Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story)

by Nelle L'Amour

  “Get it?” he asks when I lift my head out of the water.

  “Got it.” I play into his signature Kurt Kussler line.

  “Good.” He winks. “Now kick off the side of the pool and float toward me.”

  With ease and confidence, I do as bid, and in one swift, graceful move, I reach him. He grasps my hands once again. While he continues to tread the water, I shift my body so it’s perpendicular to the water like his. I start to bicycle my legs and to my surprise, I stay in a vertical position with my head above the water, though barely. My legs more than once touch his, our knees knocking. And more than once his hard length grazes my center. Deliberately? Once he sees I can stay afloat, he lets go of my hands, and I begin to paddle them. To my amazement, I rise higher above the surface of the water.

  “You’ve got it,” he shouts out while I concentrate on my movements. He’s right. It’s a lot like riding a bike. And I’m good at that with my strong arms and legs.

  We continue to tread water for another five minutes until I grow a little short of breath. He resumes a horizontal position, but this time on his back.

  “Baby, hold on to my legs and just kick. I’m going to give you a ride back to the shallow end.”

  For a brief moment, I’m stunned and my heart skips a beat. Did he just call me baby? It probably just slipped out of his mouth and is what he calls a lot of chicks he knows. Very Hollywood, though this is a first. I let it go and grab his ankles. As I kick behind him, he hauls me across the pool with a powerful backstroke—me loving every minute—until we’re both standing in the three-foot-deep shallow end at the edge of the pool. He rises from the water like a god. Water drips from every part of him and his sculpted muscles glisten in the sun.

  “Turn around,” he commands. His voice is authoritative.

  Again, I do as asked. In a heartbeat, I feel his hard body pressing against mine. He captures both my wrists in his hands and begins to circle my arms, one after the other.

  “Keep your fingers together and cut the water with them.”

  I follow his directions, but he reprimands me. “No, Zoey. Don’t slap the water. Slice it and keep the splashes small.”

  “Okay,” I murmur, a little crestfallen that I’m not quite getting it. Finally, after about thirty muscle-exhausting rotations, I have it down. My arms are killing me.

  “I’m a little tired,” I plead, craning my neck. “Maybe we can pick up where we’ve left off tomorrow.”

  He looks at me sternly. “No. You’re not leaving this pool until you know how to swim. End of discussion.”

  I hate when he says “end of discussion.” There’s no twisting the egomaniac’s arm. He wants what he wants and always gets his way.

  We move on to the next part of the lesson. He makes me hold on to the edge of the pool along side him and mimic the way he’s kicking. It’s all in the ankles—a small flutter kick. Again, he tells me it’s not a splash party. I do well. So, we move on to the final part of the lesson. I’m going to combine breathing with stroking and kicking. Do what’s known as a crawl. He demonstrates first, swimming to the other end of the pool and back. I watch in awe as his powerful body cuts through the water with the elegance and speed of a dolphin. In no time, he’s back in the shallow end.

  “Okay, your turn. You’re going to do one lap to the end of the pool.”

  My gaze travels to the deep end. Suddenly, the pool seems a mile long. Fear creeps back into my veins. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  He tilts my chin up with his thumb and holds it there. Another rush of tingles streams through my body from my head to my toes. I meet his intense gaze and my bottom lip quivers. He’s affecting me, making me all hot and bothered. I flounder for words.

  “I’m scared. I’ve never swum before. What if I freak out and—”

  Still pressing his thumb under my chin, he cuts me off and flicks his index finger across the tip of my nose. “You won’t. And besides, I’ll be swimming right next to you.”

  That’s a comforting thought, but I remain frozen in fear and some other forbidden emotion I don’t want to acknowledge.

  “Here. Wear these.” He takes the goggles on top of his head off and puts them on me. I don’t move a muscle while he adjusts them to fit my face. My eyes stayed fixed on him through the plastic lenses. Oh, God! He’s beautiful! So, so beautiful!

  “Are you ready?”

  I don’t respond. I’m too fixated on his face and his body. If God created man in his image, He must be insanely divine.

