Page 105 of The Oscar Escape
He kissed a line to her earlobe. “Why?”
“There’s a helicopter nearby, which is a new development. We have a festival to run, and my sister-in-law is in the room next to ours. Is Ivy up?”
When the girl arrived a few days ago, Etta suggested the trio forgo bunking at the inn and, instead, stay in the larger of two caretakers’ cabins. The gray shingled house was a cozy three-bedroom bungalow, a brisk thirty-second walk from the inn’s back door. It had been the perfect place for the three of them to spend time together when they weren’t engaged in festival prep. Luckily, aside from being an island occupied by lobstermen and artists, the same residents doubled as doting honorary aunts and uncles. From spending time on the water to painting a portrait of some fifth-grade boy she had a crush on, Ivy had her pick of activities and caring companions from sunup to sundown.
Aria had worried about asking the little girl not to mention anything about her life as the celebrity, Aria Paige-Grant. When she’d brought it up, Ivy had waved her off. Like a pint-sized Hollywood super-agent, the child conveyed that she was used to being around famous people who didn’t want their identity revealed. From that moment on, it had been smooth sailing as a party of three.
“Yeah, Ivy’s awake. She’s excited about your birthday. I got up with her earlier and walked her over to the inn.”
“Who is she with now?”
“Who do you think?”
“Hmm,” she mused. “It’s a toss-up between good ole Uncle Del and Aunt Etta, or she could be with Auntie Georgia and Uncle Judge.”
“She gets to call him Gibby.”
“She certainly charmed the galoshes off everyone on Havenmatch Island. Why didn’t you wake me up? I could have walked over with you.”
“Ivy didn’t want to wake you because she wanted to surprise you.”
“Does she?”
“Here’s a hint. She and Del are at the inn in the kitchen making you birthday waffles. Unfortunately, knowing Del, there’s a decent chance you’ll be eating birthday breakfast lobster waffles.”
She grimaced. “Is that a thing?”
“Let’s hope it isn’t. That’s why I picked up bonbons. I’m not sure the Ivy and Del-inspired breakfast will be edible. I offered to help cook, but the two of them are thick as thieves. They told me to scram, which turned out to be a good thing,” he added and grazed his teeth across her lips.
“And why is that?”
“It gives me time with my wife before the festival takes over the island. There’s talk that people who didn’t get tickets will show up in their boats. And we had another three media requests come in early this morning. This is shaping up to be one hell of an event. Let’s take a second to savor the calm before the storm.”
She connected the dots as a revelation took hold. It was the last day she was required to reside on the island—as long as the festival was a success. This was it. She’d be on the last ferry to the mainland if everything went as planned. A fact she’d pushed from her mind. A chill prickled down her spine. The last handful of days had flown by in a blur of planning, staging, and practicing with the musicians. Ivy’s arrival had supercharged the excitement. One thing was certain. She wasn’t the same woman who’d arrived on the island half out of her mind. She’d changed. Perhaps changed wasn’t the right word. It was as if she’d split into two versions of herself, island Aria and celebrity Aria. Which did she prefer? No, it wasn’t like that. She didn’t get to choose. She had goals to fulfill and a name to uphold. Mrs. Elliott might get to compose orchestra pieces and live under the radar, but Aria Paige-Grant still had much to prove.
Aria Paige-Grant is desperate to win the world’s approval but doesn’t have the chops to do anything more than sound like a cardboard version of her musical family.
She tensed as she recalled the scathing review. A familiar voice returned—a clawing, grating whisper in the back of her mind she’d once silenced with alcohol and painkillers.
She propped herself up on her elbows and eyed the door. “We . . . we can’t have Ivy walking in on us.”
“Hey, look at me,” Oscar demanded. “You don’t have to worry. That’s the fortunate thing about marrying a man who knows his way around the kitchen. I can tell you nearly to the second how long we’ve got before Ivy and Del arrive with your birthday waffles.”
She couldn’t think about waffles. “We need to get a move on. There’s so much to do . . . for the festival. The chairs for extra seating for the amphitheater are supposed to come by ten a.m. And we have to check the new life jackets for the lobster fishing demo rides,” she sputtered, beginning a familiar spiral. “Oscar, today is my last day on—”
He stopped her with a kiss. This wasn’t a peck. This was a frenzied meeting of the lips. He kissed her like she was his and nobody else’s. Breathless, she surrendered. His touch steadied her, and the nagging whispers faded into the ocean breeze, lifting the curtains.
“Don’t go there in your head,” he pleaded, his breath warm against her mouth. “You’re with me. It’s my job to take care of you and protect you. This is our life, and it’s a big day for the islanders and us. It’s your birthday. Do you think I’d let anything ruin this day? I’ve got you. I love you.”
She exhaled a shaky breath and nodded.
He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “And you haven’t asked me what I want for my birthday. You know it’s tomorrow.” He was trying to tamp down her anxiety, but she picked up on a thread of restlessness in his tone. “Would you like a hint?” he pressed, slipping his hand into her panties. He stroked her, working her tight bundle of nerves.
She pushed aside her concerns and parted her legs. “Let me guess. You want men’s lobster underwear? I’ll have to ask if they carry it in your size.” She moaned, falling under his spell and forgetting her worries.
He dialed up the pace and pressure. “No, that’s not what I want.”
She gripped one of the iron rods on the headboard. “Oh, would you like a pair of ladies’ lobster underwear?”
