“I’m making a big salad,” she said that evening. “If you want anything else, be nice and don’t let me see you eat it.”
He’d worked up an appetite on their hike, but after all the heavy food this week, a salad sounded good, especially since he’d sneaked a rotisserie chicken into the shopping cart. Still, he’d lose his macho if he didn’t protest. “You’re a real downer, you know that?”
“If you’d died as many times as I have onstage, you wouldn’t be a big ball of cheer.”
“Good point.” He opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. “Tell me about it. What attracted you to opera?”
“My parents were retired music teachers, and I grew up with music in the house.” As she gathered the produce they’d bought from the refrigerator, her jeans stretched tight over her butt. It was a great butt. The kind of butt you wanted to squeeze in your hands. The kind of butt—
He’d lost track of their conversation.
“. . . listened to jazz, rock, classical, all of it.” She straightened, spoiling his view. “I loved making fun of the opera singers. I’d dress up in a funny costume and pretend to sing, exaggerating everything—the gestures, the vibrato, the drama. But when I was around fourteen, I stopped making fun and started trying to imitate the singers in earnest. That’s when my formal lessons began. I had some great teachers, and I fell in love with it.”
He handed her a glass of wine. “Here’s one of many things I don’t understand about opera . . . We have a two-week break in Chicago between the end of our regular tour obligations and our final gig, that big gala at the Chicago Municipal Opera. Or at least I have a two-week break. You’ll be in rehearsals. Don’t big productions like Aida take more than two weeks to rehearse?”
“A lot more. But not for an established performer. I’ve sung Amneris in Aida so many times I don’t need six weeks of rehearsal. Two weeks is enough for me to adjust to the cast and familiarize myself with any changes in the staging.” She gestured toward him with her wineglass. “What about you? What attracted you to football?”
He turned on the faucet and ran the lettuce under cold water. “I always played sports and was good at them, which gave me some serious entitlement issues. It’s hard to be humble when you’re great at everything.”
He’d meant to make her laugh. Instead, she regarded him with something that almost seemed like compassion. “But not as great as Clint Garrett.”
No way was he letting her poke around in his psyche. “There’s always someone better, right? Even in your case.”
“I like competition. It makes me work harder, and not just on my voice. I want to be the best at everything—languages, dance, acting. I’m a classic overachiever.”
She sounded almost embarrassed to admit she was ambitious, but there was nothing he admired more than a good work ethic. He started to comment on it only to notice she’d gone still. She held a forgotten tomato in one hand and stared off into space, her lips tense, eyes unhappy. He wondered if she was thinking about her ex-fiancé, the guy who hadn’t been able to compete at her level.
“You should never have to apologize for trying to be the best,” he said.
She gave him a smile that didn’t quite work. “Never.”
* * *
They ate in the great room, plates on their laps, and watched the stars come out over the mountains. He’d taken a seat not far from her on the couch. Olivia regarded him surreptitiously. He wasn’t the kind of man who believed it was sexy to glue his eyes to a woman’s breasts or give her one of those smarmy eye-rakes. Instead, he leaned into the couch cushions with his customary lazy grace, an ankle propped on his opposite knee, one arm draped across the back of the couch. She’d known a lot of good-looking men, but despite his wisecracks about his appearance, she’d never once caught him stealing a look at himself in the mirror, and that disconnect intrigued her.
Instead of turning on the television, they talked when they felt like it and listened to jazz. She introduced him to a new vocalist. He introduced her to a saxophonist he’d just discovered. But when he switched the playlist from jazz to her newest album, she protested. “Turn it off. All I hear when I listen are my mistakes.”
He’d seen the album’s rave reviews, so he doubted there were many mistakes, but he’d watched enough of his own game film to understand. Instead of his successes, all he could see were lost opportunities.
* * *
Only as she got ready for bed did things start to turn awkward. He couldn’t remember ever spending this much time around such a desirable woman without sl
eeping with her. Everything about her screamed sex. Her breasts, her butt, that curtain of shiny dark hair. Then there were her smarts and sass. He wanted her. Sex with Olivia Shore had been on his mind ever since that Phoenix dive bar.
He couldn’t exactly recall the last time he’d had to make the first move, but something about Olivia Shore made him slip his hands into his pockets instead of around her body. She was so fierce and strong—ready to avenge wrongs and slay selfish lovers with her powerful arias—but he’d also seen her vulnerability.
He had an unsettling thought—a notion that, up until this very second, he could never have imagined entertaining. What if Olivia Shore was out of his league?
Absurd. He was Thad Walker Bowman Owens. No woman had ever been out of his league. He was a star. And Olivia . . . ?
Olivia Shore was a superstar.
With an abrupt good night, he headed upstairs.
* * *
After dinner, Olivia had turned on the hot tub on the private balcony outside the master bedroom where she was staying, and now a veil of steam rose from the water into the cold night air. Her muscles ached pleasantly from their hike. A few days ago she’d been sweating in the Phoenix heat, and now she was gazing out on snow. This was one amazing country.