Page 67 of The Oscar Escape
Did she know the answer to those questions? She certainly knew what she was supposed to say—but was it the truth?
Oscar squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” she assured him, eager to get her mind on something else. “Will you give me a hint about lunch?”
“First, I have to make sure they have the ingredients I need.” He released her hand, then looked down at her.
“What?”
That boyish grin was back. He had something up his sleeve.
“Last one to the kitchen is a rotten egg,” he called, reverting to grade-school antics.
She cocked her head to the side. “We’re racing?”
Oscar answered by bolting. Laughing like idiots, they snaked through the dining area. She skirted past the driftwood accents and coastal knickknacks, but she couldn’t catch up to him.
“That’s not fair. You got a head start,” she balked, clunking along a good ten feet behind him in her slosh-buckling boots.
Undeterred by her grumbling, Oscar flew through the swinging door, beating her to the kitchen because . . .
“You’re a cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater, Oscar Abrams Elliott,” she blasted, embracing her childhood ways. She banged into the door with her shoulder and skidded to a stop. Oscar stood there in his jeans and gray hoodie sexiness.
“Hello, rotten egg,” he purred with a smirk.
The cocky trickster!
She scrunched up her face and hit him with a dose of eat-worms energy.
“You know how my growly face doesn’t work on you?”
“Yeah,” she barked, amping up the cheater-cheater factor.
“Your lemon-sucker, eat-worms face doesn’t work on me.”
She huffed. “Well, that wasn’t a fair race. You’re in sneakers, and I’m galumphing around in these boots. I am not a rotten egg.”
“Lucky for you, I have a soft spot for galumphing women who also happen to be rotten eggs.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her.
She sighed and melted into the kiss like she’d been cast as the leading lady in a Hallmark movie. “You better be making me something delicious,” she murmured, her irritation giving way to the butterflies flitting in her belly. There had to be something in the island air because her near nonstop horniness had returned.
He chuckled, then pointed toward a trio of cabinets. “Check if there are some sourdough loaves in there. The bread is labeled with stickers. I’m pretty sure I saw some yesterday. I’ll hit the fridge to see if it’s got what I need.”
She tucked her notebook into the side pocket of Oscar’s photo bag, then focused on bread patrol. She opened the first cabinet. Stocked with loose sheets of what looked like bills and financial statements, it was a bread bust. She went to close the cupboard when a sheet drifted to the ground.Shit!She snapped it up and was about to slip it in with the rest of the papers when six bold words caught her eye.
Real Estate Evaluation: Sweet Escape Inn
“What’s that?” Oscar asked, coming to her side.
She showed him the form.
“Huh,” he said, curiosity lacing the syllable as he eyed the sheet.
“It’s not really our business what Del and Etta do with their business,” she said.
“You’re right.”
She returned the page to the stack and shut the door. “I’ll keep looking.”
