One hour later, I’m packed. I’ve collected my phone, and I’m on my way back to LA.
Chapter 14
Brandon
INTERIOR KURT’S KITCHEN-NIGHT
The lights are dim. KURT’S at the counter, pouring himself a glass of Scotch. Shirtless, he’s wearing sweats and looks unshaven and disheveled. He takes a few sips and tosses the glass to the floor. It shatters.
KURT
Goddammit. I’m falling apart without her.
ANGLE ON THE KITCHEN DOOR
The knob twists and the door opens slowly.
CUT BACK TO KURT
He pivots and his eyes narrow in disbelief.
KURT
What are you doing back?
As I pound out the line, I say it out loud. I’m about to write Mel’s comeback when my name sounds in my ear. A soft familiar rasp. On my third shot of whiskey, I’m in a drunken haze. I must be imagining things. I whirl my desk chair around and blink hard.
“Hi.”
It’s Zoey, with her overnight bag in hand. In my stupor, I didn’t hear her drive in. Her glimmering eyes meet mine. I’m taken aback. How many agonizing days has it been? Five? Seven? Ten? It feels like an eternity. I’ve lost count. In fact, I thought she’d never come back. Dressed in stretchy yoga pants and a Kurt Kussler sweatshirt, she looks rested and thinner. I can tell even in the dimness.
“How was your vacation?”
“Enlightening.”
She glows like an angel under the overhead halogen light. At the sight of her, my comatose cock awakens with a stir. It wants to steal my next line.
“I missed you.”
She quirks a smile. “I swam a lot.”
I smile back at her. She doesn’t move. We share a stretch of silence. Only the electricity between us is palpable. I can hear the sparks.
“What are you doing?” she finally asks.
“Writing.”
Her eyes warm with interest. “Oh, the Kurt Kussler season finale?”
Though I never told her I was doing this, she must have read about it in the trades or online. My writing debut has been highly publicized.
“Yeah. But, I can’t really talk about it.” Damn. I hate being sworn to secrecy.
While I’m dying to share the plot twist with her and show her what I’ve written, I’m grateful she doesn’t pursue the subject. Her eyes fix on the almost empty bottle of liquor.
“You should stop drinking.”
We share another awkward stretch of silence. I so want to take her in my arms and taste her. Wash away the foul taste of the whiskey with her sweetness. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”
She turns on her heel. “I’ll bring you your Starbucks in the morning.”
“I’m going to take a break. Are you sure?” The truth is I’m famished. Dealing with bouts of depression and writer’s block all week, I haven’t eaten much.
At the doorway, she cranes her neck and looks over her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m sure. Just keep writing. Don’t give up.”
At her last three words, something in my head clicks. My eyelids flutter. And my heart races.
“Zoey!” I call out her name. It’s too late. She’s gone.
I swivel my desk chair and face the computer. I feverishly type away. I know at last how the season finale is going to end.
“Cut! That’s a wrap!” shouts out Director Niall Davies.
While just minutes ago, a loud gun explosion thundered in my ears, now an explosion of claps, cheers, and wolf whistles reverberates. On location, we just finished shooting the last scene of the explosive season finale of Kurt Kussler. The emotionally charged cliffhanger that dramatically changes the dynamics between Kurt and his assistant Mel.
Lying in a pool of make-believe blood on the street just outside Kurt’s house, I slowly sit up. Wiped out, I swipe at my face, burnishing the tears my co-star Kellie Fox shed. Still crying, she’s kneeling beside me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Her eyes continue to water. Then, laughter mingles with the tears. “Brandon, you got to me.”
I brush away her tears and then smack her mouth with a kiss. My lips long to be smothering another mouth. The mouth I thought about everywhere on my body while shooting—and writing—this climactic, action-packed episode.
I compliment my co-star. “You were amazing.”
She truly has been. This has been a breakout episode for her. While Kellie’s always been terrific, the depth of emotion she’s shown from start to finish has been astounding. She made the lines I wrote jump off the page and come alive. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Drama Series for her moving portrayal of Kurt’s assistant, Mel.
A cheek-to-cheek smile spreads across her face. “You were too. Thanks for writing such an incredible script.”
