Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (27 page)

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I stuttered, utterly disappointed. The square diamond was small and dull. Bradley came from money, not billionaires, but nonetheless money. I’d shown him pictures of rings I liked, none of them extravagant, but not one was like this one. The prospect of being engaged to him and becoming Mrs. Bradley Wick was suddenly more real than it had ever been. He took my shaky left hand in his and slipped the ring onto my ring finger. It fit perfectly.

“Thank you.”
Thank you?
Wasn’t I supposed to gasp? Or get goosebumps? Maybe even swoon?

“It’s official now.” He smiled broadly, revealing that perfect set of pearly white teeth and then leaned across the table to plant a kiss on my lips that I was neither prepared for nor wanted. My eyes stayed open. As his lips pressed against mine, the kiss of another man dominated my thoughts and my senses. I’d kissed another last night. A mysterious stranger. And I’d more than liked it. As Bradley’s tight-lipped kiss infused me with the taste of curry and garlic, I longed for those other lips. Those hot, hungry champagne-laced lips and that velvety tongue that had tangoed with mine. Bradley smelled of antiseptic;
that
man had smelled of sex. My breath hitched in my throat. What was wrong with me? I was engaged to the man who I’d known throughout college, but I longed for another. A man I didn’t know. A faceless man whose lips I craved.

With guilt stabbing at my heart, I pulled away from Bradley. He went back to his tofu dish, scraping his plate clean, while I barely made a dent in my salad. I just didn’t have an appetite.

The waitress came by one more time to clear our plates. I told her I’d take the rest of my salad home. Bradley hated waste. When she asked if we wanted dessert, I quickly passed before my fiancé could say a word.

“I should get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do. And I want to make a favorable impression on my boss.”

Bradley nodded in approval. “Totally understand.” Yes, a good work ethic was important to Bradley. That’s one of the things about me that had attracted him to me in the first place. I was a conscientious student who always completed my assignments on time and went beyond the necessary to get an outstanding grade. We were both anal like that, although Bradley’s anal qualities went beyond mine, almost to an extreme. He was a creature of habit and precision—which manifested itself when the check came.

He carefully scrutinized it and then pulled out his trusty pocket calculator from his slacks pocket to compute the 17% tip. Nothing more. Nothing less. He then whipped out his impeccably neat wallet and took out his credit card. He placed it precisely in the center of the bill holder and handed it to the waitress when she returned to our table.

“Do you really like the ring?” Bradley prodded after the waitress slipped away.

I nodded, faking a small smile.

He flashed his pearly whites. “I know the stone is a little small, but right now I want to put as much money as I can into my practice.”

“Of course,” I agreed, hiding my disappointment.

The truth: Brad was thrifty—to the point of almost being a cheapskate. I think it was connected to his parents, who despite their wealth, lived very modestly, and to his anal behavior. He never valeted his car, parking it blocks away to save money, and liked to shop at bargain outlets. The 99 Cents Only Store was one of his favorites. And apparently so was Zales, and not Tiffany’s.

I glanced down at the ring. As dull a diamond as it was, it glimmered in the candlelight. Yet, I didn’t feel a glint of excitement. Not even the tiniest. The candle burnt out and I wondered—had my love for Bradley burnt out? Up until now, I was in denial. And now, we were officially engaged.

Jennifer

D
uring the workweek, Bradley and I had agreed not to spend the night. He liked to go to sleep early to be bright-eyed for his early morning patients while I was somewhat of a night owl. My late-night activities, which ran the gamut from watching TV or reading a book on my Kindle to raiding the refrigerator, kept him up. Moreover, he firmly believed we should wait until we got married to live together.

So, after dinner, Bradley and I each went our own way. He stood with me outside the restaurant while I waited for the valet to bring me my car. Bradley had parked his several blocks a way to save money. When my little red Kia arrived, he pecked my cheek and told me he loved me. “Love you back,” I said as I scooted into the driver’s seat. Driving off, I turned on my radio. Alicia Keyes was singing, “This Girl is on Fire.” My heart clenched in my chest.
This
girl wasn’t.

