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

by Nelle L'Amour

  Brandon’s violet eyes darken. “Why the hell didn’t you answer my texts or calls?

  His angry voice intimidates me. “I turned my phone off and fell asleep.”

  “Don’t ever do that again.” His curt tone is reprimanding. “I need to know where you are every minute of the day.”

  Control freak. “Maybe you should put me on a leash or insert a tracking device under my skin.”

  “Maybe I should. A collar and leash would suit you.”

  From the tone of his voice, I think he’s serious. The image of me in Gucci’s rhinestone accessories pops into my head with an amusing yet arousing mental montage. Master and Slave Girl. Sit. Beg. Come. Flushing, I quickly change the subject.

  “How’d the rest of the shoot go?”

  With a deep breath, he rakes his perfectly mussed up ebony hair with his right hand. My eyes grow wide. It looks like Frankenstein’s. Every finger except his thumb is bandaged in splints.

  “Jeez. What happened to your fingers?”

  “Fucking jammed them,” he mutters, heading toward me.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I did my own stunt. I was supposed to punch my assailant. But just as I was about to make contact with him, Katrina’s damn dog got loose and bit the guy’s ankle. He flinched and I ended up bashing a wall.”

  “Ouch! That must have hurt.”

  “Hurt like hell,” he says, swinging open the fridge door with his left hand.

  “Are you sure they’re not broken?”

  “Pretty sure. The set doctor said they’d be more misshapen. It’s just a sprain.” He grabs a beer with the good hand and with his thumb, struggles to pop off the bottle cap. I’m mildly amused he can’t get it off and let him struggle. He’s obviously not ambidextrous—well, at least when it comes to little things.

  “Fuck,” he grumbles, frustrated.

  “Let me do it,” I finally say, taking the bottle from him. I twist the top off easily. “Piece of cake. Here.” With a smug smile, I hand him back the bottle. He takes it from me with his good hand.

  “Thanks.” His voice is small, surprisingly humble. Leaning seductively against the counter, he takes a chug of the beer, arching his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. He looks sexy as sin. Almost orgasmic.

  “Aah! Just what I needed,” he says after the long swig. “Do you want some?”

  “I don’t think there are any more beers left.”

  “No, I mean a sip of mine.”

  My heart does a little jump. He’s never shared anything with me, unless you count the nasty flu he gave me last year. Oh, yeah… and those fries the other night.

  “Sure, thanks,” I say hesitantly. I take the bottle from him and wrap my mouth around the throat. Tilting my head back and squeezing my eyes the way he did, I take a lengthy sip. The frothy beverage fills my mouth and then I swallow. The cold, refreshing liquid courses down past the back of my throat. I open my eyes and let out a satisfied sigh before licking my upper lip. His violet gaze is on me.

  A saucy smile lights up his face. “I like a girl who can drink beer like a man.”

  “Doesn’t K-Katrina drink beer?” Shit. I almost said Kuntrina again. A Freudian slip?

  “Nah. She’s strictly a champagne girl.” To my utter shock, he dusts my lips with one of his fingertips. Goosebumps pop along my arms.

  “Have some more.”

  Eagerly, I take another gulp. But this time, the frothy liquid goes down the wrong pipe and I choke. In the throes of a fit of coughing, I feel my face reddening, my eyes watering.

  “Jeez, are you okay?” Brandon pats my back vigorously with his good hand while I continue to wheeze.

  I nod like one of those stupid bobblehead dolls. Not really. I can’t catch my breath. Harsh, suffocating coughs still clog my throat. After almost vomiting up the beer, I finally calm. My cheeks are heated with embarrassment, and my eyes are tearing.

  Brandon’s eyes soak me in playfully. “Stop showing off.”

  “I wasn’t showing off,” I croak back.

  “You were.” He snatches the bottle from me and sets it down on the granite counter.

  “I’ll be right back. Would you whip me up a sandwich?”

  “Sure.”

  “And promise you won’t drink any more beer, at least while I’m not here. I don’t want you to choke to death. A repeat of last night is the last thing I need. I can’t live without you.”

