When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(41)

6:32

It was on. One highbrow opera diva versus one superbly trained NFL quarterback.

6:39

He didn’t try to stay even with her and let her swim at her own graceful pace.

6:45

He chugged along—all strength, no style. One end of the pool to the other.

7:06

Her stroke had grown choppy. She was tiring, but she refused to stop before he did.

7:14

The fading light outside the windows had developed an orange tint. He’d only been swimming for forty-two minutes. She’d been swimming longer.

7:18

It belatedly occurred to him that her bruised shoulder had to be bothering her, yet she refused to give up. He was an ass.

He blocked her as she approached. “Uncle.” He set his feet down. “Damn, but you’re strong.” He took some deep, unnecessary breaths so she wouldn’t feel bad.

She didn’t seem to. They stood in a little less than five feet of water, so he could only see part of what looked like a modest black bikini. Her face was flushed, right along with the tops of her breasts. It was time to get this over with, and he tried not to look at the bruise on her shoulder. “I wish you’d been honest with me,” he said.

She pulled off her goggles and moved to the side of the pool. “It’s not exactly something I wanted to talk about.”

“You push me to talk about things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Like . . . ?” She climbed the ladder, giving him an unrestricted view of her very fine butt. When he didn’t respond, she looked down at him from the pool deck. “Like talking about how being a backup makes you feel? Or what’s going to happen to you when you age out of the game? Or those mystery phone calls you’re always making? Or how about your track record as a serial dater?”

“Serial monogamist. There’s a difference.” She stood above him, water sluicing down her long, strong legs, goggles dangling from her fingertips. “You should have told me the truth instead of playing that recording every morning.”

“I’m telling you now.” She dropped her goggles on one of the white-cushioned loungers, pulled off her swim cap, and tossed her hair. As she wrapped herself in one of the pool towels, he drew his gaze away from her legs and climbed the ladder. She turned toward the long windows that looked out on a garden. He fetched a towel for himself, giving her time.

“In less than a month,” she said, “I’m scheduled to sing Amneris in Aida at Chicago Municipal Opera.”

“I know that. And the big gala at the Muni is the next night.” He hooked the towel around his shoulders. “I’m going to take a wild stab and guess that performing has become a problem.”

Her head wobbled in a jerky nod as she turned back to him. He’d never seen her look so defenseless. “When I try to sing—really sing, as opposed to warbling Garth Brooks with a karaoke machine—nothing comes out the way it should.”

“How long has this been going on?”

She collapsed at the end of one of the loungers. “It started the day I opened that email. I had a concert that night, and I noticed a constriction in my chest. The more I sang, the thinner my voice grew, until, by the end, I barely sounded like myself.” She plucked at a loose thread on the towel. “Since then, it’s only gotten worse. I’ve seen a doctor.” She seemed to be forcing herself to look at him. “I have what’s called a psychogenic voice disorder, a polite way of saying I’m crazy.”

“I doubt that.” He could either loom over her or sit down, too. He chose the end of the adjoining lounger. “You’ve lost your voice because you believe you’re responsible for your ex killing himself, is that right?”

“It’s abundantly clear that’s the case.” She pushed her feet into the flip-flops she’d left nearby. As serious as this conversation was, he wished she’d drop the towel. He was a dick.

“I told you. He was sweet, handsome. He loved me. We were part of the same world. We loved the same composers, the same singers. It seemed natural for us to get married, even though I knew how sensitive he was. But instead of ending it when I should have, I let it drag on.” She tugged on the strap of her bikini top. “I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when I told him. Like I’d shot him. Ironic, right?”

“You didn’t shoot him. You broke up with him. It happens all the time.”

“Adam was a better person than I’ll ever be.” She pulled the towel tighter. “Thoughtful. Kind.”

“Kids and dogs. Yeah, you already told me.”

She tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear. “I did love him. Just not the same way he loved me.”

“Who doesn’t screw up when it comes to relationships? You made a mistake. It happens.”

“This mistake cost Adam his life.”

Thad didn’t like that. “Adam cost Adam his life.”

She gazed at him, looking both raw and mystified. “He thought we were forever.”

“People break up. Afterward, you get drunk, cry, whatever. You move on.”

She finally dropped the towel. It settled in a damp fold at her waist. “How do you break up with someone? What do you say? I assume you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Sometimes they break up with me.”