When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(32)

The door was metal, and kicking it in didn’t seem like it would be all that easy, not even for him.

She stood, shaking so much she could barely speak. “H-h-how about th-th-this?”

She held out a key.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I saw a r-r-rock that looked different. Tell your f-f-friend, if his fake rock didn’t fool me, it won’t fool a b-b-burg . . .” He had the door open, and she gave up trying to get the word out.

They rushed inside, closing the door behind them. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her through the house and up the stairs. “Of all my life experiences,” he muttered, “I never imagined myself wandering around in the Colorado mountains with only a pair of boxer shorts, my old Nikes, and a naked diva.”

“L-l-life is strange.”

The master bedroom’s walk-in shower had slate walls, a river-rock floor, and a stone boulder to sit on. Moments later, they were both inside. He adjusted the water, running it cool until their frozen bodies adjusted to the temperature, then gradually making it warmer. Finally, he flipped on the overhead rain fixture.

The water cocooned them. He was naked except for those silky boxers molding to his skin. How could a healthy woman be standing next to him and not look? She was hogging most of the spray, and she moved aside to let him in. As steam filled the room, the water painted his dark hair to his forehead and turned his eyes into green sea glass. She wanted to touch. To have him touch her. She wanted to slide her hands down that incredible chest, to kiss him. She wanted everything his body offered.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman and keep my eyes straight ahead, but can I look now?”

She yearned to have him look. To have him see the same beauty in her body that she saw in his. But she was more vulnerable than she’d ever been, and throwing herself into an ill-fated affair with a man she was growing increasingly fond of—no matter how tempting—would take her into a whole new universe of self-destruction. “You really should model for a bodywash commercial.”

“Already done it.” He kept his gaze fixed on her face, beads of water clinging to his lashes. “Now can I look?”

He made her knees weak, and the heat that had crept back into her body turned to flame. Calling on every ounce of her legendary self-control, she forced herself to reach for one of the towels hanging at the end of the shower. “Sorry, soldier. I’m not into self-destruction these days.”

“Self-destruction? What are you talking about? How about two people having a good time?”

As she tucked the towel between her breasts, she grew even more aware of the way the silky fabric of his boxers detailed his body, showing her exactly what she was turning down. She gripped the towel as if it were a life vest. “I’m on a long-term sabbatical from men, and I know you understand why. For the foreseeable future, all my good times are going to be onstage.”

He groaned. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

She smiled despite the bone-deep sadness that had become part of her. “You think it’s depressing for you? What about me?”

“So you admit you want to.”

She let her eyes enjoy every bit of what she couldn’t let herself have. “Oh, yes . . . You’re a female fantasy.”

His brows drew together. “I’m not sure I like being reduced to a stereotype.”

“Own it.” She shuddered, this time not from the cold. “Stay away, Thad Owens. This is a terrible time for me, and you’re almost too tempting for a mortal female to resist.”

“Why am I not flattered?”

“Because you’re not used to being rejected.” She gave him a deliberately insincere smile, determined to keep things light. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Damned right it’s you!” He whipped off his boxers and turned back into the water, giving her a fine view of his very firm, very untouchable ass.

*

He was still grouchy the next morning. “You can make your own damned breakfast.”

She reached for the box of Wheaties he’d left on the counter and spilled it into a bowl. She suspected she wasn’t the only one who’d practiced a little self-gratification last night before she’d gone to sleep. Not that it had helped.

The only way to deal with her attraction to Thad Owens was to give him a hard time. She splashed milk on her cereal and regarded him with fake concern. “Rejection is hard for you, isn’t it? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it. If we can’t f— If we can’t get naked, I don’t want anything to do with you.”

She plopped down across from him. “You’re cute when you’re petulant.”

“And you’re sexy as hell, and I’ve seen you naked, and I want to see more.”

“No one could ever accuse you of being indirect.”

He abandoned his petulant act, which she’d suspected he’d specifically adopted to annoy her, and kicked back in his chair. “I don’t get it. We like each other. We have a great time together. You look at me like I’m an ice cream sundae, and I look at you the same way. So what’s the big deal?”

The big deal was she’d never again let anything—especially not the temporary temptation of Thad Owens—derail her. Her career was her life, and unless a man like Dennis Cullen came along—a man with no personal ego who devoted himself to his wife’s career—she was keeping her focus where it needed to be, on her work.