn’t listen to him on a daily basis.”
“That I can understand.”
“It’s in the international code, section five, paragraph two of the secret order of rock critics. You can check it out,” he tosses back. His voice washes over me, like a Valium, a muscle relaxer, masking the pain of the voice mail. “So, listen,” I say, getting down to business. “I wanted to return your call. But I should let you know talking to the press isn’t at the top of my list of things to do right now.”
“Jonas has you a bit down, eh?”
“You might say.”
“And now you’re press shy.”
“Well, it was pretty shitty what he did, don’t you think?”
“It was completely shitty. If I were you, I wouldn’t have even returned my call. I’d have deleted it right off the voice mail and then thrown a rotten egg at my window. Simply because all journalists are horrid.”
I can’t help but laugh. Then I add darkly, “It was like reliving the humiliation all over again.”
He sighs, a sort of sympathetic sigh. “I’m truly sorry for what happened, Jane. But you shouldn’t retreat from the spotlight right now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to have an ulterior motive for saying that, would you?”
“Of course I have an ulterior motive. I have many ulterior motives,” he says in a low, sexy voice that sends a warm flush through me. Is he flirting? Is this some sort of innuendo? I have no idea, but I let my mind wander to my own ulterior motives too. Ones that have nothing to do with work and everything to do with wondering how he’s dressed right now.
I assemble an image of him looking all cool and laid-back in jeans and a tee, stretched out on his couch. Then him undressing, the shirt coming off so I can check out my absolute favorite part of a hot guy’s body—his abs. Well, one of my favorite parts. “But seriously,” he continues, returning to his crisp reporter’s tone, and I refocus. “This is your moment. You have worked so hard for this. And you deserve it. All of it. I’d hate to see someone in your position back down because of someone like Jonas. You should bask in the limelight right now.”
“Basking sounds heavenly.”
“So listen. You did call me back,” he points out. “And I have a hunch, I’m only guessing here, but I bet that Jonas left you a message, too.”