Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(65)

Taking a puff of my cigar, I thought about Jennifer McCoy. She’s sexy, feisty, and f*cking with my head. And driving my cock crazy. “She’s okay,” I said flatly.

“She’s got a sharp mind, that little fox. I was very impressed by the questions she asked during the guest lecture I gave for one of her courses. I told her to consider Conquest when she graduated, and when she sent me her thesis, I was totally blown away.”

“What did she write it on?” I asked.

“The Sexual Appeal of SpongeBob SquarePants.”

My brows did a pull-up. SpongeBob NoPants would have made more sense.

My father took another puff of his cigar. “Has she come up with any programming ideas?”

I took a sip of my brandy and then told him about her idea of targeting women with erotic programming during the daytime. I told him I was dubious.

To my surprise, my father nodded with approval. “Mommy porn. That’s f*cking brilliant, son. Totally fresh and out of the box.”

“What should we do?” I asked tentatively.

He blew out a ring of smoke. “My instincts are telling me to let her run with it.”

“She wants to do focus groups to prove her theory.”

My father smiled and nodded again. “Good idea. It’s about time you did some.”

Unlike me, my father was very methodical and relied heavily on research to make decisions. Usually, they were never wrong, and he sometimes joked he should have done some research before hiring me. A man who had loved only one woman—my mother—he was not too keen about my reputation as a player or my gut-way of making programming decisions.

My father flicked the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray on the small glass table between us. “Put the groups on the fast track. And I want you to keep me informed about the findings.”

I took a drag on my brandy-laced cigar and spewed one word: “Done.” Arguing with my father had no upside. He was the boss. Period. The warm brandy seeped through my veins, making a delicious contrast to the chill of the early December air. Even in LA, it got cold, at least at night.

After polishing off the brandies and smoking our cigars down to the label, we retreated back into my office. My eyes widened. Jennifer McCoy, her briefcase in hand, was standing in the doorway. She had on a navy coat, looking ready to go home. She seemed surprised to see my father and adjusted her glasses.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Bernstein. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your meeting.”

A warm smile lit my father’s strong-featured face. “Not at all, Jennifer. My son was just sharing some of the excellent ideas you have for SIN-TV.”

The expression on her face said it all. Her eyes rounded; her mouth fell open. She had no clue I was Saul Bernstein’s son. And I had planned to keep it that way for as long as possible. To my amazement, she kept her cool. What an actress!

“Thank you, Mr. Bernstein,” she said smoothly. “I hope you’re right.”

My father winked at her. “I have a very good feeling about you, Ms. McCoy.”

She tweaked a smile. Man, she was cute when she smiled. I wanted to wink at her. My father continued.

“And I look forward to having you at our home on Friday night.”


My eyes bounced from my father to Jennifer. What-the-f*ck was written across my eyeballs.

Unbeknownst to me, my father had invited her to our weekly Friday night Shabbat dinner. The night all things should be peaceful. But at our house, all hell usually broke loose. I did a quick silent prayer. Everyone behave. Please behave.




On Friday at six in the evening, the usual suspects were gathered at my parents’ dining room table. It was elegantly set with fine linens, crystal, china, and silver. My father sat at the head and my striking platinum-haired mother at the other end. I sat catty-corner, next to my father. The remaining chairs were occupied by my overweight older sister Marcy and her husband Matt, both gynecologists with a thriving Beverly Hills joint practice . . . their children, my six-year-old twin nephews from Planet Hell . . . and last but not least, my feisty eighty-five-year-old grandmother Muriel, who lived independently in the guest house on our property. Our house, located in the prestigious, gated Beverly Park area of Beverly Hills was huge—a twenty thousand square foot palace that included a screening room, full gym, and ten bathrooms. Many often mistook it for a hotel. It sat on six acres of land. In addition to the guesthouse, there was a swimming pool, tennis court, and a studio where my mother made pottery. Our A-list celebrity neighbors included Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone as well as billionaire Haim Saban, the creator of the Power Rangers, a show I loved watching as a child.

There was one empty chair next to mine. It was reserved for Jennifer. She was unusually late. The Shabbat antics had already begun. The twins were whining about watching television; my sister was yelling at them, and my brother-in-law was yelling at my sister. Oblivious to it all, my grandmother was already on her second (third?) glass of wine. Technically, one was supposed to wait to drink the wine until after the Shabbat candles were lit and the prayer for the wine was said. But Grandma always said in her Yiddish accent, “Vy vait? Vait shmait!” At her age, she could not be challenged.

“Vhere’s your new girlfriend?” she quipped, after another loud gulp of wine.

I jerked slightly. “She should be here soon, and she’s not my girlfriend.”