Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (3 page)

“Why don’t you and Pete have the same last name?”

“While Pete and Auntie Jo adopted me and I’m officially their daughter, I wanted to keep my last name out of respect to my real mother and father. I call Uncle Pete Pops, but I could never call Auntie Jo anything close to Mama. I’m lucky though. I couldn’t ask for better parents. I’m super close to both of them and their son, who I grew up with and adore.”

Brandon blows on a tablespoon of the hot soup. “What was your real father like?”

“Mama told me he was handsome and brave.” I reach for my nearby bag and pull out my wallet. I flip through the pictures. “Here’s a photo of the two of them taken just before he died.”

Brandon studies the photo. “They were a great-looking couple. You’re the best of both of them.”

Brandon’s right. I have my father’s big brown eyes and wavy chestnut hair and my mother’s porcelain skin and her full Cupid’s bow lips. But unfortunately, not her fine-boned frame. Instead, I inherited Papa’s big-boned, sturdy build. Well, with the exception of his hands. I glance down at my slender, long-fingered hands that are exactly like Mama’s and thank Brandon for what I construe as a compliment.

“What was your mother like?” he asks.

A collage of images flashes through my head. Oh, my beautiful Mama with her wild red hair and delicate features! Where do I begin?

“She was angelic. This photo barely does her justice. Despite the fact we weren’t rich, she had a lot of style and great taste. I guess you’d say, Bohemian chic. She knew how to make cheap vintage finds from flea markets look like a million bucks.”

“Do you still have some of her clothes?”

“Yes, but they don’t fit me.” I laugh lightly. “On special occasions, I wear some of the jewelry my father saved up to buy her and use her beaded handbags.” My voice chokes up. “Sadly, her wedding ring and band, which she never took off, were lost at sea.”

Brandon runs a finger from my cheek to my chin. “So, your parents were in love?”

The affectionate gesture brings awareness to the pulsing bundle of nerves between my legs. I quirk a small smile.

“Totally. My father was my mother’s one and only. The love of her life. Her hero. Mama cried for days when he died in that wildfire. I think if she’d lived, she would have never remarried. That’s how great their love was.”

Brandon takes in a deep breath. “My parents were the same way. Sometimes I think perishing together was a blessing. They never had to suffer the pain of loss.”

I detect sadness in Brandon’s voice, an emotion I’ve never witnessed. And his eyes look forlorn. “They died in a car crash, right?”

“Yeah. Some motherfucker in a van went through a red light. He didn’t suffer a scratch, but both my parents died upon impact. My mother was decapitated.”

“Oh my God!” I gasp. “That’s horrible!” Though I read a little about the fatal crash online, I didn’t know the sordid details. Resisting the urge to comfort him physically with a hug or the mere touch of my hand, I ask him if his parents’ untimely and violent demise affected him.

“A lot. I was angry at the world. I wanted to kill that bastard who ran into them. He served some time, but he should have rotted in hell.”

“How did you get over it?”

“I moved to LA and funneled my pain and anger into acting. It was a release.”

“You studied with the legendary Bella Stadler, right?”

He blinks his eyes several times in rapid succession as if remembering something.

“Are you having some kind of memory breakthrough?” His mind is definitely elsewhere, and he doesn’t answer me. “Brandon, are you okay?”

His eyes continue to flutter, and then he responds. “Yeah, I’m good. Bella was an amazing woman. She made me the actor…and the man I am today.”

I process his words. I recall reading somewhere that Bella was rumored to have affairs with many of her talented, handsome protégés. Did Brandon sleep with his teacher? His master? I refrain from asking and instead give him a compliment.

“You’re a really good actor, Brandon.”

He cocks a brow, as if in disbelief. “Really? You think so?”

I smile at him warmly, touched by what I think is a genuine, humble moment of self-doubt. “I know so. Hel-lo-O. You won the Golden Globe.”

“But still. I don’t think I’m a Brando. Or anywhere close to Connery.”