I think that may be the best compliment I’ve ever received from a fellow cast member. In writing the script, I learned the power of words. How each one can make a significant difference. Orgasmic elation sweeps over me.
Kellie reels me in. “Are Kurt and Mel going to get a happily ever after?”
A sudden cloud of doubt falls over me, shrouding the euphoria.
“I don’t know.” My voice wavers. I really don’t know.
Before I can say another word, the congratulatory crew surrounds us. I help Kellie to her feet as we both stand up. My shirt is completely soaked with fake blood.
Our ecstatic Executive Producer, Doug DeMille, offers to take everyone out for drinks at a nearby Mexican cantina.
Shrugging off my shirt, I politely decline.
I just want to celebrate with my inspiration.
The woman whose heart eludes me.
My Zoey. Zoey Hart.
Chapter 15
Zoey
The next few weeks are the happiest I’ve ever seen Brandon. That’s when I see him. He spends long hours on the set, shooting the season finale of Kurt Kussler. It’s a closed set, so no one but the cast and crew are allowed on it. To my further dismay, I can’t even help him with his lines because the storyline is top-secret. I’m dying to know how the season ends, but Brandon is tight-lipped about it. Everyone’s working overtime to get the two-hour feature-length episode shot and edited in time for MIP. It’s going to be shown at the convention to an exclusive group of international broadcasters. Brandon’s traveling to Cannes along with network production chief, Blake Burns, the producers, and the rest of the cast to participate in a Q&A panel discussion following the screening. He’s flying to France via the Conquest Broadcasting private jet and staying in a suite at the 5-star Carlton Hotel. Lucky for me, I don’t need to set up his flight or accommodations; it’s all been handled by the Conquest travel department. Unlucky for me, Katrina’s probably tagging along. I can’t imagine her missing a red carpet opportunity.
After the shoot, I see Brandon even less. He spends long hours in editing, rising early and coming home at ungodly hours. I’ve never seen him so involved with an episode. I miss seeing him. But I don’t miss seeing him with Katrina. To her frustration, Brandon, with his crazy hours, has had no time to deal with all the wedding details. It’s taking place a few weeks after he returns from Cannes. I’m besieged with nasty emails from her, insisting I get Brandon to focus. After I forward some of these emails to him, he tells me to just agree to all her demands. I reluctantly obey his orders. Each time I reply to her, I feel a pin prick my heart.
In every email, she rubs it in that the wedding is going to be a live televised spectacle—a special edition of her reality series, America’s It Girl. I wish I could forget, but that’s been next to impossible. Promotions for it are everywhere—from billboards on Sunset to backs of busses. The whole world will be watching the two of them exchange their forever vows. While I promised Brandon I’d be there, I still don’t think I can stomach it. Whenever I have my doubts or a down moment, I turn to the inspirational words his mentor, Bella Stadler (yes, it was her for sure!
), shared with me at the wellness spa about leading and landing your dreams. Maybe I’ll go and, just before they exchange their “I do’s,” work up the courage to object. The thought of doing that on national TV scares the hell out of me.
Just about the only time I see Brandon is in the early morning—after his daily swim. Not only do I bring him his regular iced Grande Caffè Americano, but also an iced vanilla blended to drink at the editing sessions. The episode is being edited at a nearby Hollywood facility.
“How’s it going?” I ask him about two weeks in after he sits down next to me at a patio table.
Fresh out of the pool and dripping wet, he takes a sip of his iced coffee. My eyes stay fixed on his glistening well-formed bicep that flexes as he holds the cup to his luscious mouth. Oh, those exquisite long fingers! And then, my gaze shifts to his gorgeous face as he imbibes the chilled dark brew through a straw. His violet eyes twinkle like two morning stars while he sensuously licks his upper lip. Tingles fly through me like glitter as he meets my moonstruck gaze.
“Do you have a passport?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re coming to Cannes with me.”
The words spin around in my head like a pinwheel in the wind.
“Come again,” I stutter, my jaw slackening.
“You heard me. I want you to come to Cannes with me.”
My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. I’ve never left the country except for a day trip to Tijuana with my brother Jeffrey. My souvenir—a major case of Montezuma’s Revenge. Setting the coffee on the table, Brandon continues.