The house I shared with Libby was a small two-bedroom Spanish cottage in a modest neighborhood known as Beverly Hills Adjacent. It was the last house on the street, situated between an empty foreclosure and a deserted parking lot. Wearily, I pulled into the driveway.

I had the house to myself. Libby was working late conducting focus groups. Usually when she had groups at night, she didn’t get home until ten. I wasted no time changing into my comfy-cozy SpongeBob pajamas and curling up on the couch with a cup of chamomile tea and the stack of ratings. Shoving my glasses onto my head, which I needed for distance only, I pored over the numbers.

My mind, however, kept wandering, and the numbers before me became a blur. I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head. Those lips consuming mine. That tongue. Entwined with mine, swirling and twirling.

A sick feeling fell over me. I took another sip of my tea. It was just a fluky thing. A silly dare. A silly game. It should mean nothing to me. But it had undeniably aroused feelings and sensations in me I’d never felt before. My heartbeat quickened, and tingles danced between my legs as I kept thinking about it. I closed my eyes and pretended I was kissing
that
man again, rolling my tongue with the imaginary yet very real one in my head.

The familiar ring of my cell phone hurled me out of my fantasy. I reached into my shoulder bag parked on the couch next to me. My heart jumped when I saw who was calling on the screen. My boss! Blake Burns. Was he calling to check up on me? To test me?

“Hello,” I said nervously. The way the word came out sounded almost like a question.

“Hi.” His voice was relaxed and sultry. It gave me goosebumps. I didn’t know what to say next. Fortunately, he spared me from responding.

“I was just calling to find out how you’re doing. When I thought about it, I thought maybe I’d overloaded you on your first day at the job.”

“No, everything’s fine,” I stammered. “I’m used to reviewing numbers. I did a lot of that at USC.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to your analysis tomorrow. By the way, I’d prefer an oral presentation.”

The way he breathily drew out the word “oral” made my whole body tremble. The phone shook in my hand.

“Not a problem.” My voice shook too.

“Then let me not keep you from your work. Good night, Jennifer.”

Click.
The phone went dead before I could bid him the same. I immediately returned to the stack of papers and studied the numbers. A pattern was emerging. Men 18+ were in full force in prime time and piqued in the early morning hours. And then, there was almost a total fall off. The great majority of men watching SIN-TV in the daytime were over the age of sixty-five. The morning lineup fell short in the key advertiser demographic—adults 18-49.

The sound of the front door opening diverted my attention. I looked up. It was Libby with her large canvas messenger bag hooked over her shoulder and a huge stack of folders in her hand. Despite such a long day, she looked vibrant. Ready to party.

“Hi,” I said, in awe of her stamina. “How did your groups go?”

“They were really interesting,” she replied, throwing her bag and folders onto the coffee table and then flopping down on an oversized armchair catty-corner to me, her muscular legs dangling over the arm.

“How so?”

“I was testing a pilot called
Her Space
about astronauts’ wives with women for the CBC drama department. Almost everyone complained it wasn’t sexy enough.”

My ears perked up. “What did they expect?”

“Something more erotic. A few women even used the words ‘erotic romance.’”

My mind was racing. “Is there a huge audience of women in the morning?”

Libby nodded. “Yeah. Daytime TV is all about women.” She swung her legs off the arm of the chair and stood up. “I’m going to the kitchen. I need a glass of wine. Do you want one?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Enough with the tea. As my roommate drifted out of the living room, my brain percolated with ideas.

Libby returned quickly with two wine glasses filled almost to the brim. She handed one to me and sunk back into the armchair.

“To your new job,” she toasted. We clinked our goblets together and put our lips to the rims in unison. I took my first sip of the too-familiar, cheap white wine. Good old Trader Joe’s Two-Buck Chuck.

I swallowed and felt the chilled liquid course through my bloodstream. “Lib, have you ever done
any
focus groups for SIN-TV?”

With a smirk, my bestie shook her head. “Not one. Like I told you at lunch, Blake Burns doesn’t believe in research. He believes in programming from his gut.”

