When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(71)

“I’m putting your things in the guest room,” he said, “but I’m requesting that not include your actual body.”

She tugged on her necklace. “We need to talk.” But Thad had already disappeared with the two suitcases she’d brought along, and he either couldn’t hear her or chose not to.

She took in an abstract painting she recognized as a work by the famous American street artist Ian Hamilton North—a vast, multicolored kaleidoscope that took up most of a wall.

She had to find a new place quickly. Definitely by the time the show opened. She’d talked to her real estate agent twice already today, and he’d assured her it shouldn’t take long to locate a more secure apartment. Definitely by the time the show opened. Maybe she could find a temporary rental. Or maybe . . .

Maybe this was a sign from the universe that she was allowed to relax her vigilance for a few more days—a week. Maybe a little more.

They ate turkey sandwiches and potato chips for dinner. She learned Thad had planned to use part of the next two weeks until the Aida gala to visit his parents in Kentucky. “You should definitely go,” she told him.

“Maybe.” He reached into the potato chip bag. “I have a couple of business deals I want to look into.”

Meaning he wasn’t budging from Chicago, and she doubted it had anything to do with business deals. His sense of responsibility toward her was a weight he shouldn’t have to bear. “As you’ve pointed out ad nauseam,” she said, “your building is secure. I’ll be in rehearsal most of the day, and when I’m not, I’ll babysit this hovel for you, so there’s no need to change your plans.” She set down the remains of her turkey sandwich. “Just to get any awkwardness out of the way, I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom tonight.”

“Fine with me.” He couldn’t have looked less interested.

*

She was sleeping in the damned guest room! What kind of crap was that? As much as he wanted to argue with her, she was tired and on edge, so he let it go. For now.

Her vocalizing awakened him the next morning. It was her real voice, not the tape-recorded version, and she sounded amazing. But he knew her well enough by now not to compliment her because she’d only say her voice was too fat or too skinny or coming from her elbow instead of her butt or some crap like that.

She walked in on him as he was shaving. She’d dressed casually for rehearsal. Slip-on sneakers, a pair of perfectly fitted black joggers, and a long, black knit sweater. A purple woven scarf looped her neck to protect her from the drafts that were the archenemy of serious singers. Her makeup was flawless—bold eyeliner, dark brows, and crimson lips. She looked as formidable as The Diva she was. But he knew she didn’t feel that way.

“Sitzprobe is next Monday,” she said. “Counting today, I have five more rehearsal days until then.”

“Siltz probe?” Thad lifted his head to shave under his chin.

“Sitzprobe. It’s the first time the singers and orchestra really come together. There are no costumes, no props. Everything gets stripped away except the music. You sit and you sing.” She gazed at a spot above the mirror, no longer seeing him, lost in her thoughts. “Sitzprobe is pure. The instruments, the voices. There are these magical moments when the music becomes transcendent.”

He thought of those moments when he no longer heard the roar of the crowd. It was just him and the field and the ball.

“It’s my favorite rehearsal.” She gazed down at her hands. “You can’t fake it in sitzprobe. There’s no marking. You either have it or you don’t.” She gazed at his reflection. “I lied,” she said.

He waited.

“I lied to the maestro. I told him I had a cold.” She turned away and disappeared into the hallway. “I’m driving myself to rehearsal.”

*

Olivia had loaded up her tote with everything she’d need for the day: an extra sweater, her reusable water bottle, a pencil, a highlighted copy of the score so she could note any new blocking. She’d packed Throat Coat tea, cough drops, saline spray, a couple of packs of almonds, an apple, hand sanitizer, makeup, tissues, her wallet and phone, her Carmex lip balm. Now all she needed was a big box of nerve. Sitzprobe. A week from yesterday.

She’d left her own car in one of Thad’s two parking slots. He’d surprised her by not putting up an argument about her driving herself until she looked in her rearview mirror and saw a sleek, snow-white Corvette following her to the Muni. And parking right behind her.

He got out of his car and came toward her, the lenses of his sunglasses flashing in the cold morning sunshine. Even as she felt a stab of trepidation, she thought how much she loved this man. What if—?

No what-ifs. She grabbed her tote and got out of the car. Drawing herself to her full height, she offered up her haughtiest, “Yes?” as if he were her vassal instead of the man she so desperately loved.

He slammed her car door shut, grabbed her arm, and marched her around the side of the building with her tote banging against her leg. In warmer weather, the singers gathered in the small, enclosed green space for fresh air. Now, the wooden benches were unoccupied, the big flower urns waiting for spring planting.

She found herself wedged between him and the side of the building. She lifted her chin and gazed down the length of her nose at him. “What?”