Kurt: “I do, sir. I will love, cherish, and protect her forever.”
Oh my God! The passion in his sultry voice! The love and lust in his eyes!
The pastor asks Alisha the same question. She holds Kurt in her impassioned gaze, whispers her vow, and finally says, “until death do us part.”
I softly say the words with her. Tears well up in my eyes. Knowing the cruel fate that awaits Alisha, her vow gets me every single time. By the time they embrace (oh, what a kiss!), tears are streaming down my cheeks and I’m heaving.
Brandon turns to me. “Jeez Louise. What’s the matter?”
My tear-stained lips are quivering. Words are trapped in my throat. Snot is dripping from my nose. I’m a blubbering mess.
Finally, I get my mouth to move. “It’s so sad. I can’t take it,” I splutter as the show fades to black and the closing credits come on. “He’s going to lose her!”
Brandon turns the TV off and hands me a paper napkin. “Here. Blow your nose.”
I gratefully take the napkin from him and put it to my face. I honk into it.
“Thanks,” I stammer, totally embarrassed.
“It’s just make-believe.”
I sniff. “I know, but still…”
Brandon’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You like my show?”
Duh! “I love it! I love you!” Gah! “I mean, I love Kurt Kussler.”
His brows lift. “Really?”
“Totally,” I say convincingly, moving past my slip-up.
“What makes him appealing?”
He seriously doesn’t know? He must have major brain damage. “Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, my tears subsiding.
He draws in a sharp breath. “With this damn amnesia, nothing’s obvious.”
Obviously. So, I tell him.
“First of all, he’s sexy as sin—”
He cuts me off. “You think I’m sexy—”
I cut him off. His pending question unnerves me. “No!” Big fat liar. “Kurt’s sexy as sin.”
The conceited egomaniac looks a little deflated. “What makes him sexy?”
“He may think with his cock like most men, but he’s ruled by his heart.”
Clueless Brandon screws up his face. “What do you mean by that?”
“He’s damaged but so passionate. I mean, just look at his abiding love for his wife, Alisha. He won’t stop until he finds her killer.”
Brandon is all ears, listening intently. I continue.
“Every woman wants a Kurt Kussler to love, protect, and cherish her.”
“Yes, don’t we all.” A sardonic breathy voice enters the room. I look up. My stomach churns. It’s Katrina. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees as the willowy blonde stomps toward us in her gazillion dollar stilettos.
“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Chubster.”
My boiling blood heats my skin. “Hi. Nice to see you again too.”
I remember the first time I met her. I thought she was here for a business meeting with Brandon and Scott. She acted like I was invisible and then had the nerve to tell me to take her Mercedes for a car wash. As if I were her servant. I told her to take a hike—no pun intended—and pissed her off royally. Until I started seeing pictures of them together online and in various tabloids, I had no idea they were romantically involved. And truthfully, knowing Brandon’s reputation as a player, I thought it was just another casual hook-up. His latest conquest. You can only imagine my shock when I learned of their engagement—the news broke just hours after Brandon’s horrible accident. It was bad enough that the gorgeous man I worshipped was lying in a coma but then to find out he was engaged sent my emotions into a tailspin. I cried for hours, knowing that even if he lived, I was losing him to America’s It Girl.
Fraught with jealousy and loathing, I meet her predatory gaze.
She smirks and then snubs me. “Brandy-Poo, are you ready to go out with Mommy and me?”
Brandon’s eyes blink several times. “What are you talking about?”
“Seriously, don’t you know we have a reservation at The Ivy to go over wedding plans? We made it weeks ago.”
Brandon looks perplexed. “I’m sorry. It’s one of those things I don’t remember.” He turns to me. “Zoey, did you write it down somewhere or put it on my calendar?”
“This is the first time I’m hearing about it.”
“Maybe, I forgot to tell her,” mumbles Brandon in my defense.
Katrina huffs. “Honestly, darling, you really should look into getting a competent assistant. This one’s a bigger waste of space than the space she occupies.”
I’m seething. Bitch! I bite back my tongue. Katrina again ignores me and plants a kiss on Brandon’s forehead.
“Well, darling, don’t just sit there. Throw on a jacket. I don’t want to keep Mommy waiting.”
Slowly, Brandon stands up. His eyes penetrate mine. “Set some time in my schedule to review more episodes tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I murmur. I stay seated while Brandon dons an outrageously sexy leather bomber jacket. It’s just what Kurt Kussler would wear.
