Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“But I’ll tell ya—you get used to it awfully quick,” he warns with a grin.

“I don’t know about that.” I have to pinch myself as we near the doorway. Two slabs of redwood nearly ten feet tall.

Sol reaches for a large rail of brass and swings the monolithic door open, and it’s as if he’s unfolded the pages of an architectural digest magazine.

The mid-century-modern, meets Japanese design is spacious and open with lots of blond hinoki wood, ultra luxurious modern furniture and huge sliding panes of glass—the Hollywood skyline visible in an impressive panorama.

“Sol, I’m not convinced that I won’t be immediately photoshopped out of this place if I attempt to step inside.” I try to laugh but it comes out too breathless, and like I am about to cry—because suddenly I do feel like I am going to sob.

How the hell did I ever think I was going to pull this off? There’s no way I can fit into a place like this.

“Nonsense, Sunshine, this place needs someone like you to brighten it up!” Sol grabs my hand, his palms warm and rough, and pulls me through the open door.

We’re barely over the threshold when Julian seems to materialize out of thin air holding a pair of high ball glasses filled to the brim with ice and some sort of beverage.

“Welcome Daphne! Good to see you again,” he beams, allowing Sol to take my things before he offers me one of the drinks.

Today Julian has let his long, flaming auburn curls down. Already several times he has swept the beautiful coppery mess over one shoulder with a careful toss, avoiding the glasses in his hands. His billowing paisley shirt mirrors the colors in the cocktails he carries; green, white, tiny pips of yellow and teal.

“Here, for starters, a little cucumber, basil limeade I put together this morning since it was going to be so hot.” He passes Sol the other highball, dewy with condensation and watches us both with interest.

I take a sip, it’s cold and fresh—sweet and sour.

I shiver with delight and Julian’s eyes sparkle, a rosy flush warming under his bronze freckles.

“Mmm! It’s absolutely fantastic,” I gush.

“Sol said you were a stellar cook!”

Julian and I both watch as Sol, totally unconscious of his actions, guzzles down the entire delicate highball in a single slurping slug.

“Sol is always appreciative of what I do for the pack. Though, I don’t know if he even tastes the food. Sometimes he just inhales things so fast,” Julian laughs lovingly.

Sol and Julian are already drifting toward the expansive living room, its glass paneled wall almost entirely retracted to give access to the sprawling lanai, only the barest edge of the glittering pool visible on the terrace below against the Hollywood skyline.

Still in a haze of disbelief, I take a slug of my limeade and a step deeper into the possible rich-people-lion’s-den.

You can’t win if you don’t play the game. Right?

I follow Sol and Julian past the chic, modern furniture and the concrete brutalist monolith fireplace to the sunny lanai, a veritable brunch feast laid out on a long table beneath the supported canopy of a large sun umbrella.

For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of the breeze, and churning or rushing water somewhere unseen. A fountain somewhere? A Jacuzzi? I can’t help but regret that I didn’t bring a bathing suit.

All around us is beautiful landscaping—lush flowers, ornamental grasses, and Cypress trees. Cypress House, that’s what Sol had called this place. I think of the pale wood, dominating the interior of the house I’ve seen thus far. Between the cabinetry and furnishings and the beautiful trees in the stark landscaping—it’s now apparent how the massive estate got its name.

I’m busy taking in the sight of the different types of fruits, cheeses, pastries, carafes of juices, and tiny sandwiches when I hear a familiar voice from behind me.

“Good morning, Miss Dale. So good of you to make some time for us in your busy schedule.”

I stiffen, and I can see Julian’s expression go sour.

“Gus, cut it out!” Julian snips as Magnus comes into view. He is sporting a vintage linen safari set nearly the same color as his silvery ash blond hair and carrying a marble wine chiller with a bottle of something sparkling bobbing in the ice water inside.

Gus? Not in a million years would it have ever occurred to me to call Magnus Wagner Gus, but it seems to suit both Julian and ‘Gus’ just fine.

Instead of scowling at Julian or scolding him, Magnus reaches for Julian, catching the rolled shirtsleeve of Julian’s paisley button down between his thumb and forefinger.

For a second, I swear that Julian is going to lean in and give Magnus a kiss, but he does not. I teeter slightly on the balls of my feet, realizing just in the nick of time that I had been unconsciously leaning towards them in expectation.