Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

More than a little questionable.

Please advise.

I have reached the end of the line of texts, and I’m typing a response as quickly as my thumbs and the touch keyboard will allow.

Vinny

I don’t mind going to meet with the pack at Magnus’ home.

I much prefer it to meeting at another restaurant or bar, in fact.

Same with catching a ride with Sol.

What time should I expect him?

I hit send and instantly consider just calling Vinny back right away to make sure he doesn’t ruin this for me. I’m turning on the shower, eyeing my outfit on its hanger on the back of the open bathroom door, when I hear my phone buzz.

Vinny

As long as you’re ok with it, I guess I will be ok with it too.

Just remember that I’m only a phone call away if you decide it’s not your scene.

Mr. Cooper says to expect him at quarter to eleven.

I will forward his contact information ASAP.

I give a triumphant whoop and toss my phone onto my unmade bed before jumping into the shower.

After I’ve styled my golden beachy waves, slathered myself in a layer of glitter-infused oil, tucked and folded myself into the buttery yellow vintage silk wrap dress I have chosen for the occasion, I stand back and admire my handiwork in the mirror.

The surplice wrap of the dress with its airy, flowing silk seems almost to glow against the healthy shimmer of my rose-brown skin. It shows my curves without making me feel like I’m suffocated in expensive saran wrap like my outfit the night before and I’m happy to slip into my worn white Huaraches instead of high heels.

My bronzed legs look plenty good without the pinch and pain of torturous footwear—or I think so at least. I hope the pack feels the same.

Rupert yowls loudly, as if he knows I’m abandoning him for the day, and I give him a tube of foul-smelling fish paste to try to curb his disappointment.

I’m washing the “ocean whitefish delight” residue from my fingers when I hear two short beeps of a car horn from outside my window.

10:45 on the dot.

I look out the window, but the Jacaranda trees with their purple blooms block my view of the sidewalk.

My phone buzzes, a message from a new number staring back at me from the glassy surface of the screen.

Sol

I think I’m outside?

No one needs to tell me twice. I smear a bit of peachy shimmer lip gloss on my not-quite-sunburnt lips and grab my little wicker handbag and white cat eye sunglasses from the counter and bound out the door

I’m bouncing down the steps of my apartment building when he comes into view. Sol Cooper, seated behind the wheel of a white 1968 Mustang convertible.

I feel a split second of embarrassment and panic–hoping he hasn’t caught sight of my beat up 1990 pony with her cracked and dusty leather seats and flecks of rust around the edges of the bumper panels, but hurry past the feeling and toward the curb as Sol springs out from the driver’s seat and hurries to open the passenger side door for me.

“Good morning, Daphne!” He beams, eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses, brassy gold hair loose and brushing his shoulders.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I tease him, batting my lashes over the top of my cat eye sunglass frames.