Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(34)

“Listen, Scott. I’m not feeling good. I’m not going to the rehearsal.”

Scott’s eye tic starts up again. “I’m not leaving without you.”

I shrug. “Then you can miss it too.”

“What is wrong with you? Don’t you get it?”

“I just don’t feel good. Tell Katrina I’m still sick. She’ll appreciate it.”

Scott draws in a sharp breath through his nose and exhales. “Fine. But you sure as hell better be there tomorrow. Even if you’re on your deathbed. There’s a lot riding on this wedding. And not just your future.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” With a look of relief, he stands up. “I’ll text you that lawyer’s name when I get to The Four Seasons.”

Don’t bother. After he disappears, I take a deep determined breath. A lot can change between a dress rehearsal and the actual shoot. Including the script.





Zoey


I’m a total zombie. I didn’t sleep a wink. With tears soaking my pillow, I replayed the season finale of Kurt Kussler in my head over and over again. With my eidetic memory, I virtually know every word by heart but still can’t make sense of it. Lying on the couch with a blanket and still in my PJs, I watch it again on my laptop, and another avalanche of tears falls from my eyes as it comes to its heart-ripping conclusion. Sobs wrack my body. Why am I such a glutton for pain? In a few hours, the man I love with all my heart, body, and soul will be married to another. America’s It Girl. And everyone in the world will be watching them say their forever vows. Everyone except one. Me. There’s a reason why I still don’t have a TV.


Drained by my tears and aching heart, I close my stinging eyes. I don’t know how long I’ve napped when the familiar ping of my cell phone wakes me up. Groggily, I stand up, wrapping the blanket around me, and try to remember where I left it. It’s in the kitchen. Please God, don’t let it be him. I stagger into the adjacent room and indeed my phone is on the counter. Except it’s dead. Another ping sounds in my ear. Huh? And then I remember, I have Katrina’s iPhone. Identical to mine, it’s in my bedroom. Probably still stashed in the pocket of my masseuse uniform.

I bet the bitch is leaving me a nasty message to return her phone. Or maybe it’s mad Madelyn threatening me. I’ll return it when I’m good and ready. Maybe never. In my sullen state, I derive a little pleasure thinking about how much time and effort it will take Katrina to purchase and set up a new phone. And how she must be seething and lost without it on her wedding day. Haha! No selfies for her.

The phone pings yet again as I step into my bedroom. My ugly uniform is strewn on the floor. Mental note: burn it. Another ping. Another possibility of who it could be stabs me. Brandon! My imagination runs wild thinking that he’s sending her hugs and kisses. Or texting her about all the naughty things he’s going to do her on their wedding night. Bile rushes to my throat at the thought of them f*cking their brains out. Screw the bitch. I’m going to turn off her phone. I bend down to retrieve it, and as I hold it in my hand ready to press the off button, yet another ping sounds. Curiosity gets the better of me. Running my forefinger across the screen to unlock the phone, I check her text messages. To my surprise, they’re not from the bitch, Madelyn, or Brandon but rather all from that sleazeball Scott. One after another.

Why the f*ck can’t I reach u?

On way to hotel. Call me! Urgent!

Postpone honeymoon. Need the money FAST!

Call me ASAP. I’ve got a big problem.

What’s Scott’s problem? Perplexed but intrigued, I scroll down further to a text he sent Katrina last night while I was crying my heart out over the Kurt Kussler finale.

Great news. He already wants a divorce. The money will be ours in no time.

My blood pounding, I process the last message. Brandon wants to divorce Katrina? He hasn’t even married her. And both she and Scott are after his money? Burning with curiosity and my heart racing, I scroll through Katrina’s older messages. After many exchanges with her mother about wedding details, another exchange with Scott captures my attention. It’s dated Sunday, April 12, the night she showed up in Cannes.

Katrina: I got rid of the fat bitch. LOL. I found his phone and fired her.

Scott: Nice work. :)

What!? Katrina fired me? Hacked into Brandon’s e-mail account and pretended to be him?

My fingertip sizzling with rage, I scroll back further. The lazy psycho bitch never erases her texts. After a few exchanges about the terms of her reality show deal—the greedy bitch wants $50,000 per episode!—my eyes grow as wide as saucers. My already rapidly beating heart accelerates.

Katrina: Come over for a quickie.

Scott: A little whipping?

Katrina: I’m going to give it to you hard.

Scott: I’m hard already.

I gasp. Oh my God! Scott and Katrina are having a sordid affair?

Frantically, I continue to scroll, my fingertip flicking the screen past a bunch of gobbledygook until another round of texts brings me to a sharp halt. They’re dated March 22, three days after my encounter with Scott and Donatelli at The Farmer’s Market.

Scott: Some * detective may question you. Be careful.

Katrina: Don’t worry. He questioned me ages ago.

My mind races. Scott must have been smart enough to delete all his texts with Katrina from his phone so my father wouldn’t see them. For sure, Pops would have issued a warrant for both his cell phone and computer to check for evidence. It’s standard operational procedure. He confiscated and checked Katrina’s phone as well but early on in his investigation of Brandon’s hit and run. I recall him telling me he didn’t find anything suspicious. Yes, there were numerous phone calls between her and Scott, but they couldn’t be construed as incriminating evidence since Scott is her manager and they likely talk all the time. My eyes stay focused on Scott’s last two words: Be careful. The detective in me wonders what they mean. With baited breath, I scroll back further and then this: Katrina: The fat bitch is getting in the way.