  Brandon grows a little irritated. “You know, we don’t have all day.” Ugh! That dreaded bossy voice. “So let’s get to it. Kick off and start swimming.”

  He moves out of my way. I shoot him one more doubtful look and I do it. It doesn’t come easily and I know I look nothing like an Olympian, but for the first time in my life, I’m actually swimming. Propelling myself across the pool with my arms and legs. Slowly but surely. On my first breath, I see Brandon on his back, stroking idly beside me. He winks at me, and I manage a tepid smile back at him. But halfway down the length of the pool, he picks up his pace, and before I know it, he’s way ahead of me. Panic grips me. I’m all by myself in the middle of the pool. The memory of my mother drowning fills my head. Her arms reaching out for me. Of me, watching, hopeless and helpless, until she disappears beneath the sea. I will it away. Swim, Zoey! You can do it! Do it for her!

  On my next breath, a natural rhythm kicks in. Effort becomes effortless. Brandon’s voice resounds in my ear when I come up for air. “Come on, Zo. You can do it. You’re almost there.” I manage to glimpse his impassioned face before my head slides back under the water. The end is in sight. Maybe a dozen strokes away.

  Finally, my hand touches down on the rim of the pool. My head shoots out of the water, and looming above me is Brandon, all wet and beautiful. He grabs my hand and hoists me out of the water, something I have not an ounce of body strength to manage. After lifting the goggles on top of my head, he swiftly wraps a large fluffy towel around my dripping wet body and then draws me into his arms. Breathing heavily, I don’t resist and rest my head against his damp manly chest. My thudding heart drowns out his. He holds me tightly. While my breathing calms down, my heartbeat speeds up. My nipples harden at the touch of his sculpted pecs, sending a blast of arousal to the triangle between my inner thighs. He presses me closer and I feel his hard length rub against me right through the thick towel. Finally, I break my head away from his chest and gaze up at his breathtaking face. His dark hair is slicked back, his eyes two sparkling amethyst gems. My eyes don’t blink and my mouth doesn’t move. My heartbeat hastens from a trot to a gallop.

  Grinning smugly, he breaks the heated silence and rakes his hand through my soaked strands of hair. “You did it!”

  “I had a great teacher,” I say softly with a smile.

  “There’s a lot I could teach you, baby.”

  Oh my God. He called me baby again. But this time his lush lips stay parted. He bows his head, and I swear he’s making a beeline for my mouth. Every feature on my face freezes in anticipation. He’s getting closer. I can practically taste him. Oh so close. And then…

  “What may I ask is going on here?”

  Brandon jerks away, body and all. My towel falls to the ground.

  It’s her.

  Hurricane Katrina.

  Chapter 21

  Brandon

  “I’m just giving Zoey a swimming lesson. After last night, I thought she could use one.”

  With glacial eyes, Katrina gives Zoey the once over. “Some people should never put on a bathing suit.”

  Zoey is cringing; I can tell by the way she scrunches her face and clenches her fists. Before I can come to her defense, she excuses herself.

  “Thank you, Brandon, for the lesson. I really appreciate it. I’m going to get changed and go to Starbucks.”

  Her tone is totally professional, and she avoids eye contact with Katrina.

  Dressed in some designer wh
ite workout outfit, Katrina keeps her disdainful gaze on my assistant. I’m waiting for some kind of apology. A small smile slithers across her face and a glimmer of hope fills me.

  “While you’re there, get me a low-fat soy latte. And don’t forget the Sweet ’n Low.”

  My Mean ’n Low fiancée needs more than a package of fake sweetener. What was I thinking? There’s no hope. Zoey’s big brown eyes flare, but she maintains her cool. I want to say something, but she doesn’t give me a chance.

  “Sure.” Zoey hurls the word at Katrina and takes off. My eyes stay on her backside as she heads toward the guesthouse. Her ample ass is shaped like a heart and I more than like it. I want to coddle and squeeze it. And that’s just for starters.

  Katrina’s breathy voice hurls me out of my unscrupulous thoughts. “Darling, while we’re waiting for our coffees, let’s go over some wedding details.” She’s clutching an iPad.

