Page 66 of The Oscar Escape
Oscar only required ten.
“Aria . . . yes . . . Aria! Damn, that feels so good,” he cried, spilling into her mouth.
Enjoying her on-bended-knee sexual power play, she didn’t let up. She lapped up every bit of his release like the dirtiest kick-ass fake wife on the island.
Breathless, he loosened his grip on the sink. He wore a mix of wonder and weariness on his face. “You’re crazy,” he said, but his words were laced with an undeniable thread of pure joy.
“That’s what you like about me,” she teased, coming to her feet. She eyed his cell. “What did Del want?”
He frowned. “Who?”
She chuckled and gave his blood supply a few seconds to return to his brain. “Del. You know, the guy who despises me and called while I was gifting you with that top-notch BJ.”
He blinked a few times, like his brain was rebooting. “Oh, lunch.”
“Lunch?”
“He asked me to whip up something for ten people, then deliver it to the schoolhouse. You’re supposed to help.” He tipped her chin up and kissed her. “It’s part of your community service,” he added, then plucked her lobster panties from the floor and handed them over.
She peered out the window and eyed the gray-shingled structure topped with a bell about a five-minute walk down the trail. “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
Oscar slipped on his boxer briefs and jeans. “Planning that Love and Lobsters Festival, I suppose.”
“It’s days away,” she remarked, dressing alongside the man. “Shouldn’t they be finished planning it? I ask because I know how much goes into large-scale events.”
“I don’t know. But I do know what I want to cook for them.” He turned on the tap and washed his hands.
She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and soaped up beside him. “And what will you be cooking for me?”
For the last couple of days, Oscar had been the one to venture down to the kitchen and scrape up some grub. He wasn’t sure what they could and couldn’t touch in the kitchen, so they’d been living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and iced tea, which suited her just fine.
“After what you did for me, I owe you a five-course meal.” He held her gaze in the mirror. “We don’t have time for that now, but you’ll like what I have in mind.” A boyish grin spread across his face. As cliché as it was, it weakened her knees and sent a warm tingle through her body. It was good to see this side of him—an optimistic, lively side she hadn’t seen in years. He’d always been intense. That was the photographer and the chef in him, but he also used to exude a palpable zest for inventing something new that was contagious.
Growing up, she’d sit at Oscar’s kitchen table with Sebastian and Phoebe. With Oscar wielding a spatula, the table trio would salivate over the scents coming from the stove. They’d beg him to hurry up. They’d cry out that their stomachs were growling. Still, Oscar took his time and perfected his craft. He’d glance over his shoulder, flash that easy grin, then return to the masterpiece du jour. A person couldn’t help but believe in his vision and wait with bated breath to sample his creations.
“Now, I’m intrigued,” she said and stepped into her red boots. She picked up her notebook as Oscar zipped his gray hoodie. “Are you making bonbons for lunch? You know I’m not against substituting dessert for a meal, right?”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Like everyone on this island, I’m well aware of your chocolate obsession.” He slipped his camera bag over his shoulder, took her hand, and led her out of the guest room.
She eyed the bag. “Are you taking that everywhere?”
“Just like you with your notebook, I’ve got to be ready whenever the magic strikes.”
There he was—the man dedicated to chasing the wonders of this world.
She threaded her fingers with his. “I like thinking of inspiration like that.”
It was his job to be prepared to capture the moment, and while her notebook was a passion project, there was something enchanting about creating on Havenmatch Island. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Though she’d only been here for a handful of days, the minutes stretched, long and shimmery, like the ocean surrounding it.
Hand in hand, they strolled down the hall. The sound of their footsteps echoed over the faint cries of the gulls. Having this place almost entirely to themselves was like falling into the pages of a fairy tale. No paparazzi. No asshats calling in kidnapping threats. Who didn’t long for a secret hideaway? Add to that the titillating bliss of not being recognized as Aria Paige-Grant, the celebrity, and it was as if she’d stepped out of her reality and inhabited someone else’s life. They started down the main staircase, and she eyed the bleached wood above the door, welcoming drifters and dreamers.
Was she a drifter, a dreamer, or neither? She glanced at her notebook. Perhaps it wasn’t her choice, and the island made the call. With that thought bubbling around in her head, questions formed—questions that darkened her mood and sent a shiver down her spine.
Who was Aria Paige-Grant supposed to be?
What made her heart sing?
What would her parents think of the woman she’d become?