He’s referring to Marlon Brando and Sean Connery, his two favorite actors according to Wiki. I once read all actors are insecure. Even the best. I guess he’s no different. My gorgeous, bigger than life action-hero boss,
People Magazine’s
“Sexiest Man Alive,” is just human. The egotistical asshole is actually quite adorable with his insecurity complex. I look deep into his eyes.

“Brandon, you’re as good as they are. In fact, better. One day you’re going to win an Oscar.”

That sexy lopsided smile plays on his lips. “You’re just kissing my ass.”

I wish.
The thought of my lips on those perfect buns of steel makes my heart skip a beat and my skin heat. “No, I’m telling you the truth.”

His smile widens. “If and when I do win, I’m going to thank you.”

I twitch back a small, melancholic smile. His fiancée, America’s stunning “It Girl,” Katrina Moore will be there when he does.

“Do you believe in happily ever after?” I think back to my erotic Cinderella dream and wonder if there’s such a thing.

Brandon’s smile falls from his face and his brows furrow as if in deep thought. “I don’t know. Even with finding a great love, happily ever after may not exist.”

My heart clenches. So, Katrina
is
his great love? A pang of jealousy stabs me.

“What do you mean?” I ask shakily.

“Just look at our parents. They never got theirs. A happily ever after ending is not promised to everyone because tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone.”

His profound, wistfully spoken words sink into me. I stare at his face with those beautiful long-lashed sad violet eyes and reality jabs me. Chances are happily ever after will never be mine.

In my emotionally fragile state, it’s difficult to hold back tears. I set my soup bowl on the coffee table and then my cell phone rings. I pick it up and check the caller ID. It’s Jeffrey. I spoke to him briefly at the hospital earlier this afternoon while Brandon was at the set and filled him in on what happened. Overseeing an extravagant wedding up in Seattle, my brother, the event planner, is likely calling to check up on me. Thank goodness, I didn’t mention his name when I told Brandon that Pops and Auntie Jo had a son. The phone rings and rings.

“Brandon, I have to take this. It’s my boyfriend calling from out of town. He’s been…
think!…
at some banking conference.” My charade gives me little solace.

“Jeffrey?” Brandon’s voice is as pinched as the expression on his face.

“Yes. He probably wants to know how I’m doing. I’m going to take the call in my room and then I’m going to get some rest.”

“Fine,” he huffs with resignation. “Let me know if you need anything.”

I meet Brandon’s piqued gaze and then walk away before tears betray me.

There’s only one thing I need. Him. But he’s not mine to be had.

The next day, while I’m ready and eager to go back to work to get my mind off Mama’s murderer, Brandon insists I rest up for another twenty-four hours. Boss’s orders. I can’t say no and surrender.

It’s like he’s become a whole new person. He dotes on me. Gets me more chicken soup from Greenblatt’s and checks in on me constantly. He even runs down to the newsstand on Sunset to buy me a dozen magazines so I won’t get bored while he’s studying his lines. I’m not used to the role reversal. I’ve always taken care of him, submitted to his every need. But now, he’s taking care of me. I’m loving every minute—including having him wait outside the bathroom while I shower—but know it’s not going to last. It’s only a matter of time until Katrina shows up. I’ve refrained from asking Brandon about her whereabouts. Out of sight. Out of mind.

In the afternoon, we hang out together on the couch and binge on a
James Bond
marathon. Brandon has every 007 movie in his home library, and we start from the first,
Dr. No
, and then randomly watch Brandon’s favorites.

Watching the movies with him is so much fun. We share a big bowl of popcorn—something he insists is a must. Brandon’s totally into the flicks and he’s surprisingly enlightening. Maybe my boss has lost part of his memory, but he’s a walking encyclopedia when it comes to
James Bond
. He shares fascinating facts with me like Sean Connery wasn’t the producers’ first choice to play the iconic spy and that Cary Grant was up for the part.

