Hollywood Secrets by Gemma Halliday Page B

Cal’s number later but motioned for him to go on. “Alright, so they slip past security, interrupt your reality show, then what?”
    “ They start yelling about the drive again. I told them I didn’t have it, but they didn’t believe me this time. Then they just started shooting. I dove for cover and luckily made it out the back door. But just barely,” he said, looking down at his arm.
    “ What was on this flash drive?” I could only imagine if there were people who were willing to kill for it.
    He shrugged. “No idea. Like I said, I gave it to my agent and forgot about it.”
    “ Where is your agent now?”
    “ Vegas.”
    I raised an eyebrow.
    “ First thing I did when those guys cut me loose last night was call my agent. He said he was in Vegas booking a gig for another client, which is why he hadn’t turned the damned thing into the car company yet. But he said he’d have a look at it, and we’d talk when he got back into town.”
    “ Which would be?”
    “ Tomorrow morning. His flight gets in at ten and we’re meeting at Nico’s at noon.”
    I nodded. Nico’s was a popular lunch place among the privileged and determined-to-be-seen crowd. Needless to say, my camera lens was a regular there. “Listen, does the name Buckner Boogenheim mean anything to you?” I asked.
    Trace shook his head. “That’s quite a mouthful. But, no, I don’t know him. Should I?”
    I shrugged. In reality, it hadn’t been all that hard for me to break into Pacific Storage. Not hard to believe someone else might do the same thing to borrow a delivery van.
    Trace leaned his head back on the cushions of my sofa, and I could tell the evening had taken its toll on him. I silently went to the linen closet (which also doubled as my clothes closet and the food pantry) and grabbed a couple spare pillows and blankets. By the time I got them back to the sofa, Trace was already asleep. I covered him lightly with a blanket, then hunkered down next to him, where, amazingly, I fell asleep sitting up as soon as I closed my eyes.
     
    * * *
     
    The first thing I noticed the next morning was the heavenly smell of freshly brewed coffee. If angels had alarm clocks in heaven, they’d be coffee scented.
    Unfortunately, the second thing I noticed was that one should never fall asleep sitting up on a sofa. A sharp pain hit my neck as I twisted it to the right. I turned left. Ouch. More pain. I rubbed it as I got up, trying to work out the kinks.
    “ Morning,” I heard from my kitchen/dining room.
    I looked up to find Trace leaning against my Formica counter with a mug of coffee in hand.
    “ Morning.” I did a little wave, suddenly hit with a bout of self-consciousness. Did I have bed-head? Morning breath? One of those whiteheads that magically appears overnight blooming on my forehead? I ducked my head, letting my potential bed-head hair cover my face just in case of the latter.
    “ Coffee?” he asked.
    “ Please. Black.”
    He complied, grabbing a mug from my cupboard (yes, singular) and delivering the cup the three paces across the room.
    I noticed that he did not have a case of overnight acne, bed-head, or, as he moved closer and handed me the cup, morning breath. If anything, Trace looked even better in the morning than he had last night. Kind of soft and tussled. Like I’d expect him to look after a long night under the sheets.
    I ducked my head even lower, sure that last thought had put a bright pink blush into my cheeks.
    “ Thanks for letting me stay here last night,” he said, thankfully oblivious to my R-rated thoughts.
    “ Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
    “ If it’s not too much of an imposition, you think I could use your shower before I go?”
    I cocked my head to the side. “And then what?”
    “ Then I thought I’d get dressed,” he said, grinning as he looked down at his still bare torso.
    The heater in my cheeks turned up a notch. Was it wrong that the thought of him putting clothes on kinda bummed me out?
    I shook