Page 36 of Love on the Byline

“Does someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Afterrighting himself on the seat, Bran yanked off his sunglasses and glared, hischest heaving.

Ollie’s own lungs were screaming. They’d just run the lengthof two football fields, through a horde of bloodthirsty paparazzi, to get Branout of a fracas.

Fucking Bran.

“Ols.” Bran barked. His whole body shook with rage andsomething else. Fear, perhaps.

Ollie closed his eyes, needing a moment to organize histhoughts and to rein in his anger.

“Goddamnit, Ollie, start talking.”

Ollie’s eyes popped open. Whatever expression he wore on hisface was enough to make his best friend’s jaw snap shut. Swallowing his ownoutrage and frustration, he cleared his throat.

“Where’s your phone?”

Frowning, Bran patted his jacket pocket before producing theoffending device. “Right here. Why?”

Without a word, Ollie held out his hand.

After a brief hesitation, Bran handed it over, the lines onhis forehead deepening. When he spoke again, his words were calm but laced withannoyance. “What’s going on? Why did you pull me out of the pool just whenthings were getting good?”

“We’ll be on the move shortly, Mr. Benjamin,” a voiceannounced through the SUV’s speakers. “Club security is clearing a path.”

Ollie touched the call button. “Get us the fuck out of hereas quickly as you can.”

The car lurched forward and to the side, rocking bothpassengers. Jaw clenched, Bran settled into his corner, his hand on the holdabove the door.

Ollie took a deep breath as he scrolled through the contentsof Bran’s phone. Jesus fucking Christ, if the hacker had downloadedeven half of what Ollie was seeing, Bran was fucked. He must have made a soundto indicate how pissed off he was because Bran cursed under his breath.

“It’s that bad?”

“Someone accessed your personal phone.” He spat out every syllableas clearly as he could.

Bran’s medium-brown skin went ashen. “What?”

“Yeah.” He had warned him a million times over never, everto use his main phone for stuff like this. Or any fucking phone, really.

“Jesus, fuck.” Bran ran a rough hand over his face and sankback into his seat. “Clark might just lose his shit.”

“Might?” On cue, Bran’s phone rang in Ollie’s hand. “Hi,Clark.”

“Oliver.” The agent’s north London accent turned his nameinto a full statement. “Where is he?”

“Here with me.” He met Bran’s wide eyes.

“And where is here, exactly?”

“We’re en route to the house.”

“No!” Clark shouted. “Absofuckinglutely not. Do not take himhome. The vultures are already circling outside.”

At times like this, Ollie regretted not getting his own place.When he moved to Los Angeles, he couldn’t afford anything more than a room in ahouse share. Working for Bran, he made a decent living and could have foundsomething. It would have been modest, but it would have been his and may haveworked to their advantage at a time like this.

“I’d say bring him here,” Clark said. “But too many peopleknow where I live.”

“There might be an alternative.” Ollie navigated to thecontacts on his phone. “I’m on it. I’ll text you when we arrive.”

“Keep him out of sight until I can assess the damage,” Clarkinstructed him.

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