When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,77

about it,” Thad said, “and do some photo mock-ups for Henri. Images that feel fresh but also work for the Marchand brand.”

“Images that don’t involve Thad’s butt,” Olivia added.

Paisley looked only momentarily disappointed. “I can do that.” She tugged on her hair. “So are you guys still pissed? Because if you’re not, maybe you could, like, write a recommendation for me?” She hurried on. “And maybe you could ask Clint if he’d show me around Chicago or something.”

“You’re pushing it,” Thad said. “Let us see those mock-ups before you show them to Henri, and then we’ll talk.”

* * *

The Logan Square jazz club sat half a flight of stairs below street level. It was tiny and dark, with mismatched chairs, sticky tabletops, and an eclectic crowd of hipsters, boomers, and suburbanites. This was mellow, introspective jazz. Restrained and melodic, played behind the beat, a perfect counterpoint to the roiling emotional mess she’d become.

Tonight was their last night in a hotel. Tomorrow, she’d move back into the apartment she’d rented not long before the tour had started and Thad would return to his condo. Tomorrow, she’d go to her first rehearsal. Tomorrow, their relationship would be over.

She gazed at Thad’s hand curled around the tumbler of scotch. Those strong, capable fingers were as beautiful as the rest of him. He’d restrained his wardrobe for tonight: jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and his Victory780. No bright colors or fashion-forward cuts—his sockless ankles visible above a pair of designer loafers the only concession he’d made to his status as a male fashionista. As much as she loved giving him grief over his clothing choices, he wore everything beautifully.

They should be in bed now, but they weren’t, and Thad seemed as reluctant as she to bring this last night to its natural conclusion. She focused on the music. If she let her mind stray, she’d lose the beauty of this last night, a night she wanted to hold on to forever.

He sipped scotch. With her unsettled stomach, she avoided her single glass of wine. The combo slid into “Come Rain or Come Shine.” She wanted to take the stage in this seedy jazz club, close her eyes, and let those dusky notes pour from her. She could become a jazz singer. She could rewrite her career, travel from one jazz club to another singing all the old standards. She loved jazz, and she sang it well.

But jazz wasn’t in her bloodstream. It wasn’t opera. Thad might not be able to tell the problems with her voice, but the moment Sergio heard her sing—the moment anyone at the Muni heard her sing—they would know something was wrong. Her voice was good enough for a small-town opera company, but not for the Muni. Not for the Royal Opera House or La Scala or Buenos Aires. Not for the Lyric or Munich or the Palais Garnier. Most of all, not for herself.

He gave her a lover’s smile, affectionate and full of promise. But the only promise between them was one more night of sex, and that suddenly felt tawdry, which was all wrong. There was nothing tawdry about what they’d shared these past few nights. She returned her gaze to the stage, determined to push the blues away and enjoy every last moment.

They didn’t leave the jazz club until after midnight, which was technically their fourth day, but she wasn’t that much of a stickler. Back at the hotel, they made long, slow love, hardly speaking. She’d never been so conscious of the rawness, the vulnerability, of seeing a person she loved stripped of his public face, her skin pressed to his.

It wasn’t quite dawn when she opened her eyes. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. Even in sleep, he was perfect.

Blinking hard, she turned away and crept from the room.

* * *

She sneaked out of his bed like a thief in the night, although technically, it was five in the morning. He heard her, but he needed to be clearheaded for the conversation they had to have, and he pretended to be asleep. She was due at the Muni at ten this morning, but first, they needed to have a reckoning.

Three hours later, after a shower, a few phone calls, and two cups of coffee, he banged on her apartment door. Their personal reckoning was no longer the first item on his agenda.

She answered, perfectly coiffed—dark slacks and white blouse open at the throat, with that pigeon egg–sized fake ruby necklace on