Page 34 of The Oscar Escape
Bye, bye, sweet tranquility. Hello, adrenaline rush. And just like that, she was ready for a fight.
“You think I’m buttering you up by mentioning your mom? I was being kind. I felt shitty for saying . . . Oh, forget it. Ever since that night on your birthday, you’ve—”
“What about that night?” he snapped, cutting her off.
She shook her head and reeled herself back from the edge. Too much was on the line. She couldn’t get into this with him. Not here—wherever the hell here was. She pegged him with her gaze. “You are not in charge. I made an executive decision to override my manager’s advice.” She whipped around, ready to blow this seaside town, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “What the hell am I wearing?”
She stared in horror at the jarring outfit—a form-fitting tank top teeming with images of lobsters and a pair of lobster-covered granny-panty underwear. She touched the material, then zeroed in on the wordsHavenmatch Island, Maine,printed along the waistband of the panties.
Forget the weird lobsters. She had to focus.
“Is this where we are?” she asked, pointing to the letters. “Havenmatch Island, Maine?”
“Yes.”
“We’re in Maine on some island for your work?” She needed to be one hundred percent clear.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and flicked his gaze out the window again. “Something like that.”
She nodded and racked her brain. How does one get off an island? “There has to be a ferry to the mainland, right?”
“You’re not leaving, Aria.” He didn’t even look at her when he spoke.
Such arrogance.
“Yes, I am. Do you think that after ignoring my existence for the last four years, you can charge into my life and start giving orders? No, you can’t. I’ll lie low somewhere else—anywhere else. You’re not my nurse. You’re not my keeper. You’re not some knight in a gray hoodie sent to save me.” Moving like a caged animal, she prowled around the room, looking for actual clothes that weren’t covered in lobsters. She opened the closet door and found it stocked with women’s clothing, footwear, and a few hats. She pushed past a robe hanging from a padded hanger and spied several pairs of wool socks on a small shelf.
It wasn’t rock star attire, but it would work. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Huffing and puffing like a put-out diva, she grabbed a pair of fire engine red rubber boots, an oatmeal-colored cable-knit sweater, a white ball cap with Havenmatch Island printed on the bill, and a pair of jeans. She felt Oscar’s gaze bore into her back as he watched her dress. Surprisingly, the clothes fit. The wooly socks were damned comfortable, and the boots were even her size. Pulling the cap down low, she quickly checked the mirror. Nobody would recognize her. She hardly recognized herself without the makeup, sleek hair, and sparkly costume. She fluffed her naturally wavy chestnut locks and focused on her face. It had been ages since she’d seen the freckles that kissed her cheeks and the natural outline of her lips and eyes. It was like peering at a stranger—no, not a stranger, an old friend.
Ugh!There was no time for her to get sappy. The hair, makeup, and costumes were necessary to reach her goal.
Brushing aside her sentimental lapse, she plucked her notebook and highlighter off the desk, then caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror. It was like she couldn’t get enough of herself.
Who was she? Narcissus?
What was this? A Greek tragedy?
The real tragedy would be if she couldn’t get back to her crew. Still, it was slightly intriguing. Why was she so drawn to this version of herself? She’d be lying if she said she hated the look. She hadn’t worn loose-fitting clothes and shoes that didn’t leave her feet throbbing in . . . Jesus, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt this comfortable. No, she had to stop thinking like that. Stick to the plan—be the rock star. She’d return the fisherwoman attire items as soon as she returned to her hotel in Boston.
She plastered a plastic smile to her lips, then looked over her shoulder at Oscar. The brooding man appeared as unmovable as a boulder. “Good luck on your fall colors shoot,” she chimed. “I’ll be counting the days until we get to ignore each other at the next nanny match gathering.”
Riding that high horse, she flung the door open, then came down a few clicks when she caught a glimpse of the ring. Like she’d snapped back in time, she recalled the day she and Oscar had found it. No, it was the day she and Oscar had retrieved it.
They’d just turned sixteen. Being a day older, she’d proudly driven him to the DMV to take his driver’s test. After he’d passed, she’d insisted on having him drive home. But they didn’t end up at his place in Denver. Instead, Oscar had headed south. Hours later, they’d ended up at the cabin he’d lived in with his mom near Telluride, Colorado. She’d visited this place before, but they’d been with their families. This was the first time it was just the two of them. He’d been quiet as he moved through the house. She’d listened as he went into the back, then emerged with the ring. She’d sensed it was important to him—a connection to his mother he’d kept to himself. Without saying a word, she’d waved him down, removed the silver chain around his neck, and slipped the ring in place. He’d held the bit of gold and silver between his fingers, then said, ‘I miss this place.’ His words—those words—had stuck with her through the years. It was as if his mom was there, experiencing that sweet slice of silence with them.
And she’d never felt closer to her friend than she had that day.
Her friend.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. They weren’t those two sixteen-year-old besties anymore.
She went to remove the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Then she heard a creak and a clap.
“Hey, they-ah! Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” a cheery voice in a distinct New England accent called from outside the doorway.
Aria gasped and looked up to find a petite woman dressed in an outfit nearly identical to hers. With her silver hair in a long braid and deep laugh lines etched in the corners of her eyes, she was the poster lady for seniors embracing coastal living.