Emptiness fills me as I watch Katrina shuffle Brandon out of the house. And then a wicked thought brightens my spirits. Maybe the bitch and the asshole deserve each other. My moment of satisfaction is fleeting. Who am I kidding? I wish it were me.
Chapter 7
Brandon
Located on nearby trendy Robertson, The Ivy is a bustling but charming restaurant that feels more like an eclectic cottage with its vintage floral décor and jugs of colorful fresh roses on every table. According to my fiancée, this is one of our favorite places to “see and be seen.” It’s a popular LA hangout with A-list celebrities, agents, and other movers and shakers. I, of course, don’t remember ever being here.
Katrina’s mother is already seated at a corner table in the front room. Upon sighting us, she waves a bony hand, the other curled around the base of a fluted glass. Holding my hand, chicly dressed Katrina leads me with long strides in her direction. All eyes on us, whispers of Bratrina stir the air.
Katrina rounds the table and gives her equally chic mother a double-cheek kiss. “Hello, Mommy.”
“Darling, I’m so glad you could make it, and of course, this must be Brandon.” Enid formally introduces herself and extends her hand.
I assume we’ve never met and shake it, careful not to crush it. I help Katrina into a chair across from her mother and then I slip into the one next to hers. Enid is effervescent.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered a bottle of champagne. Cristal, only the finest. I thought we’d start off the evening with a toast.”
Like mother, like daughter. “Sure,” I say, studying her cosmetically enhanced face. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her skin so taut it may split into puzzle pieces.
“Wonderful.” She raises her glass and we follow suit. “To the most unforgettable wedding ever!”
We clink our glasses and then sip the bubbly. I’m not in the mood to drink champagne, but I go with the flow. Enid guzzles hers, then refills her glass.
“Why don’t we order first and then we’ll talk about the wedding. I have so many fabulous ideas, especially since the wedding is going to be televised.”
I take another sip of the champagne and clear my throat. “Um, uh, excuse me, Enid. But can we talk about that? I was thinking something smaller, more inti—”
With a sharp turn of her head, Katrina cuts me off. “Brandon, there’s absolutely nothing to discuss. Everything’s set. It’s going to be a live televised event. Period. Millions of people around the world will see it on TV and on the Internet. It’s going to make me a global name and send my ratings into the stratosphere.”
This just doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d agree to. I may be a very public TV star, but I’m a private kind of guy. That I do know about myself. My gaze stays on Katrina. “Did we ever discuss this?”
Throwing her head back, she lets out a haught
y laugh. “Of course, darling. It was practically your idea. You were all over it. You were even the one that said, ‘Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian.’”
I don’t even know who Kim Kardashian is. I’m growing frustrated with this amnesia thing. It’s getting old fast and causing me one problem after another. I’m really not comfortable with the idea of getting married on TV, but this is clearly not the forum to challenge it. I’m not going to get anywhere with headstrong Katrina or her outspoken mother.
We order dinner from an apron-clad young waiter. Recognizing me immediately, his eyes light up. “Wow! You’re Brandon Taylor. Kurt Kussler rocks!” He steps back from the table and imitates me. Aiming his fingers like a gun, he says, “Get it. Got it? Good.”
I’m getting sick of hearing this line. I’m sure this dude is an aspiring actor, and in a breath, he confirms my hunch. “Hey, listen Mr. Taylor, I hope you don’t mind. But can I give you my headshot before you leave and maybe you could show it to your producer and consider me for a guest-starring role? Even a cameo? I’m a method actor and studied at the Bella Stadler Academy. You won’t be disappointed.”
Bella Stadler. I studied with her too and have learned I’m a big supporter. But, in the back of my mind, I feel there’s something more. It’s like a memory is trying to knock down the door. Think, Brandon, think.
“Yes?” The waiter’s eager voice interrupts my ability to concentrate.
“Sure,” I tell him, feeling sorry for yet another hopeful in this town, waiting tables while waiting for a break.
The thankful waiter’s face brightens and then he takes our orders. Having just eaten that giant burger, I’m not hungry and just order a small salad. Katrina and her mother each order a platter of poached asparagus (sauce on the side) and then decide to splurge on a shared shrimp cocktail. No wonder the two of them are whippet thin.