  Of course, he can’t live without me, I think as he disappears. No other assistant could put up with all his shit. So far, I’m the only one who’s made it past three months. All the others quit or were fired by his majesty. The one before me had a nervous breakdown. Brandon doesn’t remember any of them. I guess that’s some kind of blessing in disguise. They were all gorgeous. Blond and willowy—I checked out a few on Facebook. Just his type. He probably fucked them into submission and broke their hearts. Or worked them to the bone.

  I swing open the fridge door and survey the shelves for what I can use to make a sandwich. Slim pickings. I make a mental note to call Bristol Farms first thing in the morning to stock up; our high-end neighborhood supermarket delivers. In addition to Brandon’s must-haves, I suppose I should also order a few bottles of expensive champagne to appease Katrina. The last thing I need is a hissy fit from the bitch.

  Despite his fame and fortune, Brandon’s taste in food leans toward all-American basics—the hearty, down-to-earth brands I grew up on with Auntie Jo and Uncle Pete. Like Oscar Meyer bacon…Skippy Peanut Butter…Kraft Mac and Cheese…and Campbell’s Soup. He’s somewhat of a junk food junkie and prefers a good steak and potatoes to a frou-frou gourmet entrée. Not having much to work with, I settle on an open can of Bumble Bee tuna. With the can in hand along with a jar of mayo, I pad over to the island and start fixing my demanding boss a sandwich. While I search for some bread, Brandon’s voice bellows in my ears.

  “ZO-EEEY!!!!

  “WHA-AAAT?”

  “I NEED YOU!”

  “WHERE ARE YOU?”

  “IN THE BATHROOM. HURRY!”

  I drop what I’m doing and head over to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. It must be one of his toilet paper emergencies. I grab a roll and scurry to his bathroom.

  I knock on the door. “I’m throwing in a roll of toilet paper.” As my fingers curl around the knob, he yells at me again.

  “Get your ripe ass in here NOW.”

  Huh? Hesitantly, I turn the knob and open the door. Brandon’s pacing his large, state-of-the-art bathroom. His left hand without the splints is fiddling with his fly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t take a dump.”

  “You’re constipated?” Oh, fuck. I hope I don’t have to stick an enema up his ass. I read on Facebook somewhere that one of his former assistants had to do that. Surprisingly, she didn’t get slammed with a lawsuit for violating her non-disclosure agreement.

  “Hardly. I’m practically shitting my pants. I can’t unbutton my fly!”

  I can’t help it. I burst out in laughter. Loud snorty laughter that makes me double over in hysterics. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Falling out of my hand, the roll of toilet paper tumbles to the floor and unravels.

  “Why the hell are you laughing?” he barks.

  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” I can barely get the words out. So much for gazillion dollar designer jeans.

  “This is serious. I’m going to shit any minute.”

  I swipe at my tears. “Okay. Stand still.”

  He does as bid. A breath away from him, I work the button of his low-slung jeans. My hand grazes his cock. A bulge rises between his legs. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think he’s getting a hard-on. Holy shit! My fingers fumble. This is much harder than I thought. It’s much harder. I can’t concentrate. My fingers keep skimming his hard as rock length. It’s all I can think about.

  “Zoey! How are you doing?” His voice sounds panicked.

  “
Not good. I can’t get this fucking button through the hole. It’s so tight.” To my horror, my words are loaded with sexual innuendo. An electrical current zaps my body and travels straight to my core.

  “Figure it out!”

  “I’m trying! I’m trying!” I reply, fiddling madly with the impossible button, my hand grazing his swelling organ. I need a new approach. So, I sink to my knees. His bulge is in my face. I work feverishly at the button.

  “Hurry, Zoey. It’s coming!”

  “Hold on!” In my mind, I wish he were saying, “I’m coming.”

  With one more push through the buttonhole, I manage to unbutton his tight-ass jeans. “Did it!”

  “Phew!” His good hand immediately pulls at the zipper tab. Panic fills his voice.

  “Fuck! The zipper’s stuck!”

  Oh, God. No!

  “Do something, Zoey!”

