Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (11 page)

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 some time.”

“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.

Brandon

A
bsence 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 beat 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.

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.

I glance down at my watch, my other piece of jewelry. It’s a dressy thin-band one that also belonged to Mama. A gift from Papa. It’s seven forty-five. Jeffrey should be here any minute to pick me up. He’s arranged for a group of us to go out to a very expensive, chic restaurant—Fig & Olive. Because of my concussion, he didn’t want me to drive. I told him I would do Lip Service, the latest Uber-like car service, but he was insistent on coming over.

My cell phone rings. Sure enough, it’s Jeffrey.

“I’m here.”

“Great. I’ll open the gate.” I quickly grab my treasured black clutch and head to the front door. Goddamn fucking shoes. I can barely walk in them—or the body hugging dress. Beauty is not just pain; it’s a fucking pain in the ass. Before I leave, I hit a button on a pad by the door to open the electronic gate so Jeffrey can pull in.

The trek through Brandon’s backyard is no picnic either. These insane heels are so hard to walk in; I’m not used to wearing them. My ankles keep buckling. It’s a shame my klutzy walk doesn’t match my sexy attire. I almost trip three times. Once so close to the pool, I almost fall in. Thank God, I know how to swim now.

My walk of death to the driveway feels like an eternity. When I finally get there, Jeffrey’s silver Mercedes convertible is parked outside. The top is down. My breath catches. He’s standing next to it…and so is Brandon. Oh, Jeez. I wasn’t expecting this.

Managing to stroll up to them as gracefully as I can, I immediately throw my arms around Jeffrey and give him a kiss. Wearing a stylish slim suit and his hair slicked back, he looks movie star handsome. He and Eddy Redmayne could have been separated at birth.

“Hi, babykins,” I say, breaking away. It’s time to put those acting skills back into play. I mentally pray:
Please, Jeffrey, play along
. Just to be sure, I clasp his hand and dig a heel into his foot.

“Ow.”

I quickly turn to a puzzled Brandon and plaster a big smile on my face. “Brandon, you remember my
boyfriend
, Jeffrey.” I put special emphasis on the word “boyfriend.”

Brandon’s face is pinched. Narrowing his eyes, he gives Jeffrey the once over. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good to see you, again.” Jeffrey extends his hand.

With reluctance, Brandon shakes it, and I silently sigh with relief. Jeffrey’s gotten the hint. I turn to Brandon and melt at the sight of him. He looks hot as shit—barefoot in a relaxed V-neck T-shirt that shows off his biceps and low-slung gray sweats that subtly enunciate his breathtaking endowment.

“What are you doing out here?” I don’t know why I’m making conversation with him. The sooner I get out of here the better. I’m heating up.

“I heard the gate open and then saw a car drive in on my surveillance monitor. I wasn’t expecting company so I stepped outside. Why didn’t you tell me your boyfriend was coming by?”

An angry tone accompanies his question.

“I told you I had a date.”
Asshole.

His eyes rake over my body. I swear he’s mentally undressing me.

“You’re very dressed up.”

You could say I look nice!

“Are you going somewhere special?”

Jeffrey chimes in before I can respond. “Yes, Fig & Olive.”

Shit. I wish Jeffrey hadn’t told him where we’re going. Too late now.

Brandon knits his brows. “Hmm. That’s a very expensive restaurant.”

He can afford it, jerk! Remember, I told you he was rich.

Smiling his own dazzling smile, Jeffrey replies. “It’s a special occasion.”

A mixture of curiosity and suspicion sweeps over Brandon. “What are you celebrating?” The tone of his voice is confrontational, as if he has the right to know everything about my personal life.

Jeffrey’s smile turns mischievous. “It’s a surprise.”

“Oh.” Brandon’s voice is small, almost deflated.

I turn to Jeffrey and brush his clean-shaven jaw. “Sweetie, we should get going. We don’t want to lose our reservation.”

“Agree.” After saying goodnight to vexed Brandon, he opens the passenger door and I slide into the convertible. I catch Brandon’s eyes on my very exposed thighs before Jeffrey closes the door and hops behind the wheel.