Page 56 of Love on the Byline

“Yep,” Blake said, her expression carefully neutral as shestared back at Bran. “Just great.”

12

I’m greeted byRory who, at well over six feet, is more mountain than man. His expression isstoic, his presence palpable, but there’s no menace in his dark-eyed stare. I’mallowed into the star’s private retreat without much fanfare. I don’t know whatI was expecting but, as grand as the property is, the atmosphere is serene. Ifeel as if I’m walking into a day spa and the glittering turquoise pool, visiblefrom the front door, beckons.

No More Pictures, Please: the Trajectory of a Shooting Starby Blake Dillon for the L.A. Gazette

Blake followed the scent of coffee to a kitchen thatbelonged in one of Stephen Starr’s restaurants. She’d thought the one in Bran’shome was impressive, but that could have fit inside this one threetimes over.

This space was outfitted with every amenity a world classchef would want. Gleaming granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, anddesigner pendant lights that hung over an island with enough seating for eightpeople.

Past the island, a set of doors led to an oversized patioand the infinity pool. Beyond that, the vast Pacific stretched out for milesand miles.

Ollie stood in front of the open fridge, his phone to hisear. He turned and smiled over his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Good morning.” Blake claimed one of the barstools. “Is thatorange juice fresh-squeezed?”

“Yeah.” Ollie pulled the carafe from the shelf and placed iton the island. Before Blake could ask, he grabbed a glass from a cabinet andmoved to pour it for her.

“I’ve got it.”

“Help yourself.” He offered a small smile that quicklyflattened to a thin line as he returned his attention to the call. “Allo?Oui, c’est Oliver Benjamin. Oui, à propos du spectacle du dix-huitième,monsieur Cody aura besoin de trois places. Non, non, trois.”

Blake stared, wide-eyed. Unlike Brandon Peters-slash-Cody,Ollie Benjamin was a mystery she wanted to solve.

Too many of her memories of him from college had been tiedup with the incident with Bran. Until recently, she’d filed both men away inher mental yearbook.

In college, Ollie had been a tantalizing combination of hot,shy, brilliant, awkward, and athletic. As well as fiercely loyal to his bestfriend. He seemed to remain all of those things to varying degrees. Ifanything, his loyalty to Bran had increased exponentially. Blake found thismentoring kids, French-speaking, expert in organization and people-handlingversion of Ollie intriguing.

He was also heart-stoppingly beautiful.

“Bien sûr, si cela n’est pas possible, Monsieur Cody devramalheureusement décliner l’invitation.” There was a pause, and Ollielooked up at Blake, clearly amused by whatever expression he saw on her face.

Blake realized she’d frozen still, her glass of OJ stuckmidway to her lips. Lowering it to the counter, she arched a brow and gesturedtowards the phone in his hand as if to say really? French?

Ollie shrugged one shoulder, the apple of his cheeks turningan adorable shade of pink. Looking away, he blinked a few times before someoneon the other end of his call brought back Bossy Oliver. “Oh? Merci, ceserait merveilleux. Monsieur Cody est impatient d’assister au spectacle. Oui, merci.Merci. Au revoir.”

When he disconnected the call, Blake raised her glass in atoast. “Impressive.”

“What?” Ollie set his phone on a wireless charger underneathone of the kitchen cabinets.

“What? he asks, as if he didn’t just rattle off hisdemands in fluent French,” she said, teasing.

“Do you speak French?”

“No, I took Spanish. None of it stuck, I’m afraid.”

“Then how do you know I was making demands?” Crossing hisarms, he leaned against the counter behind him. They were very nice arms.

“Spanish, French…those romance languages share enough for meto recognize some things,” she replied. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“My father is French,” he said, casually blowing her tinymind. “Remember? You met him once.”

“I did?”

Ollie visibly deflated, though he tried to cover it bywaving away her question. “It was only briefly. Anyway, yeah. I spent every summerin France until I was fifteen.”

“Wow, you’d think I’d remember something like that.”

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