  In a dither, I try shoving down the fly, jiggling and joggling it. It won’t fucking budge. My knuckles brush his rigid length beneath the denim with each successive tug.

  He hisses. “Shit!”

  At the sound of that word, I grow more heated and frantic. Breaking into a sweat, I work at the zipper harder, faster. His cock grows bigger, harder. I can feel it pulsating!

  “Jesus, Zoey! I’m so close!”

  Close to what? Pooping? Or coming? Either way, his voice sounds so desperate. Without stopping my movements, I pray to the fly gods. Please! Please! Help me! On my next forceful tug, a miracle! The zipper slides down with ease.

  My jaw drops to the floor and my eyes grow as wide as saucers. He’s commando. At full attention. All rock-hard ten-inches are in my face. So close I can smell his manliness, feel his heat on my cheeks, and practically taste him in my mouth. Speechless, I behold his erection like a magnificent piece of abstract art. Seeing it shrouded today at a distance and on a monitor was one thing. But seeing it in its full glory, up close and personal, is another.

  I can’t take my eyes off it. His cock is spectacular—a monstrous pink sculpture with a violet vein that matches the color of his hypnotic eyes. Its unexpected beauty takes my breath away as it arouses every one of my senses. It takes all I have to fight my burning desire to touch it…wrap my hand around his girth and feel the hot pulsing velvet in my palm. And then wrap my mouth around the crown, suck it, and then slide my lips and tongue down his length, tasting and inhaling the essence of him. And that’s just for starters.

  Brandon doesn’t give me much time to stretch my imagination. Hastily, he shoves his jeans below his knees with his good hand and plunks down on the toilet with his enormous package parked between his legs. My eyes don’t stray from him.

  “I’d better be going,” I manage.

  His intense gaze meets mine. Our eyes connect.

  “No, Zoey. Don’t leave; stay with me. I may need you.”

  Oh, God. Is he going to ask me to wipe his ass? Millions of women would kill to do that. But seriously? This is where I draw the line. I may be his personal assistant, but I’m not his personal butt wiper.

  He grimaces. “Don’t worry. I just want to look at you.”

  I don’t think so. “Brandon, you should read a magazine.”

  I pivot on my heel and before he grunts, I’m out the door about to burst out in another clap of laughter. I should be totally turned off but instead I’m totally turned on.

  The bathroom incident is just the beginning of my week from hell. In addition to enduring the wrath of Hurricane Katrina for ordering the wrong brand of champagne (Dom Pérignon instead of Cristal), physically challenged Brandon is totally co-dependent on me. While he’s taken to wearing easy to pull on and off sweats, there are so many things he can’t manage. I only hope fingering Katrina is one of them.

  On top of everything, the Golden Globes are coming up. They’re being held on Sunday at the Beverly Hilton. Brandon’s nominated for one in the Best Actor in a Television Series, Drama category. Half my days I spend dealing with his stylist and publicity team; the other half schlepping him to the set and various pre-awards events. Since both of Brandon’s sports cars are shifts, he can’t drive them with his splinted fingers. The spoiled brat refuses to ride in my cute little Mini. He says it’s too small for him—there’s not enough legroom and his head almost hits the roof. The truth is there’s barely enough room for his cock in the front seat. So, I’m stuck taking him around in his Hummer, which he also refuses to drive. His excuse: he’d rather sit back and use the time to study the file of nominees and presenters I put together for him. With his amnesia, he doesn’t know who’s who.

  The bright red Hummer isn’t a car. It’s a veritable monster that takes up two lanes. I can barely navigate it let alone see above the steering wheel. It’s made for someone built like Brandon, not diminutive five-foot-three me. Every time I get in it, sweat pours from behind my knees, and I think my heart is going to ricochet out the windshield. Today’s no exception.

  “Can’t you drive any faster?” Brandon yells at me. “We’re going to be late.”

  Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I gulp. Driving at a snail’s pace is the best I can muster. Mr. Impatient will get to his pre-awards luncheon whenever. And that may be never. As the Hummer slowly winds down the narrow twisting Hollywood Hills streets, a speeding Jag comes at us at full force. Oh, no! We’re going to collide! With an ear-piercing screech, I swerve off the road.

