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

by Nelle L'Amour

  I detect sarcasm in his voice. He shifts a little in his seat.

  Letterman: “So Brandon, let me ask you—how do you feel about the media referring to you and your fiancée as Bratrina?”

  Katrina chimes in before Brandon can say a word. “We think it’s so clever. Move over Brangelina.”

  I want to smack her.

  Letterman: “Katrina, could I share an excerpt of one of the love letters Brandon sent you before his accident?”

  What! He wrote her love letters?? A painful lump forms in my throat.

  Katrina: “Of course, Dave. I’ve kept them all.”

  Brandon’s eyes widen while the talk show host holds up a sheet of paper that’s on his desk. Letterman clears his throat.

  Letterman: “Katrina, you are the moon and the stars. My whole universe. I will love you for all eternity.”

  The audience gushes a collective oooh while Brandon blushes. Nausea washes over me. I swallow it back as Letterman holds up the letter. It’s typed, but for sure that’s Brandon’s signature. How many more did he write her? A sickening feeling uncoils in my stomach.

  Letterman: (chuckling) “I have to hand it to you, Brandon; you’re quite the poet. Do you remember writing this?”

  Brandon: “Um, uh, actually no.”

  Katrina: “Oh, Brandy-Poo. You wrote so many you’ve forgotten.”

  The audience laughs with Katrina. Letterman joins them while Brandon breaks into a sheepish grin. The laughter dies down.

  Letterman: “So Brandon, how does it feel to be working again? You gave everyone a scare with that accident.”

  Brandon: “I’m fully recovered. And it feels great.”

  Letterman: “Hey, do you mind if we show a clip from an upcoming episode of Kurt Kussler? My wife and I love your show. So does my son.”

  Brandon: “Sure. Go ahead.”

  The show cuts away to the clip. My breath hitches. It’s the shower scene between Kurt and Alisha. Why did he pick this scene of all scenes?

  My eyes stay glued on the TV screen. I relive every moment of the rehearsal shower I took with Brandon. Bile rises in my throat as a red-hot ball of fire ignites between my thighs. I have the urge to touch myself and I do. I’m a hot wet mess.

  The clip fades to black and the audience applauds madly.

  Letterman: “Whoa! That was intense. Do we have any more surprises to look forward to?”

  Brandon grins fiendishly. “Yes. The season finale is going to end with a mind-blowing twist.”

  Letterman: “Since I read you’re writing it, can you give us a hint?”

  Brandon: “My lips are sealed.”

  Even I don’t know what it is. He’s been very secretive about it.

  Letterman: “One last thing before time runs out. What are you two lovebirds doing for Valentine’s Day?”

  I don’t recall seeing that question on the list his publicist prepared. My stomach knots up with anticipation. I totally forgot it was Valentine’s weekend.

  Katrina lights up. “Oh, Dave, I’m so glad you asked. Brandon is taking me to Paris for the three-day weekend! And Gucci too. Right, baby boy?”

  What! He never mentioned that to me. He’s taking her to Paris? The City of Love? My fingers fly off my clit while my heart tumbles as if it’s been shoved off the Arc de Triomphe. A sharp pain hits me in the pit of my stomach.

  I’ve had enough. I hit the remote. I make one call and thank God there’s another man who loves me. I turn out the lights. And will myself to sleep before a volcano of tears erupts.

  Chapter 8

  Brandon

  I’ve been texting, calling, and emailing Zoey every five minutes since the Letterman taping ended. She’s back to pissing me off and MIA. Maybe Scott’s right. I should just fire her sorry ass.

  “Darling, can you please put the damn phone away,” snips Katrina, nursing a glass of Cristal while I down a vodka martini. We’re seated facing each other at a candlelit table at Cipriani, the popular downtown eatery. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap, his paws on the table. While the bustling restaurant is studded with supermodels and some stars including De Niro and Pacino, all eyes are on us. Bratrina.

  “I can’t,” I growl back at her. “I have an emergency.” She knows nothing about the latest developments in my life. Pete insisted that neither Zoey nor I talk to anyone about his investigation into my hit and run and her mother’s murder.

