Page 138 of The Oscar Escape
Tanner pulled his cell from his pocket. “Do you want to see it? You can really blow through red lights. I counted twenty-three.” He held out his cell. “We can watch the footage at triple speed. It’s pretty hilarious.”
Landon nodded. “The guy’s right. You, gritting your teeth, shaking your fist, and yelling out the window like an irate mouse, is damned good TV.”
She resurrected her just-a-tad-too-wide grin. “I’ll pass, but I need to apologize to you, Mr. Baker. I’m sorry about stealing the delivery truck and eating the bonbons. I’ve had a lot on my mind and wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“No worries! And those bonbons were for you, dudette.”
“They were?”
“Totally! You’ve loved them since you were a kid. I heard you and your crew were staying at the same hotel where we had a cake delivery. I added a box. It was supposed to be delivered to your suite, but you and the bonbons had a different plan.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Something like that. Thank you for thinking of me. They were delicious.”
Tanner’s phone chimed, and he eyed the screen. “Ah, bummer! I’m having a totally vibe-tastic time, but I need to head out pretty soon. I’m meeting with a pastry chef to expand on our bonbon flavors.” He glanced at the table. “But I have a little time. Do you need any help cleaning up your graveyard wine fest?”
Graveyard wine fest?She chuckled. If the shoe fits.
She surveyed the scene. “If you’re not in too much of a hurry, I’d love some help. Everything needs to go back to the Denver Acres Retirement Community.” She spied a basket, collected the teacups, and nestled them inside with the remaining bottles of wine and cans of club soda.
“I know Denver Acres well,” the bakery manager replied, setting the last can of club soda in the basket. “I make stops there all the time. The residents enjoy my special lollipops. It’s right on the way to my appointment. I can drop the stuff off for you.” Tanner cleared her violin and notebook from the table. He handed her things to Landon, then tossed the lone bonbon to her. “Save the best for last.”
She snapped it out of the air and watched Tanner set the empty box on the ground. In no time, he had the chairs hanging from the crook of one arm and the table under the other. He gestured for her to hand him the basket. “And break a leg. You’ve got a big show coming up tonight. Ivy stopped in the shop a couple of weeks ago. She told me that you take the stage like a bird tethered to a rope coming in from above.”
The concert.
She could feel the harness dig into her ribs. She stretched her nervous grin another few millimeters and handed over the basket. “Um . . . thanks for helping with the picnic stuff and being so cool about the auto theft. The keys for the truck are on the dash,” she replied, not acknowledging the concert part.
“Right on,” the man crooned and gifted her with an affable grin.
She could feel her uncle’s gaze linger on her for a beat. He could read her like a book.
“Let me help you load up, Tanner,” her uncle offered. He set the violin, bow, and notebook on a nearby bench. The man scooped up the empty bonbon box and took the four chairs to lighten the bakery manager’s load.
The men headed for the truck, and Aria exhaled a tight breath. She stared at the bonbon—the-save-the-best-for-last bonbon.
Save the best for last.
That’s what the world expected from her—her final tour stop performance would be livestreamed and had to be her best. The stop where she was supposed to show the world that she could hit double platinum in less than a year. How could she go through the same motions, sing the same songs, and pretend she was the same woman after everything that had happened? She’d thought her encounter with the widows had made her choice clear. But she was still conflicted and not sure of her next move. It was as if her head and heart were locked in an epic battle of tug-of-war.
Who is Aria Paige-Grant supposed to be?
She didn’t know.
And time was running out.
Needing to move to expel some of her anxious energy, she placed the violin and bow in its case and concentrated on the thunks and clangs coming from the side of the road where the men were loading the truck.
Again, she studied the bonbon. “Best for last,” she whispered and popped the treat into her mouth. Cloaked in the dusk’s dim light, she ate her treat, praying for the answers.
And . . . nothing.
She dusted the bits of chocolate from her fingertips and listened as the delivery truck’s engine fired up. It grumbled, then faded into the city soundscape.
“Did you come to talk to your mom and dad?” her uncle asked as he walked toward her.
She lifted her chin and donned a smirk. “Nah, I’m here for the booze. I randomly meet up with nursing home widows to pound wine spritzers in graveyards. It’s a thing. Haven’t you heard of it?”
The corners of his lips curved upward. “Your mom used to do that, too.”
