by Lou Harper
One hot ginger. One cool blond. The result is anything but lukewarm.
Out and proud from a tender age, Olly Blackwood is content with life in LA, working at a Hollywood gourmet grocery. There’s only one thing missing—romance. He’s had his fill of casual hookups. He wants a man for keeps, and he wants sparks.
He certainly gets them when he meets Rich Willson, who has the stormy temper to go with his fiery hair. But is he keeper material? He might be…if only he’d come out of the closet.
After losing his disapproving father, his job, his girlfriend, and pretty much all his money, Rich packed up his secrets and moved to his actress sister’s house to regroup and help her renovate. He doesn’t like the curmudgeon he’s become, but something about the perpetually cheerful Olly rubs him in a way that should be wrong, yet feels pretty damned right.
Over paint buckets and sanding tools, Rich finds Olly getting deeper under his skin. But when an altercation with a paparazzo comes back to haunt him, he finds that sordid Hollywood secrets can be murder…maybe his own.
Warning: Contains a hot-tempered ginger, a cool-headed blond, redecorating shenanigans, and sordid Hollywood secrets. Happy ending guaranteed or your ticket price refunded.
Secrets and Charms
Lou Harper
Dedication
For all the gingers out there.
Chapter One
One of the advantages of working in a gourmet grocery store in Hollywood was that you met all sorts of people. Olly was an outgoing person who liked people, liked getting to know them. Some more than others.
At the moment, he was busy slathering organic hummus on a dozen pita chips and laying them out in neat rows on a tray. It was eleven in the morning, but the lunchtime nibblers would start arriving soon. A woman in a pink T-shirt drifted by and snatched a sample. Still chewing, she wandered off toward the deli section. As Olly followed her with his eyes, a twenty-something guy standing by the cheese section caught his attention.
Olly considered himself a connoisseur of men, and the stranger’s lean build, caramel skin and Greek nose earned his appreciation. Especially the nose. Olly had developed a thing for them at an early age when he’d discovered the art history section of the public library. Those Greek statues—especially the male ones—enthralled him before he could tell why.
Greek Nose was holding two plastic-wrapped chunks of cheese in his hands. He seemed undecided. Looking up, he caught Olly staring and gave a relieved smile. It was full of straight, white teeth, like a Colgate commercial. Sadly, he wore shades, and Olly couldn’t see his eyes. He picked up his shopping basket and sauntered up to Olly’s counter. He flashed another smile. “I wonder if you could help me choose.” There was the slightest hint of an accent in his voice.
Olly studied the options. “Well, it really depends on your preferences. One’s a New Zealand sharp cheddar, the other one’s for Havarti with dill. What kind of cheese do you normally like?”
“Oh, I don’t eat the stuff—this is for a gift.” Greek Nose frowned. “They seem so paltry like this. Do you have them in whole wheels?”
“No, sorry.”
“Ah. Then tell me, Olly, where can I buy a proper wheel of cheese? Preferably something gourmet?”
Not many customers bothered to read Olly’s name tag, but it happened, and so he wasn’t fazed by being called by his name. The question, on the other hand, gave him a pause. “Hm.” At first he drew a blank, but then he remembered the most recent Best of LA issue of the LA Weekly. “The Beverly Hills Cheese Store,” he said, pointing the butter knife at the guy. “I don’t know the address, but it’s somewhere in Beverly Hills. Obviously.”
“No worries, I’ll find it.”
Greek Nose sauntered back to the deli case, and a pair of new customers stopped by Olly’s table. Millie and Joe were regulars who came to the store once or twice a week and liked to chat with whoever was doing demo. Olly asked them about their weekend plans—it was already Thursday, after all—and they happily filled him in about their granddaughter’s impending visit from Florida.
When they tottered away, Olly was surprised to see Greek Nose back at the counter and observing Olly over the rim of his shades with amber eyes. “I’m Hunter,” he said. “As you probably guessed, I’m new in town.”
“Where are you from?” Olly asked out of more than politeness.
