“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“Except this is a boot camp spa where they get you up at four in the morning for a ten-mile hike, then feed you nothing but radishes and water.”
“Mariel is a major pain in the ass.”
“It’s what happens to women who don’t eat.”
When Paisley found out what they had planned, she tried to wangle an invitation to join them, but Thad turned her down. “Who even knows if the place has Wi-Fi? It’s too big a risk.”
Henri wasn’t happy about his brand ambassadors slipping away from his watchful gaze, but after Thad reassured him they’d be back in time for their Monday morning commitments, Henri gave in with his customary good grace.
An hour later, Thad and The Diva were driving a rental car west toward Breckenridge.
*
His teammate’s multimillion-dollar, log-and-stone house had four different levels, a curved driveway, and big windows with sweeping mountain views. They unloaded the groceries they’d picked up on the way and changed clothes. When they reconvened in the kitchen, he couldn’t help but stare at her. “What’s wrong?” she said.
“You’re wearing jeans?”
“Who doesn’t wear jeans?”
“I don’t know. You?”
She laughed. “You’re an idiot.”
They borrowed heavy jackets and snow boots from the back of a closet and set off on a lower trail, hoping to 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 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 sleeping 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.