When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(29)

He turned on the faucet and ran the lettuce under cold water. “I always played sports and was good at them, which gave me some serious entitlement issues. It’s hard to be humble when you’re great at everything.”

He’d meant to make her laugh. Instead, she regarded him with something that almost seemed like compassion. “But not as great as Clint Garrett.”

No way was he letting her poke around in his psyche. “There’s always someone better, right? Even in your case.”

“I like competition. It makes me work harder, and not just on my voice. I want to be the best at everything—languages, dance, acting. I’m a classic overachiever.”

She sounded almost embarrassed to admit she was ambitious, but there was nothing he admired more than a good work ethic. He started to comment on it only to notice she’d gone still. She held a forgotten tomato in one hand and stared off into space, her lips tense, eyes unhappy. He wondered if she was thinking about her ex-fiancé, the guy who hadn’t been able to compete at her level.

“You should never have to apologize for trying to be the best,” he said.

She gave him a smile that didn’t quite work. “Never.”

*

They ate in the great room, plates on their laps, and watched the stars come out over the mountains. He’d taken a seat not far from her on the couch. Olivia regarded him surreptitiously. He wasn’t the kind of man who believed it was sexy to glue his eyes to a woman’s breasts or give her one of those smarmy eye-rakes. Instead, he leaned into the couch cushions with his customary lazy grace, an ankle propped on his opposite knee, one arm draped across the back of the couch. She’d known a lot of good-looking men, but despite his wisecracks about his appearance, she’d never once caught him stealing a look at himself in the mirror, and that disconnect intrigued her.

Instead of turning on the television, they talked when they felt like it and listened to jazz. She introduced him to a new vocalist. He introduced her to a saxophonist he’d just discovered. But when he switched the playlist from jazz to her newest album, she protested. “Turn it off. All I hear when I listen are my mistakes.”

He’d seen the album’s rave reviews, so he doubted there were many mistakes, but he’d watched enough of his own game film to understand. Instead of his successes, all he could see were lost opportunities.

*

Only as she got ready for bed did things start to turn awkward. He couldn’t remember ever spending this much time around such a desirable woman without sleeping with her. Everything about her screamed sex. Her breasts, her butt, that curtain of shiny dark hair. Then there were her smarts and sass. He wanted her. Sex with Olivia Shore had been on his mind ever since that Phoenix dive bar.

He couldn’t exactly recall the last time he’d had to make the first move, but something about Olivia Shore made him slip his hands into his pockets instead of around her body. She was so fierce and strong—ready to avenge wrongs and slay selfish lovers with her powerful arias—but he’d also seen her vulnerability.

He had an unsettling thought—a notion that, up until this very second, he could never have imagined entertaining. What if Olivia Shore was out of his league?

Absurd. He was Thad Walker Bowman Owens. No woman had ever been out of his league. He was a star. And Olivia . . . ?

Olivia Shore was a superstar.

With an abrupt good night, he headed upstairs.

*

After dinner, Olivia had turned on the hot tub on the private balcony outside the master bedroom where she was staying, and now a veil of steam rose from the water into the cold night air. Her muscles ached pleasantly from their hike. A few days ago she’d been sweating in the Phoenix heat, and now she was gazing out on snow. This was one amazing country.

She stripped, opened the door, and wearing only flip-flops, walked carefully across the icy deck and gradually lowered herself into the hot water.

The cold air slapped her face as the heat enveloped her body. She studied the inky, star-laced sky. This would be a perfect moment, if only she could shake off the guilt that refused to ease its grip on her.

The scene at Adam’s graveside had been so over the top it belonged onstage. As his sisters, clad in black from head to toe, had laid the last two flowers on his coffin, Colleen, the oldest of the two, advanced on Olivia, her face contorted with grief. “You killed him.” Her words were little more than a whisper, but they gradually grew louder. “You led him on. Made him believe you had a future when all you cared about was yourself. You might as well have pulled the trigger!”

The onlookers had stared. A few had drawn back. More had inched forward, unwilling to miss a word.

Adam’s other sister, Brenda, had rushed to Colleen’s side, her face mirroring her sister’s grief. Olivia had stood there paralyzed, unable to defend herself against the truth in those words, until Rachel had dragged her away from them to the car. “You can’t let this get to you,” Rachel had said.

But how could it not?

Olivia jumped as the bedroom’s sliding doors opened and Thad stepped out. “I knocked a couple of times, but you didn’t seem to hear.” He had a towel wrapped around his waist and his feet stuffed into a pair of sneakers. She stared at his bare chest. “Go back to your computer and your mysterious phone calls,” she said. “I’m having me time.”

“Nobody likes a hot tub hog.” He dropped the towel to reveal a pair of navy boxer briefs. “Turn around if you don’t want to see these come off.”