Page 60 of The Oscar Escape
She huffed a jagged little laugh. “We both know that’s not true. If you’ve been following my tour these past few weeks, I’m sure you’ve read what the critics have written about me.”
Dogging her album. Comparing her to her aunt and Heartthrob Warfare. Scrutinizing her record sales. They’d been fucking brutal.
“They’re idiots. They don’t know you—the real you,” he hissed, picturing the swarm of paparazzi and those bald jerks in Hawaiian shirts.
“Idiots or not, it’s up to me to prove them wrong.” She sat up and held the quilt to her chest. “And that means that I can’t . . .” She trailed off.
He knew what she was thinking. “You’re worried about the judge’s ruling, right? The twelve days?”
“I can’t stay here for that long. My finale concert is in thirteen days. There’s too much to do.” She twisted the edge of the quilt around her finger, released it, then repeated the restless movement. “I don’t like it, but I understand I could use a few days off. I wasn’t in a good place when you found me in that club. But I can’t be MIA for twelve days. There’s too much on the line. I can’t show up twenty-four hours before an event. Forget my goals. I’m not the only one who’s affected by this. My crew. My musicians. My security detail. People’s livelihoods depend on me getting my shit together.”
The words tumbled from her lips. She was spiraling into that frantic place. It was the last thing he wanted. “Hey,” he said gently and drew her into his arms. Before she could go off on another tirade, he kissed her, redirecting her intense artist’s energy. And it worked. With the soothing sound of the fire crackling and the warmth engulfing the cozy cabin, Aria’s panicky vibe ebbed, and she surrendered to his touch. He deepened the kiss. She relaxed, and the tension drained from her body. He held her, supported her, and offered his strength. Miraculously, she didn’t fight him. She’d allowed him to take the lead and provide the respite she so badly required. Loose and limber again, she hummed against his lips. Warmth swelled in his chest, and he smiled through his kisses.
This was the escape he wanted to give her.
He pulled back and stroked her cheek. “We’ll figure it out.”
Did he want her to return to her rock star life—a life that had her self-medicating with alcohol, muscle relaxers, and cough syrup to hold it together? A life that sucked her dry and had left her a dangerously thin wisp of a woman? No, hell no. But this was Aria—the determined perfectionist. It would give him peace of mind if she could dial it back a fraction.
“We?” she asked with a curious lilt. “You and me? The two of us?”
“There’s no going back.”
Her intensity transfixed him, and one fact became crystal clear. It would be all or nothing for them. There could be no in-between.
“Okay, you and me,” she answered, back to twisting the quilt’s edge.
Dammit!She wasn’t going to let go of this.
“We’ll find a way to get you back earlier. I promise,” he added, and sweet Christ, he had to lighten the mood. He peered at the bedside table and spied the answer. “Unless . . .” he crooned and tossed in a smirk.
That would take her mind off her community service sentence.
“Unless what?” she repeated, irritation replacing the vulnerability in her tone.
He picked up the plastic lobster. “Unlessthe weisn’t a party of two but a party of three. You, me, and hard-up Clawdia.”
The sparkle returned to Aria’s eyes, and she pegged the crustacean with her gaze. “What do you say, Clawdia?”
“I want Oscar all to myself. He’s a real dreamboat,” he said, speaking for the lady lobster in a high-pitched voice that sounded like an opera singer gargling seawater.
Aria dissolved into a fit of giggles. “A dreamboat?”
“Why not a dreamboat? Don’t you think I’m a dreamboat?” he challenged, trying to keep a straight face.
“Oscar Abrams Elliott, lobster-loving dreamboat,” Aria announced in a breathy tone like a fifties starlet before a dose of the giggles hit her again.
He tossed his plastic lobster lover girl to the end of the bed. “Forget Clawdia. I’m making this a party of two. I want you all to myself.” In one suave-as-hell move, he gathered Aria into his arms and flipped her onto her back. He straddled her torso and pinned her hands to the bed. She wasn’t laughing anymore. A sweet, sated smile graced her lips as the firelight glinted off the ring on her left hand. “All to myself,” he repeated as warmth radiated through him.
“I know that face,” Aria noted. “That’s your happy thinking face.”
“Guys don’t have happy thinking faces.”
“You do.”
“Maybe it’s my expression when I think of you.”
“What are you thinking?”
