When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(3)

“Bastards,” he said, with an absolutely straight face.

“I know. But my grampy says I have to start somewhere.”

“Good ol’ grampy.”

“I guess.”

To her credit, she left him alone in favor of her phone after the plane took off. He tilted back in his seat, closed his eyes, and indulged in his favorite fantasy, one where Clint Garrett threw three interceptions, broke his tibia, and was out for the season, leaving Thad to pick up the pieces. Clint, the poor bastard, ended up stuck on the bench watching Thad lead the Stars to the Super Bowl.

Henri Marchand’s silky French accent disturbed his fantasy. “I trust you’ve had time to read through the materials I sent about the Victory780.”

Thad reluctantly opened his eyes. He had a good memory, and he had no trouble recalling the details about the watch he’d been hired to promote. Henri Marchand, however, wasn’t taking any chances. “We’ve been developing the Victory780 for over ten years.” He settled on the next seat. “It’s a state-of-the-art chronograph watch, but it still reflects our classic Marchand heritage.”

“And a twelve-thousand-dollar price tag,” Thad noted.

“Prestige and precision have their price.”

As Marchand began expanding on the integrated self-winding movement and larger mainspring of the 780, Thad studied the watch he now wore on his wrist. He had to admit it was great looking, with a heavy steel bracelet, platinum case, and black ceramic bezel. The watch had a sapphire crystal, metallic blue dial, and three steel-rimmed sub-dials he could use to time his runs or to see how long Clint Garrett could go without saying “dude.”

“Tonight we have dinner with five of our biggest accounts,” Marchand said. “In the morning, you’ll be doing radio interviews—sports stations and morning talk—while Madame Shore visits the classical music station.”

Giving The Diva plenty of time to relax her precious vocal cords while Thad ran his ass off.

“Newspaper interviews after that. Some important bloggers. A public event in Scottsdale with photos.”

Thad had done product promotion before, and he knew exactly how these things worked. His name and Shore’s name opened the door for more interviews than Marchand could book on the brand’s name alone. Thad would be asked about his career, the state of pro football, and every current controversy in the NFL. In the process of answering, he’d be expected to talk about the watch.

Marchand finally excused himself and returned to The Diva’s side. Paisley reappeared and once again settled in the seat across from him. Thad noticed she hadn’t yet approached The Diva. Only him.

“Henri told me to give you this. It’s your updated itinerary.” She handed over a black folder embellished with the Marchand logo.

Thad was familiar with the schedule. For most of the next month, he and the Disagreeable Diva were being well paid to travel around the country promoting the brand. Eventually, they’d end up back where they started, in Chicago. While Thad took a two-week break, The Diva would be in rehearsals for the Chicago Municipal Opera’s production of Aida. On the Sunday night after the premiere, Marchand Timepieces was sponsoring a charity gala in conjunction with the Muni. After that, Thad’s obligations were over.

“I put my number on the first page,” Paisley said. “Text me any time. Any time.”

“I’ll do that.” He responded curtly—right on the border of rude—but he needed to nip this in the bud before it went any further. He had enough difficulties ahead of him dealing with The Diva, and he didn’t want any complications from Henri’s assistant. Besides, he hadn’t been into twenty-one-year-olds since he was twenty-two.

She tossed her long hair. “I mean it. I want you to know you can count on me.”

“Got it.” He slipped his headset back on. She finally took the hint and left him alone. He dozed off to Chet Baker.

*

The Diva sat in the opposite corner of the limo, sunglasses still on, cheek resting against the window. So far, the only communication she’d shared with Thad was a look of active hostility when they’d gotten off the plane. Paisley’s thumbs raced over her phone, more likely texting a friend than doing any work. Henri was also on his cell, engaged in an energetic conversation. Since Thad only spoke some menu French, he couldn’t decipher the topic. The Diva, however, understood. She opened her eyes and waved a hand.

“C’est impossible, Henri.”

The way she said Marchand’s name . . . pushing the Aw-ree from the back of her throat. When Thad said the name, it took all his energy just to drop the h and the n. Forget all that back-of-the-throat stuff.

Their subsequent exchange didn’t enlighten Thad about exactly what was so uh—poss-eeee-bluh, but as they pulled up to the hotel, Aw-ree enlightened him. “We’ve had a slight change of schedule. We need to move up today’s interviews immediately after we check in. An inconvenience, but these things do happen, as I’m sure you understand.”

Not even ten minutes later, he and The Diva were being ushered into the hotel’s presidential suite, with Henri and Paisley following. In addition to a luxurious living area, the suite had a dining room, kitchen, grand piano, and big French doors that opened onto a sweeping terrace. A large coffee table in the center of the living room held platters of pastries and assorted bottles of wine and mineral water.