Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

In possibly the worst turn of events, my croissant sandwich has somehow become pinned between my palm and the mystery man’s now destroyed pocket square.

“Sorry!” I squeal a gasp, retracting my hand and allowing the sandwich to fall to the pavement below.

For an absurd second, I eye the tempting daub of aioli on his pocket square and mourn my lost lunch. In the next breath I’m scrambling to pull the pathetic plastic package of travel tissues from my purse–frantically dabbing at the spreading coffee stains on his shimmering lapels.

“Oh my god, I’m such a klutz!” I hear myself laugh too loud, too shrill. If I could, I would simply evaporate on the spot. Might save me a little embarrassment. Just POOF! Right into thin air.

The well-dressed man removes his oversized sunglasses, his severe maroon eyes fix on me as if he might stare lasers right through me.

It’s only now that I’m so close to him, manically trying to fix his clearly ruined suit, that I realize the obscenely delicious smell is coming from him. I have to resist the nearly overpowering urge to sink into his coffee and sandwich splattered chest and nuzzle into the heavenly smell emanating from him.

It’s around the time that I’m swooning, that I realize I know those intense cut garnet eyes, the knife’s edge of high cheekbones and tidy ash blonde coif shot through with silvery gray.

My mouth goes dry as I realize that I have just unknowingly committed career suicide.

The man who I have so unceremoniously doused in coffee and craft table delicacies is none other than Magnus fucking Wagner. Director, auteur, and co-founder of Panopticon Pictures.

I take a deep breath and brace for the worst.

Ihate going to set before production has really started. It’s too loud, too crowded, too full of extras in musty period costumes milling about, and snaking lines for cattle-calls at central casting.

“You don’t have to look that miserable, Gus.” Julian needles me as we pass Sound Stage D on our way to the east gate, and our dedicated production space on the illustrious Sound Stage A.

“You said we would have coffee before you took me to look at costuming and textiles.” I’m overtired, and it’s the best I can do to keep the growl out of my voice as I snap back at Julian.

“That is not what I said at all,” he sings songs back at me, his auburn curls tied back at the nape of his neck sway back and forth as he dramatically shakes his head at me, smiling all the while.

If anyone else pulled this kind of cutesy shit with me, it would likely be the last interaction we ever had. But because it’s Julian I’m already smiling, even if I am genuinely still a little pissed off by his response.

“You said, ‘We can stop for an energizing beverage, maybe a little breakfast before I show you everything. You need to be fully awake to appreciate how gorgeous everything is!’” I don’t talk with my hands, wildly gesticulating like Julian does when he speaks, but I’ve pitched my own smoke-rasp baritone to mimic Julian’s brassy tenor, chiming along with his brisk but musical cadence.

Julian smiles patiently at me. His eyes, like slivers of green sea glass, squint against the high sun.

I open my hands, palms up and turn them over like an old stage magician showing the audience that I’m holding nothing, nothing up my sleeves.

“I tried to get you to come into Greenlyfe with me.” Julian swishes the muddy looking iced beverage in his hand.

I recoil, the vinegary smell threatening to burn my nose hairs.

“You couldn’t pay me to drink that stuff.” I stifle a gag, just barely, pushing my sunglasses further up my nose as if they can somehow shield me from the foul stuff.

“Well, no one is forcing you to drink it, but kombucha is a very energizing beverage.” Julian shrugs, taking a sip of the dubious concoction of fermented goods.

“Yeah, and no one was forcing me to eat the wheatgrass eggless egg bites either.” I shudder, recalling the sad shriveled little nubs of rubbery green Julian had gotten back into the car nibbling. He’s always trying to help integrate more healthful practices into my life—as I’m partial to too much work, coffee, smoking, drinking, and not enough sleeping, eating, or stopping to smell the roses.

While Julian’s just trying to be helpful, there’s no denying that I’ve become incredibly successful leaning into my bad habits. Money talks, and right now it says, keep going!

Of course, there are different types of success, and I’m painfully aware there are areas in which I am lacking.

As if he can read my mind, Julian nudges me with his elbow and gives me a gentle smile, shielding his eyes from the sun for a moment so that he can give me a good look in the eye, even if I am wearing sunglasses. He knows I can see the expression, that I know what it means. He’s just playing around with me, he knows I’ve been down lately, that I’ve had a lot on my mind.

“We can stop by craft services and get you something,” Julian offers warmly.

“Ugh, that coffee is just water dressed in brown.” My lip curls back reflexively.

“I’d probably be better off drinking your fermented compost juice,” I tease, pinching the sleeve of his jacket just above his funny bone—a strange little way I’ve always shown him affection.

He rolls his eyes at me, his full lips pulled wide in a smile that just barely shows his teeth.