When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,1

head, barely acknowledging the man who’d been one of the greatest quarterbacks in the NFL. Thad had the God-given right to throw all the shade he wanted at Coop, but that highbrow opera singer didn’t.

Graham tossed Thad an amused glance and left the plane, a rat fleeing a sinking ship. Thad doubted Coop had thought twice about turning down Marchand’s lucrative offer to serve as brand ambassador for their new Victory780 men’s watch. The ex-quarterback didn’t like being away from his family, and he definitely didn’t need the money. As for Clint Garrett . . . Young Clint was too busy chasing women and driving fast cars to waste his time representing a prestige company like Marchand, official watch of both the Chicago Stars and the Chicago Municipal Opera.

Despite what he’d said to Coop, Thad wasn’t entirely surprised Marchand Timepieces had come after him to promote their Victory780 watch. They needed a Stars player, and Thad gave good interviews. Also, that old Heisman had garnered him plenty of publicity over the years. Still, anybody with eyeballs knew it wasn’t Thad’s throwing arm or glib rejoinders that had sealed the deal with Marchand. It was his pretty face.

“You’re even better looking than The Boo.” Coop had tweaked him the first time they’d met, referring to the great Stars quarterback Dean Robillard.

Thad’s looks were a curse.

One of his favorite ex-girlfriends had told him: “You’ve got Liam Hemsworth’s nose, Michael B. Jordan’s cheekbones, and Zac Efron’s hair. As for those green eyes . . . Taylor Swift for sure. It’s like all the good-looking celebs in the world threw up on your face.”

He missed Lindy, but she’d gotten fed up with his noncommittal crap. After she’d broken up with him, he’d sent her a new laptop so she’d know there were no hard feelings.

Over the years, he’d done everything he could to roughen up his appearance. He’d grown a beard a couple of times, but then people started telling him he looked like the dude in Fifty Shades. He’d tried a porn-star mustache only to have women say he looked distinguished. He’d even gone for irony and sported one of those asinine man buns for a while. Unfortunately, it looked good on him.

In high school, everybody got pimples but him. He’d never needed braces or gone through an awkward phase. He hadn’t broken his nose or gotten one of the chin scars every other player in the League had. His hair wasn’t thinning. He didn’t have a paunch.

He blamed his parents.

But the one positive thing about his looks, along with his lean, six-foot-three body, was the extra cash it earned him. And he did like making money. Over the years, he’d lent his face to a men’s cologne, his butt to designer underwear, and his hair to some overpriced grooming products he’d never bothered to use. And now this.

Four weeks on the road to promote Marchand’s new Victory780. Some photo shoots and interviews, along with a guest appearance at their big Chicago Municipal Opera gala as a finale. No sweat. Except for one snag. He wasn’t Marchand’s only brand ambassador. While he was promoting the Victory780, opera superstar Olivia Shore would be touting their ladies’ watch, the Cavatina3.

“Bonjour! Bonjour!” Henri Marchand appeared at the front of the plane, arms outstretched, his French accent oozing from him like Nutella from a warm crêpe. The long brown hair slicked back from his face fell over the top of his collar. Even without a beret perched on top of his head, he brought the air of the Continent with him. He was thin, maybe five nine, with a narrow face and sharp features. His impeccably tailored, charcoal wool suit had the European cut brawnier American-born men couldn’t pull off, although Thad had a similar striped neck scarf he sometimes wore in the European way because—why not?

Marchand advanced on The Diva. “Olivia, ma chérie.”

She extended her hand. He kissed it like she was fricking Queen Victoria, even though Thad happened to know she’d grown up in Pittsburgh, the only child of two deceased music teachers. Thad had done his homework.

Henri gazed toward the back of the plane, once again extending his arms. “And Thaddeus, mon ami!”

Thad gave him a bro-wave and contemplated stealing the name of his tailor.

“We will have such an adventure together.” More arm waving. “First stop, Phoenix, where you, madame, sang a breathtaking Dulcinée in Don Quichotte. And you, my friend Thad, threw a seventy-yard touchdown pass against the Arizona Cardinals. Glory days, yes?