Hunter didn’t reply immediately, as if he had to think about it. “France.”
“You sure?” Olly jested.
Hunter’s lips quirked sideways. “Sorry, I’m not a morning person.”
“It’s almost noon.” As the banter progressed, it developed a layer of piquancy.
Hunter must’ve felt it too, because his smile grew suggestive. “Yeah, way too early to be out of bed. Say, where does someone go for fun around here on a Friday night?”
Olly pursed his lips and pretended to think. “Well, depends on your idea of fun.”
“Where would you go?”
“Probably to Ombre—it’s a nightclub on Sunset, in the middle of West Hollywood. Not far from here, actually.” Olly noticed Roger, the manager, marching down aisle three in their direction. He switched to his professional tone. “And we also have spicy and garlic hummus—all organic, of course.”
Hunter straightened his face and nodded. “Thank you. I’ll check them out.” He winked and left.
Catching the last word seemed to please Roger. He came around the counter looking as cheerful as the flowers on his Hawaiian shirt. Fred’s Trade Post—FTP for short—prided itself in its relaxed atmosphere. “I’ll take it from here.”
Olly shed his plastic gloves and moved on to the next task on his schedule. At this store, all employees did different jobs throughout the day, so Olly spent the next couple of hours restocking produce.
Olly clocked out a few minutes after five. His friend and coworker Jem was already waiting in the parking lot, leaning against a silver Honda. Olly and Jem had met three years ago when Olly started to work at FTP, and hit it off right away. And not just because at the time they were the only two gays at the store. They simply fit. Strangely, they never had the slightest spark of physical attraction, despite both of them being good looking enough. Probably for the best—lovers were easier to find than good friends. To Olly, Jem was more like a brother he’d never had.
“I think I might be in love,” Olly declared, getting into Jem’s car. They didn’t normally ride together, but on this fine summer evening, they were driving to Pasadena to see Madame Layla—a fortune-teller Jem swore by. Jem was a little nutty.
“The guy at the demo counter?” Jem asked. “I saw you two flirting. What happened to the other guy you were in love with last month?”
“Dale?”
“The musician.”
“Oh, Russ. He was a lousy tipper, so I had to let him go. It’s a deal breaker, I’m sorry. I can’t spend the rest of my life embarrassed about my cheapskate partner—waiters make most of their money from tips, you know.” Truthfully, the problem was deeper. They had no sparks. Olly wanted sparks. Fuck, he wanted fireworks. Was it too much to ask?
Unsuspecting of Olly’s secret desires, Jem badgered on. “Aren’t you a little young at twenty-two to be planning for the rest of your life?”
“Nuh-uh. In a few years, I’ll be as old as you.”
“I’m twenty-eight!”
“Yes. Almost thirty. You’re so lucky you hooked Nick before you turned into a wrinkled old pumpkin.”
“I think you have your fairy tales mixed up.”
“You’re calling me a fairy?”
“If the kettle fits,” Jem riposted, and they snickered. “Why do you think this new guy will work out any better?” he went on.
“Well, the
contents of his shopping basket were promising—lots of fruits and veggies and a pound bar of dark chocolate.”
“So you’re planning to build a relationship on your shared love of organic produce?” Jem had a way with words.
“No, the chocolate! A giant bar of dark chocolate. Voracious, yet restrained.”
“Or just likes baking.”
“That works too.”
They drove on in silence as Jem struggled to get out of Hollywood at the onset of rush-hour traffic. Finally, they made it onto the freeway, and he circled back to the topic of Olly’s romantic life. “So what was wrong with Dale? Did he fart in bed?” Jem asked.
“Don’t be silly, everyone farts in bed. It’s the sign of a sound relationship when you fart in bed when together. Hey, does Nick ever fart, pull the blanket over your head and yell Dutch oven?”
“He doesn’t yell anything.”
“But he does the rest?”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“It’s such an alpha male thing to do, and Nick’s the quintessential alpha.”
“Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” Jem said dreamily.