  “I’d like to take a hot shower and put on some jeans first.”

  She flings her head back with marked impatience. “Darling, can’t that wait? I have yoga at nine and then I have a full day of shooting. This is important.” She adjusts her sports bra. The remains of that tattoo on her chest shimmer in the morning sun. I still can’t make out the name. B-U-T-C-H? Another old boyfriend?

  “Please, darling,” she purrs in my ear.

  “Fine.” I might as well just get it over with.

  I take a seat opposite her at one of the poolside tables. I wish I had my damn sunglasses. Even with the umbrella, the morning sunlight is blinding me.

  “So what’s happening?”

  I’m sorry I asked. Setting the iPad on the table, she goes over a crapload of wedding shit I have no interest or expertise in. Like seating and floral arrangements, wedding favors, bridesmaid gowns, the menu, and more.

  My responses—when I can get a word in—are limited to the following: “Uh-huh. Good. Perfect. Nice.”

  The one-way conversation goes on for what seems like forever. While my interest dwindles, Katrina grows more and more excited with every over the top detail. “Darling, I’m so thrilled you love everything. Mommy’s doing an incredible job. This wedding is simply going to be unforgettable!”

  I twitch a half-smile as my mind wanders. All I can think about is my assistant. Why isn’t she back yet? Starbucks is just a half-mile down the hill on Sunset. Five minutes away. But it’s not my caffeine addiction that has me on edge. It’s my growing addiction to her. I need her more than I need my coffee fix. Like I’m co-dependent on her. But isn’t that what a relationship with a personal assistant should be?

  Jolting me out of my disconcerting thoughts, Katrina clasps my hands. “Brandy-Poo, I’m just going to need one thing from you.”

  “What?”

  “Your credit card so Mommy can put down deposits on everything.”

  I hesitate and then consent. According to my manager Scott, I did agree to pay for the wedding. The less I have to do with any of this shit, the better.

  Katrina smiles brightly, revealing her perfect pearly white teeth. “Wonderful. Tomorrow, Mommy and I are going to Neiman’s to pick out our registry. Can you come?”

  I thank my lucky stars I have a full day of shooting Kurt Kussler tomorrow. I have no interest in picking out dinnerware and silverware and all those other ridiculous wedding necessities. As far as I’m concerned, I have everything I need. I break the news to Katrina and feign regret.

  “Don’t worry, darling. Mommy and I can handle everything. And we both have exquisite taste.”

  I take that to mean expensive.

  “You’re just going to love everything we pick out.”

  “I’m sure I will.” At that moment, I see Zoey heading toward us, carrying a small Starbucks bag.

  Katrina doesn’t notice her and starts spewing all the registry items she has in mind. From hand painted china sets to sterling silver tea sets. I half-listen. My mind is more focused on my iced coffee, and the girl who’s bringing it our way. She doesn’t have movie-star looks, but she’s fucking adorable with her curvy-little body and that kissable, upturned mouth.

  “And Brandy-Poo, one more thing we really need to think about is our honey—”

  “Your coffees.” Zoey sets the bag down on the table and serves us both, Katrina first.

  Katrina immediately grabs her coffee without acknowledging Zoey.

  “You’re welcome,” singsongs my assistant, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  I have to love her. She hands me mine.

  “Thanks, Zo.” Our eyes connect and she smiles.

  “No, prob.”

  “Why don’t you join us?”

  Katrina’s eyes narrow. “Zoey, why don’t you go to the kitchen first and get me a cup and saucer. I don’t care for drinking coffee out of a paper cup. It’s so uncouth.”

  “You have two legs. Get them yourself.” She stalks off with an air of confidence.

  Score one for Zoey. Katrina’s jaw drops to the ground.

  “Brandon, how could you let that rude girl talk to me like that? You should fire her sorry ass.”

  There are a lot better things I want to do to her ass. Shit. I’m engaged. A pang of guilt assaults me.