  “Jesus! What the fuck are you doing, Zoey?” screams Brandon as I jam down on the breaks. “You’re going to get us killed!”

  I narrowly miss crashing into the hillside. Catching my breath, I’m near tears. “I don’t know how to drive this car. It’s too big for me.”

  “Well, you better learn because you’re going to be driving it for a while.”

  Hasn’t he heard of the words “Uber” or “taxi”? And there’s a new service called Lip Service. My entire body shaking, I get back on course and silently pray that we’ll both still be alive for the awards. Five minutes later, I sideswipe a delivery truck.

  By Friday, as if all this Golden Globes stuff isn’t enough, I’m dealing with one insurance claim after another. I’ve hit so many cars parking the fucking monster I’ve lost count. While there’s hardly a dent on the invincible Hummer, the damage I’ve caused is substantial. I even knocked someone’s fender off. Brandon’s insurance premium is going to skyrocket.

  I do some online research. It could take several weeks for a finger jam to heal. I’m not sure I’ll last that long with him. I’m exhausted from everything I’ve had to do for the invalid. From driving to spoon-feeding him. You’d think he’d be appreciative, but he’s not. He’s been in a bad mood all week. And with each passing day, he’s grown testier—a combination of frustration and pre-awards show jitters. He no longer talks; he growls.

  Saturday rolls along with the force of an avalanche. The Golden Globes are only a day away, and he still hasn’t written his acceptance speech should he win. We’re engaged in a working lunch. Awaiting our delivery order from Brandon’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Chin Chin on Sunset, we’re sitting side by side on the couch. He’s so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. His long, muscular legs are stretched out onto the coffee table. I’m sitting cross-legged with my laptop on my thighs.

  “Let’s try this…” He’s dictating his latest version of the speech to me. “This has been the greatest year of my life.”

  I hastily type the words. I’m a super-fast typist…another one of my outstanding personal assistant skills.

  “Scratch that. That’s so untrue. Someone ran me over. I’ve got fucking amnesia. I can’t remember a goddamn thing. For all I know, this year sucked.”

  I hit delete. “Why don’t you just keep it simple? You only have a minute or so. Just thank the Hollywood Foreign Press and the most important people in your professional and personal life.”

  His face brightens. “That’s a good idea. Why didn’t you think of that before?”

  I mentally
roll my eyes. “Thinking for you isn’t part of my job description.”

  “It is now. I’m giving you a raise.” He tugs on my messy ponytail. A jolt of electricity bolts through me.

  “Okay, go for it.” My fingertips are on the keyboard, ready to go.

  “Got it.” He pauses briefly. “Thank you, members of the Hollywood Foreign Press for this incredible honor. There are so many individuals I want to thank, but tonight I’m just going to thank the most important people in my life. A big shout-out to Conquest Broadcasting and Blake Burns for believing in Kurt Kussler…my producer Doug DeMille and our wonderful production team…my amazing co-stars, the beautiful Jewel Starr and the funny and talented Kellie Fox…my faithful, longtime manager, Scott Turner… my late parents for believing in me…um…uh…”

  He tugs at his bottom lip with his thumb while I chime in. “You should thank your mentor.”

  “My mentor, Stella Adler…”

  “Bella Stadler.” I quickly correct him.

  “Right.” He quirks a grateful little smile. “And last but not least…”

  Feverishly typing away, my heartbeat speeds up as I await the final mention.

  “…My beautiful fiancée, Katrina Moore, for never leaving my side when I needed her most.”

  My heart sinks to my stomach. My fingers quiver. I force myself to type her name. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah. I think that does it.”

  I fight back hot tears. And forget to hit save.

  Chapter 29

  Zoey

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Brandon is pacing the living room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His brows knit. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

  He ends the call. “Shit!”

  “What’s the matter?” I’ve been running over his schedule. His stylist along with the hair and makeup team should be here any minute to get him ready for the Golden Globes. While the actual awards ceremony doesn’t start until five o’clock, he needs to be at the Beverly Hilton by three to walk the red carpet and get settled.