Page 29 of The Oscar Escape
“Aria,” he grumbled, “can we call a temporary truce and stop talking about my—”
“Normal penis thing?” she supplied. She could blame her wicked tongue. But something else was going on.
Why was she fuming and lobbing sass-bombs Oscar’s way? Granted, he’d ignored her these last four years, but she’d never felt this level of vitriol toward him. Not only that—she’d seen him at a handful of family events since their lip-lock. She’d put on a smile and played the friend role while ignoring the jumble of confusing Oscar-inspired emotions. Between the four nanny-match families and their vast network of dear family friends, no one had noticed she and Oscar barely interacted. Phoebe or Sebastian would have mentioned it. Surely, Madelyn Malone would have remarked on it if she had noticed. Not even her aunt or uncle had brought it up, and why would they? She’d gone into performer mode and played the part of the witty, rising rock star, and Oscar skulked off to sneak cigarettes. They’d become quite good at quietly avoiding each other. That’s what he wanted—or what she wanted—or what they wanted.Ugh!Her current oatmeal-brain status could not accommodate this level of analysis.
She rubbed the muscles at the base of her neck and studied the man.
His eyes had gone stormy-blue—his tell for when he was good and worked up.
She exhaled a heavy breath. “Fine, I agree to a temporary truce.”
“Thank you,” he growled. “Now, can we start over?”
“Whatever.” She shrugged, trying to play it cool. But there was nothing cool about what had happened between the sheets.
He grabbed a gray hoodie that was beneath the jeans and slipped it on. “What do you remember about last night?”
She stared at the ceiling. “Last night,” she repeated. She searched her mind for the information, but it was as if her oatmeal brain had turned into a bowl of full-on mush. “My thoughts are a jumbled mess.” She shook her head, working to shake loose a cohesive memory. Perhaps her brain couldn’t process what happened last night because it was consumed with what had happened minutes ago in that bed.
How could she have glossed over what he’d said? She could still hear the sensual, gravelly quality of his gruff voice.
“You spoke my name,” she blurted.
“What are you talking about, Aria?”
“When we were . . .” She gestured to the rumpled sheets. “I said Oscar, and then you said Aria. I said your name, but I thought I was with my boyfriend . . . with Justin . . . but you must have known you were with me. You brought me here. You had to have put me in that bed and . . .”
And gotten into bed with her.
Oscar hardened his features like he had years ago after that ill-begotten birthday kiss. Silently, she cursed herself and wished she hadn’t spoken the words. Why did she always have to push? Why couldn’t she censor that damned mouth of hers?
“I was asleep, Aria. I didn’t know what was happening. I would never . . .” He ran his hands through his hair. “Can we forget about what happened? We were half-awake. Anything we said was an unconscious word salad. It was . . . nothing . . . a mistake. A mindless mistake on both our parts, right?”
Was he challenging her to disagree? Could he be shielding his feelings, or was this like last time? Dammit, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t allow herself to be humiliated again.
She schooled her features. “Yeah, it was nothing.” She gestured to the room. “Let’s get back to you explaining what’s happening here.”
“What do you remember about last night?” he asked like a broken record.
“What’s so important about last night?” she barked, but the kaleidoscope of fractured memories returned as soon as the shrill words passed her lips.
She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. Bursts of the previous evening hit like blasts of cold air. The concert. The makeup. The whiskey. The pills. Her escape into the alleyway. The paparazzi swarming. The club. The blondes.
Justin.
And then Oscar appeared out of nowhere.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up like a rod had been rammed through her spine. Blinding anger tore through her as she recalled Justin’s cruel words.
You’re a plate of Heartthrob Warfare leftovers trying to pass yourself off as the main course. If your last name wasn’t Paige-Grant, nobody would give a damn about you, especially since you write music like a toddler with a box of crayons.
You’re pathetic.
She’d wanted to knock his ass into next week—and he deserved it—but she’d been stopped. She stared at her right hand and made a fist. She’d thrown a punch last night, but the recipient of her wrath wasn’t her good-for-nothing boyfriend. “I cannot believe it,” she whispered, incredulity coating the words as more kaleidoscope pieces fell into place. “You pulled another second-grade switcheroo.” She glared at Oscar. “Buckle up, buttercup. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
Chapter7
ARIA
