When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(99)

Her anger took her through another spectacular performance.

Only as she lay on Radamès’s tomb, mourning the part she’d played in his death, did the fog clear from her brain. She’d learned a lot about herself recently, things she wanted to share with him. Things he did not want her to share.

As Aida and Radamès died behind the tomb walls, she saw herself years from now, padding to her apartment door just like Batista Neri, her hair lusterless from the black dye she’d use to conceal her gray. Maybe wearing a similar pair of run-down bedroom slippers. She’d let her students in one by one, doing her best to train them, even as she couldn’t quite suppress the bitterness that she no longer possessed the voice or the stamina to sing Amneris or Azucena. That she didn’t have the agility to play Cherubino. That she’d be laughed off the stage if she attempted the sultry Carmen.

That was her future. Unless . . .

*

“What’s behind your sudden desire to cook for me?” Clint asked from his perch on one of the counter stools in his over-the-top kitchen.

“Guilt for dumping my problems with Thad on you.” She made killer salads and decent omelets, so how hard could it be to whip up a tasty pasta sauce? She gazed at the mess she’d made chopping a giant yellow onion. It didn’t look like the ones on cooking shows.

“You’re not too good with a knife,” Clint said.

“I’m very good with a knife. It’s just that I mainly use it to stab people. Or, depending on the role, myself.”

“You do know how to make pasta, right? You said your special sauce was a recipe handed down from your Italian great-grandmother.”

Her great-grandmother was actually German. “Something like that.”

He eyed the package of ground turkey she’d bought, along with the rest of the ingredients. “I didn’t know Italians use turkey in their meat sauce.”

“I’m eastern Italian. And instead of standing there making cracks about my cooking, would you check my car windows? I think I left them down, and it’s supposed to rain.”

“Who knew you’d be such a bad date?”

“A reminder not to pursue older women.”

“Hey! You called me!”

“Windows, please.”

He threw up his hands and headed out the back. The second the door closed behind him, she dashed for the end of the counter where he’d unwisely left his phone.

*

The pasta was underdone, the sauce too sweet from all the sugar she’d dumped in to counteract an overabundance of thyme and oregano. After a couple of bites, Clint set aside his fork. “What part of Italy did you say your great-grandmother was from, and did they happen to have a lot of famine there?”

She poked at the mess on her own plate. “I’m new to cooking.”

“Next time, practice on somebody else.”

The doorbell rang. She curled her bare toes around the rungs of the stool she was sitting on.

“If that’s one of my girlfriends,” Clint said as he rose, “you’re out of here.”

“Ingrate.”

The moment he left the kitchen, she hurried to the doorway, but the house was the size of an aircraft carrier, and she couldn’t eavesdrop. Why did a single guy have to live in such a monstrosity?

She wasn’t able to make out anything they were saying, not even a rumble, until she could. “Olivia!”

It was Clint.

She was suddenly more nervous than before she walked onstage. She wanted to run out the back door, get in her car, and make this all go away. Instead, she forced herself from the kitchen, turned three corners, and walked down the long stretch of hallway toward the two towering figures waiting for her. One of them stood quietly, but the other was irate. “You took my phone!” Clint exclaimed. “What the fuck, Livia?”

The text she’d sent had been right to the point.

T-Bo, I broke my wrist. Can you come to my house right away?



“I only borrowed your phone,” she muttered, which, she knew, missed the point.

Clint threw up both of his big hands. “You got his hopes up that he’d start for the Stars this fall!”

She hadn’t thought about that part.

Clint stormed upstairs. “She’s all yours.”





23




She saw herself as he was seeing her, with wild eyes, bare feet, and tomato sauce smearing her white top. The steam from the boiling pasta water had unleashed a frizzy tangle around her face. She was a mess—a lunatic—and ambushing him like this was a terrible mistake.

He’d made his intention more than clear, but she’d ignored the direct message he’d sent by ghosting her. She’d shown up at his friends’ homes, his agent’s office, and—God forgive her—his parents’ front door. Now, with him standing stone-faced in front of her, his fists hard curls at his sides, she realized too late that she was no better than the stalker who’d once hounded him.

Her hand flew to her mouth, horrified with herself. She fled down the hallway into the kitchen and out the back of the house.

The security lights came on. She looked at the keys she’d snatched from the counter on her way out. Not hers. This was the key to Clint’s black Cadillac Escalade parked in the drive. She threw herself in and peeled out of the driveway.