avoid the deeper snow. Olivia had wrapped a warm scarf around her throat and pulled a headband over her ears. Her ponytail swung across her jacket collar as her breath clouded the air.
After their busy week, he didn’t feel the need to talk, and neither did she. He enjoyed listening to the crunch of snow under their boots, the wind ruffling the aspens, and the distant sound of a waterfall. As they reached a set of icy rocks, he held out his hand, but she ignored his help and navigated the rocks with the surefooted grace of an athlete. Taking into account all her dance and movement training, he supposed she was.
As the snow grew too deep to go on, they took their time gazing out over the mountain landscape. He couldn’t remember ever being with a woman so comfortable with silence—ironic, considering her profession—and he was the one who eventually broke it. “If you feel like cutting loose with one of your favorite arias, I’d be happy to listen.”
She pulled the muffler tighter around her neck. “The air’s too cold. We’re all insanely protective of our voices.”
He’d noticed. She drank lots of water, but never with ice, and kept a humidifier going in her bedroom. She also favored some fairly disgusting herbal teas. One of these days, however, he was determined to make her sing for him. Listening to her on YouTube was fine, but he wanted a private performance.
* * *
“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