Page 12 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

She scrambled off Thad. As she sprawled onto the seat next to him, he looked at her as if she were a cockroach, then leaned back and deliberately pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through it as if she weren’t there.

She curled her toes against the gritty floor mat. “I’m sorry. I want to apologize. I made a terrible mistake.”

“You don’t say,” he replied with total indifference, his eyes staying on his phone.

Olivia curled her toes deeper into the grit. “I talked to my friend. My former friend. She admitted she’d lied to me about everything. Her boyfriend walked in on the two of you, and— The details don’t matter. The point is, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” He’d put his phone to his ear and spoke into it. “Hey, Piper. Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I got your message, and I should be back in the city by then. Remember to let me know when you decide you’re ready to cheat on your husband.” He disconnected.

She stared at him.

He turned to her. “You had something to say to me?”

She’d already said it, but he deserved his pound of flesh. “I’m truly sorry, but . . .”

One of those perfect dark eyebrows arched. “But?”

Her temper got the best of her. “What would you have done if you thought you were stuck for the next four weeks with a sexual predator?”

“You have a strange idea of what constitutes an apology.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and then, “No! I’m not sorry. Yes, I am, but— Believing what I did, I had to confront you.”

“You might be a great singer, but you’re crap at making apologies.”

She could only grovel for so long. “I’m a soprano. Sopranos aren’t supposed to apologize.”

He actually laughed.

“Truce?” she said, hoping for the best even though she knew she didn’t deserve it.

“I’ll think about it.”

The cab turned down a one-way street and pulled up in front of a seedy-looking bar with a neon cactus flickering in the window.

“While you’re thinking,” she said, “would you mind lending me cab fare to get back to the hotel?”

“I might,” he said. “Or . . . I have a better idea. Come in with me. I doubt the guys have ever met an opera singer.”

“Go into that awful bar?”

“Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but mingling with the commoners might be good for you.”

“Another time.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “You think all it takes is a couple of ‘I’m sorry’s’ to make up for character assassination? Words are cheap.”

She regarded him steadily. “This is payback, right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m barefoot,” she pointed out with a certain degree of desperation.

He regarded her with silky animosity. “I wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise. If there’s too much broken glass, I’ll carry you over it.”

“You want revenge this much?”

“Hey, I said I’d carry you, didn’t I? But never mind. I know you don’t have the guts.”

---