Page 19 of The Oscar Escape
Madelyn’s gaze dropped below his chin. He looked down. He was holding the ring between his fingers. He hadn’t even realized he’d reached for it.
“A sweet escape?” he repeated, needing to know that he’d heard her correctly.
“That’s right,” the matchmaker purred.
He swallowed hard. “A sweet escape for—”
“Aria!”
He jumped at the crack of sound coming from down the street. He craned his neck out the open car door.
“Aria Paige-Grant!”
“Slow down, Aria!”
“Look over here, Aria!”
“Smile for the camera, Aria!”
“Holy shit,” he breathed, listening to the cacophony of men and women calling out to—
“Aria, where’s your security detail? Where are you going all alone? Do you have a comment about the article? Do you want to break up with Justin tonight?”
Oscar clamped his jaw. Why was she out here? He couldn’t allow this shitshow to knock him off balance. He tracked the crowd as a tangle of people and a whirlwind of flashing lights advanced down the street. He zeroed in on the center of the media storm as they passed under a lamppost. “Aria,” he whispered, observing as she charged down the sidewalk in a glittery outfit—her stage costume—with her notebook under her arm. She wobbled atop her high heels and dropped something. Unaware of losing the item, she paused, regained her balance, then kept moving with the paparazzi documenting her every step or, in this case, her every misstep. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. He glanced at Madelyn, Inez, and Mitzi.
“My goodness. It appears Aria’s out for a walk,” Madelyn supplied, unfazed by the spectacle a few yards away. She handed him the box. “I have a feeling you’ll need to be on your way, and you don’t want to forget this.”
Why were they so calm?
There wasn’t time to find out.
Overhearing another round of paparazzi calling Aria’s name, he accepted the box, nodded a quick goodbye to the women, and exited the SUV. He eyed his truck and shook his head. He’d forgotten to close the driver’s side door. He slammed it shut and looked on as more men and women wielding cameras pursued Aria.
“Get your head in the game. She needs you,” he whispered. He tucked the box under his arm and took off toward the media circus.
Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Emboldened by the rush, he ramped up his pace and scooped up the item Aria had dropped on the ground. It was a pink highlighter. It made sense she’d have it with her. If she had her notebook, she’d have her highlighters. She was a musical genius and a neurodivergent learner. The highlighters helped her with reading and writing music. The multicolored lines allowed her to track letter to letter or note to note sequentially. Too bad there wasn’t a highlighter that could illuminate the path that led to the woman giving herself a damned break.
She couldn’t be in her right mind. It was dangerous for her to be out without security. She should know this. She needed a reset. One way or another, that break—that escape—was coming. He’d make damn sure of it.
Moving like a lynx, he pocketed her highlighter and cut a path through the hive of buzzing photographers. No, these people weren’t photographers. He was a photographer. These jokers were the paparazzi, pseudo-journalist versions of ambulance chasers out to make a quick buck exploiting celebrities.
He, on the other hand, wasn’t there to exploit Aria. He’d been waiting in the wings to help her. He’d spent the last fourteen days hyper-focused on all things Aria Paige-Grant. He knew about the stinging article and the cheating boyfriend. He’d observed her exhaustion hidden behind a mess of makeup and manufactured smiles. He’d chronicled her decline as one watched a runaway train. He’d studied her as if she were one of his documentary subjects. Scratch that. He’d never lived in his car for days on end for a subject. But this was different. This was Aria. Could he have called her and voiced his concerns? Sure, he could have tried, but he knew what the hard-headed woman was like when she was laser focused. He’d seen this side of her before. He knew what was coming if he didn’t intervene.
Hot on the trail of the paparazzi express, he turned down a side street and skidded to a halt in front of a club. The name of the establishment flashed above the entrance.Dammit!Thanks to social media, he knew who was camped out inside with a pair of blondes. He had to get to Aria, but a stone-faced bouncer the size of a house—no, more like two houses—guarded the entrance.
“Come on, man. Let us in,” a skinny guy with a camera whined.
The bouncer shook his head. “We’re at capacity.”
“We know there are other photographers inside. We can see their posts. How about you and I make a deal,” the fake photog said and slipped a bill from his pocket.
“At capacity,” the tank of a man repeated, not giving a flying fuck.
Oscar assessed the scene. He needed a way in.
As a documentarian, he’d encountered immovable objects, and this guy appeared as flexible as a steel beam. But there had to be a way to get past the man. He’d have to figure it out—and fast. He drummed his fingers on . . .
The box.