To keep himself from gagging—possibly on his own jealousy—Olly changed the subject. “This Madame Layla, tell me about her again.”
“She’s the bomb,” Jem replied with great enthusiasm. “She’ll know things just by looking at you. Like when I was cursed—she knew it before I said anything. None of that fishing-around-for-information crap you get from fortune-tellers. Mme. Layla is a real witch.”
“If you say so.” Olly had serious doubts, but this trip was a belated birthday gift from Jem, and he knew his manners. “So what does your hunky man candy think of you consorting with witches? He doesn’t strike me as the superstitious type.”
Jem grimaced. “Nick makes fun of me, of course, but you know, when you love somebody, you take their faults with the good bits.”
Olly ignored the heavy-handed message. “Isn’t Nick missing you while you’re driving me around? I heard you old people like to go to bed early.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. He’s on a case. No knowing when I’ll see him next.” Jem sighed. Detective Nick Davies worked in homicide.
Mme. Layla’s abode sat half-hidden among old trees in Pasadena’s bungalow district. Multiple shades of green paint helped it to meld into its surroundings. As Jem and Olly strolled up to the door, a gust of wind swept by, and Olly heard faint jingling mix with the squawking of birds. He looked up but couldn’t make out the birds in the dense foliage. However, the wind chimes and strings of bronze bells dangling from the branches were easy to see.
“They keep the evil spirits away,” said a woman appearing in the open door. Mme. Layla wore a gauzy green shirt over blue jeans, and silver jewelry around her neck and wrists. A few strands of different kinds of silver shimmered in her otherwise dark hair. Olly put her age at forty-plus.
“They don’t do a good job scaring the birds away, though,” he said.
She shook her head, and her earrings made their own jingle. “The parrots are friends—runaways like me. Noisy ones, I admit, but they go to bed early, like old people.” She winked at him. “You must be Olly. Come on inside.”
Olly stared after her for a stupefied moment before deciding her quip about old people so soon after his own couldn’t be more than a simple coincidence. Jem, of course, smiled smugly.
She led them into a sunroom, where a pitcher of iced tea waited for them already, cold sweat gathering on the glass. They settled on wicker chairs, and she filled their glasses, and her own too. The windows stood open, and the summer breeze billowed the sheer curtains.
Olly sipped his tea. The aroma surprised him—mellow with spicy undertones. “Is this Celestial Seasoning?” he asked.
She shook her head, and a green stone in her earring caught the light. “White tea and an herbal blend made by my son. Bran’s an expert in herbs. It’s meant to be soothing. Do you like it?”
Olly took another sip. “Different, but nice,” he agreed.
“Good. You’re not left-handed, are you?”
Olly shook his head.
“Give me your right hand, then.” She held her own out over the table.
Olly put his glass down and placed his hand palm up in hers. She held his wrist with one hand and laid the other on his. Her eyes drifted closed while she mapped the lines of his palm with her fingertips. As if she were reading an amusing story, her lips pursed and twitched. Up close, Olly noticed the fine lines fringing her lips and gathering around her eyes. She had to be considerably older than he’d first thought.
Mme. Layla opened her eyes but kept hold of Olly’s hand. “You’re an atypical young man, Olly. So reliable, so sensible. I suspect you learned self-reliance early and out of necessity. Don’t forget to have some fun.” Her fingers moved in small circles. “Not much luck in love, I see.” She halted and tilted her head as if trying to make out a faint sound. “Your heart is like a moth searching for a flame,” she said in a hushed tone.
What she said first fit, but it was generic enough to suit anybody, but her last remark touched him deeply. Because it was exactly how he’d felt for some time now, only he hadn’t been able to put it into words. Maybe there was something to Mme. Layla after all. At the minimum, she was phenomenal at reading people.
She let him go and sat back with a smile. “Well, let’s see if we can sneak a peek into your future.” She took the lid off a box sitting next to her and pulled out a red cloth, which she spread out on the table. Next, from a velvet pouch she extracted a handful of small white objects.
