Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(2)

One scripted word captures my attention.

Brandon

As elegant as the hand that wrote it. I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. Zoey’s.

Snapping up the envelope, I tear it open and read the contents. My eyes fly from the first line to the last.

Brandon~

This is goodbye. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you. You can be sure I will honor our non-disclosure agreement and treasure our time spent together.

I will always remember you. You’re unforgettable.

~Zoey ?

My stomach clenches and so does my heart. Not wasting a second, I dash out of my suite as fast as I can and run down two flights of stairs to her hotel room. Breathless, I bang on the door.

“Open up, Zo.”

No response.

I bang harder; I shout louder. “C’mon, Zoey. Open up!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

An early morning housekeeper passes by me. Just in time before I knock down the door.

“C’est ma chambre. I’ve lost my key. Can you let me in?”

“Mais, monsieur, il n’y a pas de personnes là.”

“What do you mean?”

In broken English, the perplexed woman responds. “La madame…she check out.”

What? She’s gone? Panic grips me by the balls. I sprint to the elevator and pound the down button. The elevator doesn’t come. I pound and I pound and I pound. Goddamn elevator. I’m about to dash down the emergency stairs again—all five steep flights—when a car finally arrives.

To my relief, it descends quickly to The Carlton lobby without a stop. As soon as the doors part, I dart to the front desk. Thank God, there’s no line.

The attractive young clerk on duty is more than pleased to see me. She’s the one who checked us in to the hotel.

“Ah! Bonjour, Monsieur Taylor. Eez everything okay?”

“Oui.” I nod. “Have you by chance seen my assistant?” I try to hide my panic.

“You mean, Mademoiselle Hart?”

“Yes, yes. I mean, oui, oui!”

The clerk smiles. “Mais, oui. She checked out an hour ago. She went back to zee States. Pauvre petite! Some kind of emergency.”

“Get me a f*cking cab right now!” And pardon my English.




The early morning rush hour traffic along the scenic N98 to Nice International Airport is impossible. Why does everyone and their mother have to be going there? It’s like some kind of mass exodus from the South of France.

“Can’t you go any faster?” I yell at the mustached cab driver.

“Je ne parle pas anglais.”

Fuck. “Plus rapido, s’il vous plait.” My French sucks.

“Pas possible.”

Fuck again. I wish I had the Ducati. But after crashing it, the bike almost didn’t make it back to the hotel last night. I should have taken a helicopter. At this point, by foot would be faster.

The traffic may be at a crawl, but my heart’s beating a gazillion miles an hour. A toxic mixture of angst, frustration, and regret consumes me. I wish I had my cell phone so I could call her. The thought of borrowing the cabbie’s phone crosses my mind, but I don’t know Zoey’s number since I have it on speed dial. I slump against the backseat lost in defeat.

Finally, we make it to the airport. What should have taken twenty minutes has taken over an hour. I slip the driver a hundred Euros and fly into the busy terminal. Jostling the crowd, still in my bathrobe and barefoot, I sprint up to the departures and arrivals board. There are two flights departing for Los Angeles in a few minutes—one, Air France; the other, American. Shit. Which one would Zoey be on? I opt for American for only one reason. Because it’s how she prefers her Starbucks. Caffè Americano. Just like me. And because last night we shared a cocktail that also bore that name. My heart hammers. I hope my hunch is right.

My heart in my throat, I bolt up to the American Airlines ticket counter, cutting in front of the long line. Assorted grumbles in French and English go in one ear and out the other. Yeah, I’m a f*cking * in both languages.

The ticket agent is a very attractive brunette in her early thirties. The name on her badge is Jeanette. Her eyes widen at the sight of me.

“Mon Dieu! You’re zee big Hollywood star. Brandon Taylor!”

“Oui. I need a big favor, Jeanette. Can you tell me if a passenger named Zoey Hart is on Flight 216 heading to LA?”


The agent bites down on her full red lips. “I am so sorry. I cannot do that. It eez against airport rules and regulations.”

“Please! It’s an emergency!”

“What kind of emergency?”

Think, Brandon, think…Got it! “She’s my assistant and she’s on meds. She left them behind. If she doesn’t have them, she may create an incident on the plane. She’s very bipolar. If she doesn’t take her meds hourly, she gets extremely violent.”

The attendant listens intently while my eyes glance at the clock. 7:45. Shit. The flight’s departing in five minutes.

“Hmm. That eez very serious. I will call security.”

“Hurry!”

Two long minutes later, a pair of security guards are flanking me. Jeanette tells them about the high-risk situation. I guessed right—Zoey’s on the American flight.