“Does
James Bond
inspire you?” I ask, munching on some popcorn while he puts the next film into the DVD player. The remake of
Casino Royale
, one of the few
Bond
films I’ve never seen.

Brandon returns to the couch and snuggles up against me before hitting play. “Totally. Especially when I do my action scenes. I think—what would James Bond do?”

“What about your romantic scenes with Jewel?”

He tugs on his lower lip and then sensuously feeds me a popped kernel. “Yeah, sometimes. But lately, I’ve drawn from experience.”

Katrina.
My chest tightens, and I force the piece of popcorn past the lump in my throat.

“Who’s your favorite James Bond?” I ask, referring to all the actors who’ve played the part though I know the answer.

“Hands down, Sean Connery.”

“Mine too.”

We end our conversation as the movie starts—as usual with an action-packed opening sequence that takes my breath away. In no time, I realize that the latest James Bond, Daniel Craig, is a close second to Sean Connery. While he’s older, there’s something so intense and sexy about him. And there’s a vulnerability to him, too, that adds to his appeal. My breathing grows labored as I watch the sensuous shower scene between James and Vesper. It’s one of the sexiest love scenes I’ve ever seen and makes me think of the shower I took with Brandon, both of us fully clothed. I know he’s thinking about it too because I can feel heat radiating from his body. Maybe it inspired him, but I don’t ask.

Our eyes stay glued to the big-screen TV as the movie comes to its gripping climax set in Venice. My heart hammers while tears fill my eyes. I’m overwhelmed with emotion.

“Oh, no!” I gasp as Vesper, trapped in an iron-frame lift, sinks deeper and deeper into a canal while James tries desperately to free her. “Please, Brandon, I can’t watch this anymore.”

Brandon turns to me, the expression on his face full of concern. “What’s the matter?”

“I-I can’t handle the drowning,” I splutter, tears falling. “It reminds me of Mama.”

“Shit.” He immediately turns the TV off and brushes away my tears with a thumb. “I’m sorry, Zo. I should have been more sensitive.”

My skin prickles at his tender touch. I quirk a little smile to let him know I’m okay. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know how I’d react. And with Mama’s murderer on my mind, I think I may be overreacting.”

His eyes stay locked on mine. “You sure you’re okay?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m good. That was a great movie. I just wish Vesper didn’t have to die like that.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” concurs Brandon, his expression relaxing.

We share a brief moment of silence until I break it, never losing eye contact with him.

“I think you’d make a great James Bond, Brandon.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do.” The image of him in a tux on the night of the Golden Globes flashes into my head.
Nobody does it better
. He’d bring a whole new level of sexiness to the role. Those mesmerizing violet eyes would make a box office killing.

“How’s this for starters?”

“Go for it.”

“The name’s Bond. James Bond,” he says with an utterly sexy and perfect British accent that makes me melt.

“That’s brilliant!”

He smiles that million-dollar smile and renders me breathless. Then, before I can blink an eye, he scoops me into his arms and carries me away.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“Taking my Bond girl to bed,” he answers, maintaining his alluring accent.

Me
a Bond girl? I’m more like Miss Moneypenny. Goosebumps pop along my flesh while hot tingles dance between my legs. Taking his words at face value, I instantly fantasize Brandon as Bond seducing me. Transporting me to his bedroom and ravaging me on his bed. Devouring every ounce of me with his masculine prowess.

“It’s almost midnight,” he says. “You need to get a good night’s sleep.”

My fantasy is short-lived. But I relish being back in his arms. Over the past two days, he’s been so kind, sweet, and funny. And so open.

“Why are you being so nice to me, Brandon?” I finally ask while he tucks me under the yummy covers. Maybe he has something up his sleeve. Or is putting on a good act. Or he’s simply bi-polar.

“Because, believe it or not, I actually like you, Zoey. And care about you.”

His words unnerve me. What does he mean? And does he really mean it? Before I can say a word, he hits me with an out of the blue question.

“Are you coming to my wedding?”