  “Forget your emergency. Let’s talk about Paris.”

  My blood runs cold. “How the hell could you spring that on me on Letterman?”

  She smiles defiantly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You did.”

  She takes another sip of her champagne. “You could show some appreciation. It’s going to be divine. I’ve booked us the Presidential suite at the Crillon. Mommy says it’s so much better than the overrated Ritz.”

  On my credit card, I assume. “And how are we getting there?”

  “Darling, why of course, by our own private jet. We can’t fly commercial with peons. We’re royalty.”

  I assume she flew to New York on a private plane too, but truthfully, I really don’t want to know. I must be at least a hundred grand in the hole, and that’s just for starters because I have no idea how much she’s spent shopping here.

  A young, suave waiter comes by and hands us menus.

  “Katrina, take a look and order me another martini. Shaken, not stirred. I’ll be right back.”

  She shoots me a dirty look as I dart off with my phone to the men’s room.

  As soon as I enter, I try to get in touch with Zoey every which way I can. Goddamnit. Nada. I hear a toilet flush, and a dark thought besieges me.

  Shit. Maybe something happened to her. With her concussion, she could have gotten dizzy and fainted…and hit her head. Or maybe she went for a swim all by herself and had some kind of spell…and drowned. And the worst thing imaginable…Donatelli showed up! My inner panic button goes off. Frantically, I search my wallet for her father’s business card. Fuck. I can’t find it. I’ve got to get home. I dash out of the men’s room.

  “Brandon, what’s the matter?” asks Katrina as I breathlessly round our table.

  “Katrina, I’m sick. I think I caught that stomach bug that’s been going around.”

  “Puh-lease. You were fine two minutes ago.”

  “Well, now I’m not. I’ve got major diarrhea.”

  “Ugh!” She scrunches her face in disgust at my last word.

  “I don’t think I should go to Paris. Or be on a private plane with you. I’ve read it’s highly contagious.” I grip my stomach and feign pain.

  “Jesus, Brandon. Absolutely. I mean, if I came down with it, I’d miss out on three days of major shopping. I have personal shoppers lined up at every store on Rue Saint Honoré from Chanel to Hermès. They’re expecting me.”

  I intensify my pained expression and let out a moan. I’m such a good actor. But truthfully, she doesn’t seem to give a damn about me. And you know what, the feeling is mutual. If I had real balls like Kurt Kussler, the character I play, I should have broken up with her on Letterman in front of a gazillion viewers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that to my publicist or the network. Or my fans.

  “Listen, Katrina, don’t cancel the trip on account of me. You should go. Use my credit card and have fun.”

  Pursing her billowy lips, which look bigger than ever, she shoots me a surprised look. “Darling, what possessed you to think I would cancel our trip? Gucci and I will have a perfectly good time without you, right baby boy?”

  Puzzled, the little dog cocks his head. Feeling sorry for him, I mumble, “Great. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to the hotel.”

  With a little whimper, the dog looks up at me with his big brown puppy eyes that shout out: “Take me with you.”

  Sorry, Gooch. I wish I could. He belongs with Zoey and me. Scanning the celebrity-filled room, Katrina has moved on and couldn’t give a shit about me. Her face lights up.

&
nbsp; “Oh look, there’s Cindy Crawford! I’m going to go over and say hello.”

  “I’m out of here.”

  It’s as if she’s gone deaf. Without saying another word, she leaps up and saunters off with Gucci tucked under her arm. I split. One hour later, I’m on a chartered plane headed back to Los Angeles.

  Chapter 9

  Zoey

  Going to Palm Springs with Jeffrey and Chaz was the best thing I could have done. In addition to getting a lot of rest and relaxation, we had a blast. We sipped margaritas around the hotel pool and people watched. My hilarious companions played How Big is His Dick? with all the beautiful gay boys who sashayed around it. And I swam, making swimming my new passion.

  Despite me telling them to go out alone for a romantic Valentine’s dinner, they insisted I come along. We dined at The Tropicale, a vintage sixties restaurant that Frank Sinatra frequented, and drank pink Cosmopolitans until we were sloshed. And then we went dancing downtown at their favorite gay bar. The wild weekend away was just what I needed to get my mind off fucking Brandon.

