Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(29)

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, my voice a mere croak.

“Dammit, Brandon. If you’re coming down with something, I’m out of here. The last thing I need on my wedding day is to be sick.”

She pivots on her heel and stomps to the front door. I hear it open and slam shut, and then her car peels away. Shivering and dizzy, I sag down against the liquor cabinet until I’m crouched on the floor, my pool of vomit surrounding me. I bury my head between my knees to block out the odiferous smell and to soothe my monster headache along with my unyielding heartache.

All I want is Zoey. For her to be here to take care of me and to let me hold her.

My beloved mentor’s words swirl through my head. Act with your heart. Lead your dreams and land them.

The next to last thing I need on my wedding day is to be sick. Sick with regret.

The very last thing I need is Katrina.





Zoey


It’s been a non-stop busy day with one demanding client after another. To top it off, I’ve had to act cheerful when inside my heart is splintering. Tomorrow, Brandon and Katrina are getting married. And the wedding of the century is going to be televised live on TV. It’s been the talk of the tabloids and the Internet as well as every news and gossip show on TV. There’s been a ton of speculation about the cost—with some saying as much as ten million dollars—as well as about Katrina’s dress, the celebrities attending, and Bratrina’s secret honeymoon destination. The massages and soft music do little to soothe my mind or my heart.

Just as I’m about to call it a day, Madelyn, the spa’s high-strung, bag of bones manager, comes bursting through the door. While Posh is known for its tranquility, she’s an exposed nerve. Behind her bony back, everyone calls her Madwoman.

“Zoey, you can’t leave. We have a VIP client who needs a massage. Her regular masseuse fell ill, so you have to step in. Of course, we’ll pay you overtime, and the client is a very generous tipper.”

With a shrug and a sigh, I say, “Fine.” I was so looking forward to going home and having a hot bath—my new form of relaxing. But what’s another hour. Or another dollar?

Madelyn flashes a smile. “Wonderful. I’m going to personally bring her back. Remember, she’s one of our very important clients.”

I set up the table, light a scented candle, and dim the lights. The soft relaxation music is still piping through the sound system.

Draping a clean sheet over the massage table, I hear Madelyn’s voice. “Zoey, this is our very special client…”

I spin around. Our eyes clash. Not Madwoman’s.

Rather, another mad woman far more evil…

“…Katrina Moore.” Madwoman’s voice drifts into my ears. “Be sure to give her extra special attention. She’s getting married tomorrow to Brandon Taylor, so she wants to look and feel her very best.”

Katrina smiles at me wickedly as she slips out her cell phone from the pocket of her spa robe.

“Enjoy your massage, Ms. Moore,” singsongs Madelyn before sauntering off. Smirking, Katrina makes a call.

“Hi, darling.”

My heart stutters. She’s called Brandon.

“What are you up to?” she purrs, drumming the pink rhinestone-studded case with one of her long manicured fingers.

“That’s wonderful. I’m just having a massage. And then I’m going home to get ready for our wedding rehearsal.” Thumbing her blinding ten-carat diamond engagement ring, she puts a special emphasis on the word “wedding,” flinging it at me like a dagger. “Love you too.”

Another dagger. How much pain can I take?

She ends the call and smugly gives me the once over. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Miss Fatty Pants. I’m glad to see you’ve found yourself a new job. That hideous uniform suits you well.”

Rage replaces the pain. My blood is curdling. Nice to see you too, bitch.

“I’ll be right back,” I hiss, gritting my teeth. “In the meantime, please take off your robe and lie on the table face down.”

Before stepping out of the room, I heat up the oil in the warmer. I then make a quick bathroom run and return. Katrina is stretched out as instructed on the massage table. Her long, toned, bronzed body glows under the dim lights along with her lustrous platinum hair that’s piled high on her head. The thought of her lying in bed with Brandon sickens me. And tomorrow they will be husband and wife.

“What’s taking so long?” she snaps. “I’m ready.”

I’m ready too. Oh am I. In my massages classes, they taught us beauty equals pain. I’m about to put that equation into action. The massage oil is warm. Make that very warm. As in scorching hot. Taking a washcloth, I lift the bottle into my hand and careful not to burn myself, pour a generous amount on Katrina’s taut sculpted back.


Jolting, she yelps. “What the f*ck are you doing?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Whatever you put on me is burning my skin!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have overheated the oil.” Hehehe! “It’ll cool off in no time. How do you like your massages?”

“I like them hard. The way I like my men. By the way, I asked for a hot stone massage not a deep tissue one.”

“No problem.” I grab a couple of stones—the largest ones—from my supply counter and pour the cooled off oil on them until they turn a lustrous black.