Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“You’ve gotten to be a snob, you know?” Julian snorts a laugh.

“You’re not wrong,” I grunt, visibly affronted when a young blonde suddenly explodes from the craft services tent and darts in front of me, unexpectedly underfoot.

Julian has to cover his nose and mouth to stifle his laughter, doing his best not to burst into hysterics directly over the woman’s shoulder.

The two of us have a moment of shared silent laughter, delighted by the natural comedic timing that life can have, when the spritely young lady, barely a pace away from me, suddenly turns on her heel and launches toward me.

I’m facing Julian, the little blonde freight train coming down the tracks of my peripheral vision, when she slams into me; coffee, sandwich and all.

“Sorry!” She squeaks.

I look down at my suit, a custom piece Julian made me.

The little blonde beta is grabbing a packet of travel tissues out of her shitty little plastic leather purse, making a delusional attempt at salvage.

“Oh my god, I’m such a klutz!” she squawks, her aquamarine eyes big as saucers as she looks up at me.

She looks familiar but I can’t quite place her.

High, round cheekbones and a pointed chin, her heart-shaped face rosy gold from plenty of time spent in the sun, framed by incredibly thick yellow gold waves, and generously spattered with tawny freckles.

Without meaning to, I let my eyes travel down her petite, curvy form, her cheap chambray sundress showing off more of those freckles in sprawling constellations over her bare shoulders.

My libido, a traitor to the last, begs the question, is she dusted with that fetching smattering of freckles everywhere?

I catch myself before a hungry growl announces my feelings. This little bit of beta skirt is hardly worthy of even the most temporary of distractions.

She still hasn’t moved, so I pull my sunglasses from my face, doing my best to maintain an impassive expression.

I watch as her eyes widen, her full lips tightening into a flat line, her throat working to swallow.

Yes, that’s right princess, now you realize you’ve really stepped in it. I think, a little too giddy as I savor her epiphany.

“Oh dear, I’m not sure this one can be saved,” I tut thoughtfully, pinching my coffee-stained lapel.

“A loss you can suffer, I’m sure,” Julian scoffs dismissively.

The little blonde beta looked as if she might actually be turning a sickly shade of green as she stood there, still as a statue.

“One of your finest works, destroyed at the hands of this absent-minded young lady here.” I click my tongue, removing my mulberry silk pocket square so that I might shake away the aioli and bits of lettuce still clinging to it.

The little beta’s expression changes. Her golden brows pinch together, her obscenely long corn-silk lashes fan up and down as she blinks rapidly.

“Well, I certainly should have been more mindful of where I was going in a hurry, but you were practically up my ass—you could’ve given me a little more space,” she blurts out in a rush before hiccuping down the reality of what she’s just let slip.

I am simultaneously delighted and annoyed.

What a mouth on this one. It’s been years since anyone other than Julian or the boys have talked back to me. Everyone’s been so busy for the past decade, slathering me in praise or trying to stay in my good graces in the hopes of a part, a screenplay, or an agreement to direct their picture that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to meet with any kind of opposition—meaningful or not.

Right here, right now, this little blonde beta has decided she’s going to let me have it. It really is a shame she’s so figuratively beneath me I can’t get her literally beneath me. The fucking paps and gossip rags would have a field day.

“Oh, excuse me!” I make a flourish of my hands as if to open the space between us.

“I had no idea that I, the lowly Magnus Wagner, was in the company of the illustrious–” I pause, looking to blondie to supply her name. Her only reply is a lemony, pinched mouth expression, the heat of fury pinking her cheeks with a very fetching blush.

“I’m a professional, I—I work here too,” she stammers, her anger tying her tongue.

“Oh, do tell!” I can’t help but to needle, especially when I’m getting such a rise out of her.