  On Sunday night, we return to LA. The drive takes about two hours. After dropping Chaz off at their downtown loft, Jeffrey takes me home.

  “Want me to walk you to your guest cottage?” he asks after I step out of the car.

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” I say, collecting my overnight bag from him. I am, however, a little surprised that the lights in Brandon’s house are on. I’m sure they were all turned off when I left. Maybe his housekeeper stopped by. And then a dark thought assaults me and sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe Donatelli’s awaiting him. Or me. I give myself a mental kick and calm down. There’s no way he could have gotten past the patrol car parked at the gate.

  Setting my bag on the driveway, I give my brother a big bear hug. “Thanks for a great weekend. And thank Chaz again for me.”

  Jeffrey smacks a kiss on my cheek. “We had a great time too. Don’t forget to keep us posted on Pops’s investigation. I’m glad he set up police protection.”

  While I was in Palm Springs, I filled Jeffrey and Chaz in on everything—the latest dramatic twists with Mama’s killer as well as Brandon’s unexpected trip to Paris with Katrina.

  “When’s your boss coming back?” asks Jeffrey.

  “Tuesday. Unless Katrina prolongs the trip.”

  “I hope they both eat bad mussels,” sneers Chaz.

  He makes me laugh. Though I don’t wish harm on my asshole boss, he and the bitch deserve to be buried together.

  After one last embrace, Jeffrey hops into his car. As his silver Mercedes heads toward the gate, I traipse toward the private entrance to my living quarters. A stern voice stops me.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  I recognize the voice instantly and spin around. Brandon! He stomps up to me. My heart races. The ache in my chest, which dissipated while I was gone, returns full force.

  “I thought you were in Paris.”

  “I couldn’t go. I came down with a sinus infection.”

  “You don’t look or sound congested.” Dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, he looks beautiful—even when livid.

  “I’m better now.” He repeats his question. His tone’s grown angrier.

  I answer as calmly as I can. “Away. If you recall, you gave me the weekend off.”

  “Where?” With brows furrowed, he hurls the word at me.

  “Palm Springs. I went with my boyfriend. You just missed him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I owe you nothing about my private life. The same way you don’t tell me about yours.”

  He’s speechless. I’ve called him on his Paris sexcapade with the bitch. Satisfaction sates me. Ha! It fell through. After a few moments, he breaks the silence.

  “Why didn’t you answer my calls or messages?” Rage still fuels his voice. “I was worried sick about you.”

  I think fast. “My boyfriend insisted we take no electronic devices with us. No computers, no phones. He just wanted it to be about us. Alone and romantic.”

  His lips pinch together. And his voice dips a pitch lower. “Where did you stay?”

  “The Viceroy. The perfect place for a Valentine’s getaway.”

  “I never heard of it,” replies the amnesiac.

  “It has the most amazing pool. Jeffrey and I went swimming together.” I place special emphasis on the last word.

  His eyes narrow. He looks as if he wishes he’d never taught me.

  “We had a blast. You and Katrina should check it out sometime.”

  “Thank you for the recommendation. We will.”

  Internally falling apart, I hold my own. “Great. And now, if you’ll excuse me, Brandon, I’d like to call it a night.”

  As I pick up my overnight bag, he grips my elbow.

  “Fine. But just one last question. Why did you bother to come back here? You could have easily stayed at your boyfriend’s place.”

  He holds me fierce in his gaze. My eyes don’t blink as I steel myself.

  With a strong, steady voice I reply, “It’s simple, Brandon. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  With that, I break away from him and march to my quarters without looking back.

  Chapter 10

  Brandon

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Fine. I’m going to play her little game and test out the validity of this theory.

  Over the next few days, I make myself invisible. Skipping our early morning meetings over coffee, I drive myself back and forth to the set every day, and when I get home, I retreat to my office to my desktop computer. With Katrina deciding to extend her stay in Paris for a week on my dollar, my nights are not bogged down with her social events or wedding talk. Inspiration hits me. I start writing the season finale of Kurt Kussler—the one in which I realize I’m in love with my assistant Mel.

