When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(77)

She ticked off the days in her head. Today, Monday, a disastrous sitzprobe. Tuesday, piano tech, when she could mark. Wednesday, first dress rehearsal. Under different circumstances, she could have marked, but after what had just happened, she would have to perform at full voice, and if she didn’t deliver, Lena would take over, not just for final dress rehearsal, but for—

She couldn’t let herself think about opening night.

As she began packing up her things, Sarah approached, but at the last minute changed her mind and turned away.

*

Thad didn’t ask any questions as he drove her home. One look at her face seemed to have told him everything he needed to know.

“Drop me off at the front,” she said, as he drew close to the parking garage entrance. “Thanks for the transportation, but you don’t need to drive me any longer. I’ve made arrangements with one of the crew. He’s an old friend, and I’ll be perfectly safe.”

With an abrupt nod, he pulled up to the lobby door. She didn’t lean over to kiss him as she got out of the car, and that felt as reprehensible as the way she’d sung tonight.

*

Thad was done with The Diva and her complications. She couldn’t have dismissed him more clearly. He was a simple man. Maybe not simple-simple, but simple when it came to enjoying life and friends, sports, good jazz, good clothes, a great book, and great women. He enjoyed the hell out of great women. He enjoyed their smarts, their insights, their talent, and their ambition. He enjoyed their sense of humor, the way they could spar with him, make him laugh. And God knew, he liked looking at them. Then there was sex. Was anything better than sex with a woman who threw herself into every moment? A woman who could laugh and cry out, who could give as well as take. A woman who would sing “Habanera” naked just for him.

Yes, he cared about her. Cared a hell of a lot. She was his friend, his compadre, but she had a vision for her life that didn’t include him and too many issues he couldn’t help her solve. He was a fixer, a man who took care of problems. But he couldn’t do that with her.

He thought about the ultimatums she kept dishing out. From the day he’d stepped on that plane five weeks ago, his life had entangled with hers. It was time to put a stop to it, no matter how much he hated to erase the plans he’d made for the two of them—sailing together on the lake this summer, going to the beach, catching a Cubs game, hiking. Despite all they’d shared, despite the new interests she’d brought into his life, despite the sex—the most amazing sex—and the music—the incredible music . . . Despite the way she looked at him, as if she could see into his soul . . . Despite her caring, not just for him, but for everyone. It was time to break up with her.

He thought about those interminable dinners. Unlike him, she’d been genuinely interested in hearing about the clients’ lives, their kids’ lives. He’d watched her take their cell phones and FaceTime an elderly parent who loved opera or a student someone knew who was in music school. Despite her drama and her critiques of his wardrobe, she had a moral compass set to true north.

He had to break up with her.

He wouldn’t do it now. He’d wait until next week, after she got through opening night and the gala. As for the threats she continued to face . . . He’d hire Piper to watch out for his diva, to do what he no longer could.

The roller-coaster ride had reached its station. This time he was the one who’d set a deadline instead of her. Next week. Six days from now. Breaking up would tear him apart, but he’d move on. He always did.

*

He had to stop at her apartment the next morning to pick up his laptop. She answered the door. He’d seen her fresh-out-of-bed look—sexy, with tousled hair and a couple of pillow creases on her cheek. This wasn’t it. She looked like hell: dark shadows cratered under her eyes, pasty skin, hair hanging loose on one side and clumping on the other. And she was dressed all wrong. A pink T-shirt, pink sweatpants. What the hell? She dressed in black and white. Sometimes classic gray. Maybe a touch of deep purple now and then. He was the one who wore pink.

Her face softened with tenderness, and then the shutters went down. “Come in,” she said with a cool formality that made him wary.

Unlike the way the place had looked yesterday, it was now orderly—boxes unpacked, suitcases tucked away. She’d either put it to rights last night when she should have been sleeping or early this morning when she should have been sleeping. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the neat apartment or the way she looked. “I need to get my laptop,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad night.”

“I can see. Got any coffee?”

She tilted her head toward the kitchen, which was as tidy as the rest of the place. He grabbed a souvenir mug of the Sydney Opera House from the shelf, filled it, and took a sip while she stood in the doorway watching him.

The coffee was undrinkable. She’d forgotten something when she made it. Something important like coffee. He leaned his hips against the counter. “I take it sitzprobe didn’t go well last night. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I can’t see you anymore.”

It took a moment for her words to register, and when they did, something ripped open inside him. He slammed his mug on the counter, its undrinkable contents splashing over the rim onto his hand. “And here we go again.”