Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“You look fantastic, by the way.” He grins, offering me a calloused hand to help me into the white leather bucket seat.

He shuts the car door behind me and I give him a very obvious once over, taking my time to look him up and down.

“You look pretty nice yourself.” I slide the sunglasses further down the bridge of my nose and offer a wink.

I’m not lying either. The rustic cowboy look certainly suited him, but his decidedly more surfer outfit today; a pair of hemp linen shorts and a pale green guayabera button up, make him look just as effortlessly handsome—an air of confidence buoying him on the salty sea breeze.

He jumps back into the driver’s seat, and we’re off.

“So, how do you feel about fancy types of exotic fruit with names you can’t pronounce?” He asks, heading away from my place and toward the mysterious Magnus Wagner’s home in the Hollywood hills.

“Delicious,” I gush, my stomach already rumbling.

“Ok good, how about some kind of miniature quiche with all kinds of vegetables and at least one kind of expensive cheese that may or may not smell incredibly like feet when you buy it at ‘whole paycheck’?” He continues the bit, and it’s all I can do to keep a straight face and not completely dissolve into laughter.

“Love a good egg tart—be it teeny, with veggies, and stinky cheese, or in a box, or with a fox—I would enjoy it,” I volley back.

I’m rewarded with a surprised, almost cough of a laugh for my attempts at wit.

“We’re doing good so far,” he chuckles.

“What about smoked salmon and those little green things?” He wrinkles his nose.

“Capers?” I ask, unable to keep the laugh from my own voice.

He nods, one hand easing off the wheel so that he can hang his elbow out the window.

“Raw, Smoked, Grilled, Steamed, Fried—not sure there’s a way that I don’t like salmon. And I’m absolutely crazy for capers,” I confirm.

“More for you, I guess—with the capers I mean—little olive thingies. Can’t stand ‘em.” He wrinkles his nose and makes a funny smacking noise with his mouth.

“I promise to eat all of your capers.” I nod solemnly, a hand over my heart.

Sol bursts into another surprised laugh.

“You’re a saint, Sunshine,” he chuffs.

“If you like all that kinda stuff, Julian is gonna love feeding you.”

It seems like forever that we’re driving on the highway, then through the canyon, and up into the Hollywood hills.

When we finally arrive at the property, which Sol lovingly refers to as Cypress House, I am instantly overwhelmed.

I’ve been to plenty of industry get-togethers at different bungalows in Bel-Air. I’ve even been to some of the older, kitschy mansions of the elder stars on the precipice of joining their own golden age constellations.

But never anything like this.

Cypress House, a behemoth of bespoke modern architecture, seems to have been lovingly carved by some alien sculptor out of the rugged red rock crag that surrounds it. Because the impressive structure is quite literally built into the face of the Hollywood hills themselves, and up so high—I can see the terraced pool below with its impressive sheet of perfect blue—it’s infinity edge appearing to bleed into the cityscape far below.

I haven’t realized I’ve stopped dead, jaw literally dangling in mid-air until Sol rests a hand gently on my shoulder.

“You alright there, Sunshine?” He asks sweetly, not at all teasing.

I can only manage a funny little whine as I gesture to the acres of Hollywood ritz in front of me—hoping for funny instead of pathetic country bumpkin.

Sol is kind enough to grant me a knowing laugh, his hand squeezing my shoulder.

“I’m not from money either, Sunshine.” His smile looks sad for a moment but is quickly restored to its former brightness.