  This is the first time I’ve ever written a script. I’ve installed a program on my computer called “Final Draft,” which makes formatting easy. I’m surprised how easily the words come to me. The dialogue is a snap. I know these characters inside and out. And I’ve got most of the story worked out. I wrote a detailed outline first which I reviewed with our head writer, Mitch Steiner, and his talented writing staff. It’s so cool the way they meet regularly in what’s called “the story room” and feed off each other. They were thrilled to have me among them and loved my story. They, did, however give me a few notes that I thought were great—including a more dramatic ending. Each act and commercial break must end with a cliffhanger to keep viewers glued to the show and coming back for more.

  By Friday night, I’m thirty pages into it. I’m about to finish the first act. The average Kurt Kussler script is sixty pages long, but mine needs to be double that length as the final episode is going to be a two-hour special. The network has high hopes for it. I just hope I can deliver. My heart races as my fingers feverishly type away.

  In a big turn of events, Kurt Kussler’s loyal assistant, Melanie, has decided to part ways with him. Madly in love with her boss, she can’t handle working for him anymore and has another job offer—to go back to the CIA. She’s at his front door with her roller bag. Kurt is devastated.

  KURT

  Mel, you can’t leave me. We’re so close to nailing The

  Locust

  Mel looks away, teary-eyed.

  MEL

  I can’t work for you anymore. You’ll find someone else.

  KURT

  There’s no one like you. Please—

  Kurt grabs Mel by the elbow. She jerks away from him, her face pained.

  MEL

  Goodbye, Kurt. (PAUSE) You’ll always be unforgettable.

  Mel grabs her roller bag and exits. The front door closes behind her. Kurt bangs it hard with his fist.

  FADE TO BLACK

  END OF ACT 1

  I don’t think I’ve ever written anything so fast. My fingers are on fire and my heart’s still beating a mile a minute. I�
��m feeling every emotion Kurt’s feeling. The pain. The regret. The confusion. He already knows that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It does. I fucking miss Zoey. I haven’t seen her all week. Though I can’t tell her a thing about the episode (I’m sworn to secrecy), I so want to share the euphoric experience I’ve had writing it. Grabbing my cell phone, I text her.

  Have dinner with me.

  I wait impatiently for her response. Nothing. I know she’s home. Her lights are on. She’s still playing games with me. I text her again.

  Answer me.

  Finally a reply:

  Can’t. I have plans.

  I frantically type a shouty four-letter word.

  WHAT?

  Just as fast, a response. Another four-letter word.

  A date.

  Fuck her boyfriend. If I were really Kurt Kussler, I’d kill the bastard. I want him dead almost as much as I do Donatelli.

  Chapter 11

  Zoey

  I’ve showered and dressed. I take a look at myself in my full-length mirror. That and taking selfies are two things I don’t do too often. This time, however, my reflection smiles at me. I’ve got to say I look hot. Breaking the norm, I grab my cell phone from my purse—Mama’s vintage beaded clutch—and take a picture of myself. Maybe I’ll send it to Brandon. He’s been playing games with me. Loading me up with assignments but avoiding me. I haven’t seen him for close to a week. Maybe this selfie will remind him of what I look like. Or should I say, can look like.

  I’m wearing the little black dress Jeffrey gave me for my birthday last year. It’s one of fashion designer Chaz’s creations. I never told him that it was one size too small—maybe a couple?—and I couldn’t get my fat ass into it. Now, for the first time it fits me perfectly. The tight strapless sheath hugs me in all the right places, bringing out my curves and cleavage. The six-inch black patent stilettos on my feet make my shapely legs look a lot longer. I almost feel like a supermodel—well, maybe one of those plus-size ones. I quickly gather my hair into a messy bun, sticking in a few bobby pins to hold it in place, and add a pair of cubic zirconia studs to my ears. The earrings sparkle like three-carat diamonds. No one will know they’re fakes I picked up at T.J. Maxx for under ten bucks.