While we wait for the food to arrive, Enid starts in with her ideas for the wedding.
“You know, I really wanted to do it in Venice like George and Amal, but too many of my friends have travel plans to go to Italy over the summer.”
“George who?”
She tuts. “George Clooney.”
What? Forever bachelor George Clooney got married? Where have I been? I’ve really missed a lot. Enid rambles on while I bemoan my fate.
“I, however, came up with a perfect local venue. The Four Seasons Hotel. You’ll get married in the divine garden and then we’ll have the reception in the ballroom.”
Katrina’s face lights up, more animated than I’ve ever seen it. “Mommy, tell him the theme we’ve chosen.”
“Theme?”
“Of course, darling. All my events have themes. And yours will be Cinderella—a celebration of my little girl finally marrying her Prince Charming. Happily ever after at last! I’ve already ordered dozens of pumpkins to carve and fill with exotic flowers along with gilded cages that we’ll fill with little white mice as table centerpieces. And Monique is designing The. Most. Divine. Dress. Ever. Along with a pair of magnificent glass slippers. Katrina will be the envy of every woman in the world.” She laughs lightly. “Even her own mother.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Katrina coos after taking another sip of champagne. “Tell him about the best part.”
“The cake? It’s going to be a six-foot high buttercream recreation of the Disney Magic Kingdom Castle.”
“No, Mommy, I mean how we’re going to get there.”
Enid dramatically throws up her hands and rolls back her eyes. “How could I forget? The two of you will be arriving at the hotel in a custom-made pumpkin carriage drawn by four white Arabian horses. Miniature replicas are accompanying the two thousand invitations I just sent out.”
What? The invitations are out. There may be no turning back now. I gulp.
Enid gives me the once over. “We should talk about what you’ll be wearing, Brandon.”
I bet I’ll be dressed in some ninny prince suit that looks like it comes straight out of the Disney store. I don’t even want to know. “When is all this happening?” I ask, evading the subject.
Katrina chimes in. “Why in four months—at the end of May sweeps—Saturday, May twenty-third. It’s going to send the ratings of my show into orbit. America’s It Girl is going to become a universal sensation!”
One last question. “And who’s flitting the bill for all this?”
Smiling coyly, Katrina answers. “Well, since the budget for my show is only $20,000 per episode and poor Daddy is in jail and can’t even come to his own daughter’s wedding, you are.”
“I am?”
“Of course, darling. I discussed it all with our mutual business manager Scott while you were in a coma, and he agreed to everything. You’ll never miss the ten million dollars.”
Dinner arrives. Maybe, I would have been better off staying asleep in a coma. At least past our wedding date.
Chapter 8
Zoey
The only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—Get Well. I love you! <3—while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans: Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3 I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!
I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.
Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.
Did u say u give massages?
I reply.
Yes.
He responds.
I want one now.
Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.
Well…???
In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.
Do I need to fire u?
GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.
FINE. Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.
Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.
“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.
He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”
His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!
“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”
“I don’t do underwear.”
My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?
He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”
“Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.
His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”
His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”
A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.
He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”
No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.
His mouth twists. “Yeah, right.”
I detect attitude. “By the way
, how was your dinner with her mother?”
“Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”
Don’t ask. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”
Five minutes later, he’s back, clad in adorable purple and white polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart beating fast, I soak in his bare-chested body. My eyes travel down his gorgeous chiseled chest and land on his crotch. His cock is just a handful away. One could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and own it.
“Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.
He does as requested, setting his head on the headrest attachment. His long, muscular legs reach almost to the very end of the padded table. I admire his beautiful sculpted back and his broad swimmer’s shoulders. The burning urge to run my hands over every glorious ridge and contour has my heart racing with anticipation.
“Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”
I tread over to his sound system and make a selection. A vintage compilation of Kenny G’s Greatest Hits. “Loving You” is first up. The sound of the saxophone is slow, smooth, and soothing. Pure perfection. On the way back to the table, I dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is just right for a sensuous massage. Or a sensuous fuck.
“Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.
“Yeah. More than ready.”
“Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”
“No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”
Mr. Hot and Bossy. Ms. Hot and Bothered. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table before rubbing my palms to warm it.
I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most tension. I press my strong, oiled-up hands on his taut flawless flesh and start to knead his muscles, making deep circular motions with my thumbs. My hands melt into his body.
Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story) Page 5