Dick is more like it.
I took another sip of the wine. “Well, I think it’s time for an attitude change. I’m going to convince him to do some focus groups with women. I have a theory, and I’m going to prove it.”

Libby let out a snarky little laugh. “I’m at your service if you get him to agree. Good luck with the arrogant, self-centered, know-it-all egomaniac.”

I burst into laughter. Wine that didn’t make it down my throat came flying out of my mouth, spraying Libby.

My roomie snorted with laughter too. I don’t know if it was the wine or I just needed a release, but I kept laughing until tears poured from my eyes. With my other hand, I swiped them away.

Libby’s watering eyes grew wide; she caught her breath while her gaze zeroed in on my ringer finger. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah. Bradley finally gave me a ring.”

“Let me see it.”

I stretched out my arm so the ring was almost in her face. She examined it. The brutally honest research analyst could not mask her dislike. “It’s not round like you wanted or—”

I cut her off before she made another negative comment. “I know. Bradley’s a little strapped right now. He’s putting his practice first.”

“Personally, I think he should be putting you first,” she quipped. “Have you set a date?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t rush.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. My bestie couldn’t hide her feelings. She had never cared for Bradley, and the feeling was mutual. Free-spirited Libby was the antithesis of my uptight fiancé. They pushed each other’s buttons. Moreover, she knew sex with him was as she bluntly put it: “boring.”

The truth: I wasn’t eager to lock a date. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Bradley was a mother’s dream. A good-looking dentist from a good family with a good future ahead of him. We’d been friends before we were lovers, but lately I felt like we were two strangers. Instead of spending more time together, we were spending less and less. I longed to tell Libby how I felt, but I feared she would try to convince me to leave him. I couldn’t do that. We’d been together over five years, and he’d helped me get through the aftershock of the attack I’d endured as a sophomore. He cared about me and I cared about him. So I thought.

Libby took a big gulp of her wine and twisted one of her long red curls. “So, now it’s officially official. You and Bradley are getting married.”

I nodded. “Yeah.” My voice wavered. “You’ll be my maid of honor, right?”

“Of course.” Her voice oozed with warmth, and a smile played on her freckled face.

No matter what she thought about Bradley, Libby was always there for me. And always would be. I twitched a small smile back and thanked her.

Setting her almost empty wine glass on the coffee table, she rose to her feet. “I’m going to call it a night. Maybe try to Skype with Everett.”

Everett Pierce was her long-distance boyfriend. They’d met at USC, but now he was doing post-graduate work in linguistics at Oxford. Even with texting and Skyping, the eight-hour time difference made communication challenging. Libby missed “Ev,” especially frequent sex, but she threw herself into her work to compensate for it. They were thankfully going to see each other over Christmas on the East Coast where Everett’s family lived. Libby needed to get laid.

She gave me a hug. “See you in the morning. Congrats on everything.”

I mumbled a throwaway “thanks” and returned to the SIN-TV ratings. I had found a hole in the ratings. A big one.

And I had also found one in my heart.

Blake

“H
i. I studied the ratings and I think I’m onto something.”

Her voice startled me. I was sitting on my leather couch, about to hit the play button on my remote to watch the dailies of our series,
Private Dick
. It was one of our most popular late-night shows, but virtually no one watched it when we re-aired it during the day. I glanced at my watch. Nine forty-five. I wasn’t expecting her so soon. She was fifteen minutes early for our meeting. At the sound of her voice, I gazed up. She was standing at the doorway to my office, the files I’d given her tucked in her hands. She was clad in an almost knee-length plaid pleated skirt and a white silk blouse with little pearl buttons. Most would describe what she was wearing as prim and proper, but I found it oddly sexy. It left a lot to the imagination. Beneath her garments, I could visualize her soft curves and the swell of her breasts. Did she wear lace or was she one of those Hanes types of girls who wore cotton briefs and a simple no-wire bra? While I was a total lace-man, the image of her in that boyish cotton underwear turned me on. I yearned to rip open her blouse, hear those pearly buttons bounce to the floor, and pull down her skirt. My cock flexed beneath my pants.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asked, her voice a little timid, perhaps because I’d not acknowledged her.