  After coffee, Katrina splits, and I take a hot shower and get dressed—jeans and a T-shirt. I spend the rest of the morning going over my Kurt Kussler script and rehearsing. I’m at once excited and anxious about being back on the set tomorrow. It’ll be my first time since the accident. I’ve decided once again not to let anyone know I have amnesia. It’s pointless and will put everyone on edge. I’ve watched enough episodes to know who’s who, and Zoey put together a file of the cast and crew. I don’t quite have all the crew members down—between cameramen, ADs, grips, wardrobe, hair and makeup, catering, and PA’s, there’s well over a hundred. It takes a village to produce a TV series. But yours truly has a plan. I’ll just avoid calling people by their first names, and if I screw up, I’ll just cover it up with a lighthearted excuse à la: “It’s been a long time, man. It’s easy to forget.” You have no clue!

  The first scene up tomorrow is the love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. A flashback. No matter how many times I’ve rehearsed it, I’m still not getting it. Or should I say, making it work. I’m growing frustrated and anxious. The last thing I want is to suck tomorrow. I’m an Emmy and Golden Globe nominated actor. My cast and crew expect me to be good. Make that great.

  At half past one, I’ve had it. Cussing, I crumple up my script pages in my fist, toss them across the living room, and then pour myself a Scotch. It’s way too early for me to be drinking, but I’ve got a throbbing headache and need to de-stress.

  Nursing the Scotch, an idea comes to me. The same one I had last night before all the drama.

  Zoey. Rehearsing my lines with me is on her list of job responsibilities.

  Slamming my tumbler down on the coffee table, I reach for my iPhone and text her.

  Print out two more copies of my sides and get ur ass over here.

  Before I hit send, I modify my message.

  Print out two more copies of my sides and get ur sweet ass over here.

  One word can make a difference. As Jackie Gleason used to say on the Honeymooners, an old show from the fifties my mother loved to watch… How sweet it is.

  I impatiently wait for her reply. Zippo. My feisty assistant is back to playing games with me. I text her again.

  If ur not here soon, I’m going to drag u by ur hair like a caveman.

  My cock flexes as I type the words. And I silently chuckle. The savage Neanderthal image gives me more than a rise and a laugh. The thought of dominating her like that sends a ripple of recollection through my head. I blink several times, searching for a memory I’m obviously suppressing.

  Before I hit send, she responds: Coming.

  My rigid cock strains against my jeans in anticipation.

  Damn my amnesia!

  Damn that girl!

  Chapter 22

&
nbsp; Zoey

  The asshole hasn’t changed one bit. He’s still texting me obnoxious messages and I’m still at his beck and call. I take that back. He’s gotten worse. That head injury has given him more than amnesia. I think he’s gone bi-polar. One minute, he’s super nice to me, the next a total jerk. I don’t know what to expect.

  I re-read his text and read more into it than I should. If he wants my sweet ass, I’m going to give him what he wants. I hastily change from my baggy sweats into a sexy tight black mini-skirt and sleeveless tank top, both courtesy of Chaz. Before heading over, I examine myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. Before my sojourn at the spa, I made a decision to take it down once and for all—waking up to my chunky body was not the best way to start a day—but now that I’ve shed some pounds, I don’t mind it. I study my reflection. Okay, though far from thin by Hollywood standards, I look good. Wearing all black is slenderizing. I shove my hands under my skirt to fix my top. With a couple of tugs, it hugs my solid curves perfectly. I’m wearing my best Gloria’s Secret push up bra—and in this clingy top, I must say my cleavage is outstanding. Thanks to the spa, my legs are thinner and more toned, and the platforms I have on make them look longer. Retrieving the sides from my printer, Go-to-Zo is ready to go.

  “Hel-lo-O. I’m here”

  I catch Brandon off guard on the couch reading the trades. While most now read The Hollywood Reporter or Variety online, he still likes to read the daily paper versions. I wonder if it’s because his late father owned a newsstand. He doesn’t know I found that out online. I’ve googled just about everything about him. With my uncanny memory, I’m a walking encyclopedia when it comes to Brandon Taylor.

  He looks up and stares at me. Let me rephrase. He eyes me from head to toe. “You look nice.”

  Surprised at the compliment, I adjust my skirt. “Thanks.”