Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(12)

A sudden chill sweeps over me. My heart stutters. “What makes you say that, