When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(22)

“Why the two middle names? Walker Bowman?”

“Mom wanted her father honored. Dad wanted the honor to go to his grandfather. They drew straws to see which name came first, and Mom won.”

They were practically jogging, and she berated herself for that slab of chocolate truffle layer cake she’d had for dessert last night. This was what happened when you hiked with a competitive athlete. A leisurely morning climb turned into an endurance contest. Which she didn’t intend to lose.

No question he was the stronger of the two. Her thighs were starting to burn, and she seemed to be getting a blister on her little toe, but he was already breathing harder than she was. Any second now, he’d realize exactly how much breath control a professionally trained opera singer possessed.

“Married? Divorced?” she asked.

“Neither.”

“That’s because you haven’t met anybody as good-looking as you, right?”

“I can’t help the way I look, okay?”

He actually sounded testy. Fascinating. She was storing that information away as ammunition for future use when she came to a sudden stop. “Look at that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she’d spotted a small hole in the ground underneath some brush. And right in front of that hole . . .

An arm slammed around her chest, pulling her back. She yelped, “Hey!”

“That’s a tarantula!” he exclaimed.

“I know it’s a tarantula.” She wiggled free. “It’s a beauty.”

He shuddered. “It’s a tarantula!”

“And it’s not hurting a soul. Remember our agreement. I handle the bugs and snakes. You deal with the rodents.”

The tarantula scampered back into its hole. Thad pressed her ahead of him on the trail, away from the nest. “Move it!”

“Sissy.” She’d begged for a tarantula as a pet, but her staid, conservative parents had refused. They’d been older when she was born, dedicated musicians who’d preferred not having their lives disrupted. Still, they’d loved her, and she missed them. They’d died within a few months of each other.

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that female tarantulas can live for twenty-five years,” she said, “but once the male matures, he only lives for a few months.”

“And women think they have it tough.”

Her cell rang in her pocket. The number wasn’t familiar, probably a junk call, but her thighs needed a break, and she answered. “Hello?”

“Che gelida manina . . .” At the sound of the familiar music, the phone slipped from her fingers.

Thad, with his athlete’s reflexes, caught it before it hit the ground. He put the phone to his ear and listened. She heard the music coming faintly from the phone. She snatched it away from him, shut it off, and shoved it back in her pocket.

“You want to tell me about that?” he said.

“No.” They hadn’t reached the summit, but she turned and began heading back down the trail. Then, because she didn’t have to make eye contact with him, she said, “It’s Rodolfo’s love song to Mimì in La bohème.”

“And?”

“Che gelida manina . . . It means, ‘What a cold little hand.’” She shuddered. “I told him not to sing it.”

“Who?”

The sun was coming up, and so was the temperature. She fixed her eyes on the observatory in the distance. She didn’t have to say anything. She could clam up right now. But he was steady and solid, and she wanted to tell him. “It’s a popular audition piece for tenors, but Adam couldn’t manage the high C. He had to take it down a half tone—high C becomes a top B-natural. But that only showcases a weakness. I tried to talk him out of auditioning with it, but I couldn’t.”

“Adam?”

“Adam Wheeler. My former fiancé.”

“And this is how the asshole treats you? He calls you up like some lunatic and—”

“You don’t understand.” She took an unsteady breath. “Adam is dead.”





5




Olivia shuddered. “That song . . . It’s a voice from the grave.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Thad phrased it as a request, but it sounded more like a demand.

“It’s not a happy story.”

“I can handle it.” They’d come to a bench on the trail, and he gestured toward it, but she didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to look at him. She did, however, want to tell him. She wanted to let down the guard she’d been holding on to so tightly it was choking her and tell this man she barely knew what she’d only been able to hint at with Rachel.

She moved ahead of him so she didn’t have to make eye contact. “Adam was a good tenor, but not a great one. He was fine in the more undemanding comprimario parts—secondary roles. He had the will, but not the instrument to handle bigger parts.”

“Unlike you.”

“Unlike me.” She’d also worked harder than Adam, but she worked harder than nearly everyone, and she couldn’t fault him for not keeping up. “We had everything in common—music, our dedication to our careers. He’d go into schools and talk to the students about music. He was great with kids. Loved animals. A sweet, sensitive man. And he adored me.” She stepped over a rocky trench to a smoother section of the trail. “When he proposed, I accepted.”