“We finished editing the season finale of Kurt Kussler last night. As you know, Conquest is screening it at MIP. I want you to attend the gala premiere with me.”
I can’t get my brain to communicate with my larynx. Brandon Taylor has just given me the best invitation of my life. Every ounce of my being is doing a happy dance. Then, an invasive thought brings me crashing down from my high.
“Isn’t Katrina going with you?”
He playfully flicks the tip of my nose. “She can’t. It’s her father’s sixtieth birthday. She’s going up north to visit him in prison.”
I almost like her for a minute. Then, on my next breath, I love her so much I’m giddy.
“When are we leaving?” I ask with unbridled excitement.
“In two days. You’ll be flying with our executive producer, the cast, and me on the Conquest corporate jet. Blake Burns and his wife Jennifer will also be flying with us.”
Holy cow! Visions of walking down the red carpet with him dance in my head. I’ll be like a movie star. Paparazzi abounding. But there’s only one problem. Gah!
“Brandon, I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
He tips up my chin with a thumb and shoots me that panty-melting smile. “Don’t worry about it. Right after I shower and dress, we’re going shopping.”
“B-but, I have a million things to do.”
“You have nothing to do. Just get ready. Barneys opens at ten. End of discussion.” Taking his coffee with him, he strides to the back entrance of his house, leaving me a hot, wet, excited mess. As soon as he’s no longer in sight, I leap to my feet and actually do one crazy happy dance. Whoo hoo! I’m going to Cannes with Brandon!!
Barneys in Beverly Hills is bustling with chic, affluent-looking men and women, who obviously have nothing better to do than shop for clothes, shoes, and makeup at ten o’clock in the morning. The stunning women all look like they wear size zero. Clad in chic all-black ensembles or tight-ass designer jeans, they fit in perfectly with the store’s glistening black and white marble décor. All eyes are on gorgeous Brandon, who looks like he belongs here, and on me, who looks like something the cat brought in, my hair a Medusa-like mess from driving here in his vintage Jag convertible. I feel out of my element. Target or T.J. Maxx is where I belong.
Brandon eschews the winding stairs for the elevator off the perfume department. It’s packed. Several pencil-thin, stylish women, who look like they could be supermodels, say hello to Brandon, and stare at him seductively. They’re probably former hook-ups—just his type. A few suspicious eyeballs stay riveted on me. I can read their minds like a magazine: What is she doing with him? I face forward to avoid eye contact and eagerly await the elevator doors to part. Brandon allows the other passengers to exit first when we hit the second floor.
“Are we getting out here too?” I ask as they file out.
“Yup. This is the Designer Floor.”
Tingly goosebumps sprinkle over me like fairy dust when he takes my hand. His grip is warm and firm.
“C’mon, Zo. I’ve got a personal shopper lined up who’ll get you everything you need for Cannes.”
Holy shit! A personal shopper. My excitement comes to a screeching halt as I step out of the elevator.
“Why darling, fancy meeting you here!”
It’s Katrina, dressed to the nines in a sleeveless black mini dress that’s complemented by matching stilettos and a monstrous designer bag. Her perfectly coiffed platinum hair cascades over her shoulders as if she’s just come straight from a high-end salon. Behind her, are two weary sales associates. One is clutching all-in-pink Gucci, who wags his tail at the sight of us. The other is wheeling a rack of extraordinary designer dresses. Sparkles abound.
Brandon lets go of my hand before she notices. Katrina flings her toned arms around him, completely ignoring me. Smiling, she turns her head toward the overflowing rack of clothes. Dozens of glittering jewel-toned gowns hang from it, packed like shimmering sardines.
“These are all the dresses I’ve selected to wear on my show over the next coming weeks and on our honeymoon.”
At the word honeymoon, my stomach bunches. I anxiously watch as she yanks one of the dresses off the rack. A strapless persimmon Armani. I glimpse the price tag—twelve hundred dollars.
She holds it up against her. “Darling, this is the dress I’m going to wear when I visit Daddy. I’ll show the world that orange is the new black my way.”
“That’s great.” Two monotone syllables.
