Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)
Nelle L’Amour
Brandon
I haven’t left Zoey’s side. When I found out yesterday she was taken to the hospital, I canceled my dinner date with Katrina and rushed to Cedars. Needless to say, my fiancée wasn’t happy. In fact, she was furious. How dare I bale out of her birthday because of some stupid bump on the head!
Actually, it’s more than just a little bump. An MRI showed Zoey sustained a serious concussion when she fainted at The Farmer’s Market. The doctors don’t know what caused her to pass out. Thank God, there’s no major brain damage. She’s going to be okay.
I’ve had the hospital upgrade her to a luxurious private suite. If her insurance doesn’t cover it, I’ll take care of the exorbitant cost. I can easily afford it, and she deserves the best. As I vigilantly watch over her from an armchair beside her bed, a sense of déjà vu washes over me.
Only a few weeks ago, I was in a similar suite attached to all kinds of beeping machines. Lying in a life or death coma for two weeks following a hit and run accident that occurred near my house. When I finally woke up, I was surrounded by a film crew and Katrina in my face. The scene was pure chaos, my memory loss only making it worse.
Zoey is hooked up only to a single monitor that’s tracking her heartbeat. There are no IVs. And there’s only me. By the time I learned of her accident and got here, she was fast asleep. Her primary doctor told me she’d regained consciousness briefly and was screaming out for her father. Hysterical. In shock. Maybe even delusional as she mentioned just yesterday morning in a confrontation with my manager, Scott Turner, that her father died fighting a wildfire. They had to sedate her, and she’s been in a deep sleep ever since.
I study her. I’ve never seen her asleep before. Morning sunlight floods the room and bathes her face in a halo. She looks like an angel, her chestnut hair fanned out on the pillow, her sensuous lips parted slightly, her long-lashed eyes gently fluttering. So close to her, I extend my arm, and with my fingertips, I trace her jaw. Her flawless alabaster skin is like velvet. And then irresistibly, I run my forefinger across her kissable lips, drawing me to her like a magnet.
Her eye flutters intensify, and a second before my lips touch down on hers, she starts thrashing and screaming. I hastily pull away.
“Mama! Mama! Wake up!”
Crying hysterically, she must be having a bad dream. Tears stream down her tormented face as she claws at the sheets.
“Please don’t shoot me! Please, please, please, please.”
Her desperate, frightened cries freak me out. I don’t know what to do—how to comfort her or calm her down. Maybe I should call for a nurse or a doctor. Just as I’m about to hit the call button, she bolts up, drenched in sweat and tears. And still sobbing.
I instantly move to the edge of her bed and take her into my arms. She buries her head against my chest. Her heaving breasts rest against my pecs, and her tears saturate the fabric of my T-shirt. I stroke her damp hair and try to calm her down.
“Shh, Zoey. I’m here. Everything’s okay.”
She lifts her head and gazes up at me with her big, wet chocolate eyes that glisten like crystals. “Brandon, I saw the man who shot my mother.”
“What do you mean, baby?” The last word inadvertently slips out, but she doesn’t react to it.
In a small tearful, staccato voice, she launches into her story. I listen to every word, stunned and silent.
“On my fifth birthday, my mama took me to the Santa Monica Pier to celebrate. She knew how much I loved all the rides. And that day, I got to go on the big rollercoaster for the first time. She let me do it twice with her, and then afterward, we got corndogs and went to the edge of the pier to look for dolphins.”
She blinks several times as if she’s going back in time. As if she’s there again. “Did your father go with you?”
She shakes her head and confirms what she revealed yesterday. “No. He died two years earlier putting out a wildfire. He was a fireman.”
“I’m sorry.” My voice is soft and compassionate.
“It’s okay. I don’t remember him too well. But Mama I can never forget.”
“Did you see any dolphins?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair off her face and eager to hear more of the story.
With a sniffle, she nods. “I was so excited and pointed them out to her. But she didn’t hear me because…” Another sniffle and she bravely resumes. “Because she was slumped over the railing unconscious. Blood was all over the back of her sundress. No matter what I did, she didn’t respond. I knew something was terribly wrong, but wasn’t sure what had happened, and desperate, asked this creepy man, who was standing next to me, for help. Except when I turned to him, he collapsed to the ground bleeding profusely. I screamed, spinning around for someone to come to our aid. And then I saw him.”
While I picture the terrifying scene in my head, Zoey begins to visibly shake. Her mouth quivers. I clasp the trembling hand that’s not hooked up to the monitor and ask: “Who, Zoey?”
“The monster who shot the man…and Mama. He was pointing a gun at me. He fired—and missed—and then he ran away. I’ll never forget his face.”
My heart in my throat, I swallow hard. “Did anyone else see him?”