Page 153 of The Oscar Escape
She cocked her head to the side. “Ingredients for a sandwich are why you crashed my concert via crane?”
His smile morphed into a boyish grin that made her weak in the knees. “Yes—well, part of the reason.”
“I didn’t think you were coming. My uncle said you didn’t want your ticket,” she confessed, still amazed at his entrance.
He took her hands in his.
She observed his left hand. The light glinted off the bit of silver. “You’re wearing your ring.”
“I couldn’t take it off. And that’s why I didn’t need a seat in the audience. I’m not here to sit. I’m here to take a knee,” the man explained, lowering to the ground. “I have a question for you. But first, I owe you an apology.”
She dropped to her knees and rested her hands on his chest. “I owe you an apology, too. I understand now. I know how my actions affected you. By hurting myself, I hurt you. And I’m done doing that.”
He rested his hands on hers. “I’m sorry. I let fear lead me down a dark path. I hate that it kept us apart for years. I’m sorry I lied to you. But I’m not that man—not anymore. I’m not scared of who you are. I believe in you, Aria. I believe in us. I’m not running. I know what I want, and I know where I want to be. I love you, and I want to build a life with you. Words matter to us, right?”
She blinked back tears and nodded.
“And so do actions.” He reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. He pressed it into her hand. “Open it. I highlighted the important parts.”
She scanned the page.
Sales Contract
The Sweet Escape Inn, Havenmatch Island
She abandoned the sheet and glared at him. “You butthole douche nozzle.”
The audience gasped.
Oops, she’d forgotten about them.
“Aria, those are bad words,” Ivy called.
“Sorry, Ives, I’ll tap next time,” she said sweetly, then scowled at the man she loved.
“What’s that face for? I thought you’d be happy. This is my grand get-the-girl gesture. Don’t you like the idea of putting down roots on Havenmatch Island? I thought you’d want that.”
“I do want that. But youswitcheroo’dme again.”
Confusion marred his expression. “How?”
“I wanted to buy the inn for you, and you swooped in and bought it for me. Of course, you’d be the buyer. I should have expected it from Mr. Second-Grade Switcheroo.”
“Hey, Miss Eat Worms,” he lobbed back. “I can’t buy it unless I fulfill the stipulation. And I wouldn’t be the sole buyer, right, Del?”
“Ah-yah,” the man called from the front row.
Aria dialed back the sass. “It has to be a married couple. But we’re not—”
He pulled another folded page from his pocket.
She eyed the crinkled square. “Is that what I think it is?”
Before he could answer, the music changed. Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus”—known to most as the Here Comes the Bride song—rang out. A slew of her crew rushed to the stage. In a matter of seconds, they brought out the judge’s table from the inn. Another stagehand sprinted by and placed a red plastic lobster, a pen, and a judge’s gavel on the table.
She surveyed the props. “You planned this?”
“Yes—but with a lot of help.”