Katrina bats her feline green eyes. “Brandy-Poo, since you’re here, would you like me to give you a fashion show? Mommy’s going to be here, too, any minute.”
“Can’t. I have something important to do.”
Spoiled brat Katrina looks miffed. “And what might that be?”
She still hasn’t said a word to me. It’s like I don’t exist. I wonder—does she know I’m going to Cannes with Brandon?
“I need to help Zoey pick out a wardrobe for MIP since she’s coming with me.”
Well, she sure as hell knows now. In the blink of an eye, the expression on Katrina’s face goes from questioning to cold fury. She slaps her manicured hands onto her jutting hipbones as her jaw drops to the marble floor.
“What!? You’re taking that fat peon to Cannes?”
“Yup,” says Brandon matter-of-factly. “And please don’t ever call her that again.”
“Are you out of your mind? She’s a total embarrassment.”
I clench my hands by my sides so I don’t punch her in the face. Or pull out a clump of her hair. A catfight with America’s “It Girl” at Barneys would not look good. It would definitely be all over the Internet by noon.
“She’s going to assist me,” adds Brandon. He refrains from telling her that I’m attending the red-carpet premiere of the Kurt Kussler season finale.
Katrina calms down with a haughty fling of her hair. “Very well. But you’re wasting your time here. There’s nothing in this store that would fit her fat ass.”
“Katrina! Apologize! Do it now!”
“Puh-lease.”
Gucci growls at her.
I feel myself reddening with rage and want to scratch her eyeballs out. But dammit, she’s right. I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to be ridiculed by some obnoxious salesperson. I need to get out of here as fast as I can. And then ping! A light bulb goes off in my head
. Why didn’t I think of this before?
“C’mon, Brandon. Let’s go.” I step back into the elevator. Brandon follows me. I pound the ground floor button.
“Brandon, where the hell are you going? We need to talk!” shrieks Katrina.
The doors close in her face, catching her orange dress. She screams, “Open up!” as the elevator descends. So long, bitch!
Five minutes later, Brandon and I are back in his car, heading downtown.
In no time, thanks to unusually minimal traffic and Brandon’s need for speed, we’re in downtown LA at Chaz’s fabulous new showroom. After his former studio, in a rundown building, virtually evaporated in an electrical fire, Jeffrey raised the funds to relocate the studio to the hip Arts District and make his fiancé’s studio a showcase—a sleek, vast modernist space that mirrors the aesthetic of his designs. It’s way beyond what his insurance claim would have covered.
“Zoeykins, let’s get this show rolling,” gushes Chaz after a big hug and learning about my trip to Cannes. “This is so exciting.”
While he scurries to put together a new wardrobe for me, Brandon plops down on an oversized white leather chair. He leans back, folds his arms across his chest, and gives me the once over. My skin prickles everywhere.
“What size are you?”
My heart skips a beat as my eyes flick to the model-sized mannequin in the corner of the studio. I scan her long sculpted legs, narrow waist, jutting hipbones. Katrina!
My eyes shift back to Brandon. Cocking a brow, he shoots me an unnerving look. “Well…”
“I’m a size…”
Six! I so want to say six.
“S-s…”
Brandon taps his foot impatiently.
“S-s…” The number is on the tip of my tongue.
“S-size…” I vomit the next word. “Ten.”
To my horror, I swear he mentally undresses me and then to my surprise, smiles approvingly. “A perfect ten.”
The next hour is ripped from the pages of a fairy tale. A medley of Meghan Trainor songs blasts out of concealed speakers, followed by Mark Ronson’s “Uptown Funk.” I parade out of the dressing room, wearing one outfit after another, each one more fabulous than the one before. I effortlessly and sexily move to the beat of the music. Strutting my stuff with hip moves that rival a supermodel’s, I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman though she’s far from my size and four inches taller. Brandon just sits there, sexily slouched, legs spread apart, and either nods approvingly or gives a thumbs up. He’s enjoying every minute of my show. Much more than he lets on. It’s hard to miss the visible bulge between his legs. I’m fucking turning him on! And the truth is I’m turned on like a fire hydrant. I may need to buy a new pair of panties to replace my drenched ones.
Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story) Page 33