“Are those chicken bones?” Olly asked.
“Possum. Now hush.” She cupped the bones between her hands and held them to her forehead. After a few seconds of stillness, she moved her hand away and shook them vigorously, finally tossing the bones down. Some landed off the cloth, and those she picked up and put aside.
She leaned forward with a frown of concentration. “Hm…interesting. Let’s see… You’ll be forced to make an important decision soon. Someone is in great need of your help, but giving it might take an effort. I see relationships forming and changing. Friendship and maybe even love. You have a tumultuous time ahead.” She tilted her head and glared at a particular clump of bones. “Be careful. Not all is what they seem. Secrets are all around you. Someone will mean you harm. You must be cautious whom you trust.” She studied the bones for a few more minutes, but the only other thing she came up with was advice for Olly not to accept drinks from strangers.
Olly was hoping for something more concrete, not necessarily next week’s winning lottery numbers—although he wouldn’t have turned those down—but maybe a clue where he’d find a man to have sparks with.
“We usually chance upon the things we need when we’re not looking,” she said with another uncanny insight, and brushed the bones back into their pouch. Mme. Layla packed her implements away, and the three of them shifted into small talk about the weather and the 710 Freeway extension plans. When it was time to leave, she gave Jem a bulging canvas pouch. “Bury this by your front door at the next new moon,” she instructed him. “Doesn’t have to be deep, about six inches or so.”
“Protection against visitors with malicious intent,” Jem explained to Olly.
“Also keeps the door-to-door solicitors away,” she added.
Jem handed her his credit card, and she swiped it through the thingy attached to her phone. “Sent the receipt to your email,” she said and handed the card back.
Olly found the combination of low-tech sorcery and high-tech business amusing, but Mme. Layla was very matter-of-fact about it. She walked Jem and Olly out, all the way to the front gate. The air had grown dusky, and the bird racket hit a crescendo as they settled down for the night. Olly was just about to say his final good-byes when he heard a splat and felt something wet land on his left shoulder. He twisted his head and saw a white streak on his T-shirt. One of the feathered bastards shat on him!
>
He must’ve made a funny expression, because Jem brayed like a donkey. Olly was about to give Jem a killer glare, but the expression on Mme. Layla’s face stopped him.
She’d gone pale, dark eyes wide. She got her composure back in a jiffy but also grabbed Olly’s elbow. “Come back. I’ll rinse your shirt out.”
“Nah, it’s all right…” he started to say, but she was already dragging him back inside.
She deposited them in the sunroom again and ran off with Olly’s shirt.
“She’s a strange woman,” Olly muttered.
Jem grinned. “I know! Isn’t she great?”
Olly shrugged. “I guess, but I don’t think she was looking into my future so much, more like reading the present. I already met somebody and will hopefully meet him again tomorrow, and I know who needs my help. I promised Sandy I’d paint her new place with her.”
“Sandy Baker, the actress? I know you guys are buddies, but why doesn’t she just pay somebody? Isn’t she a big star now on that HBO show?” Jem, like a lot of people, assumed anyone on TV was swimming in money.
Olly, who considered himself practically a Hollywood insider these days, knew better. “Not really. She’s a semi-regular on Fangs, but she only has a supporting role. The writers could kill her at the drop of a hat, and those bastards kill even major players left and right. Remember the end of last season?” Olly shuddered, and not because of the breeze on his naked skin. The previous season ender of Fangs was a regular bloodbath. Fans of the show were still reeling.
Jem nodded. “True.”
“Anyways, Sandy blew all her money on that house, and it needs a lot of work. She was gonna paint it herself, so of course I offered to help. It’s no biggie for me, and she’s totes cool. I bet she’d come to my house to help paint—if I had a house.” Olly shared an apartment in Hollywood with two other guys, but he was saving his money.
Mme. Layla came back a good ten minutes later, holding Olly’s clean and mostly dry shirt in one hand. In the other one was some sort of necklace. She gave Olly the necklace first. “Put this on and wear it at all times.”
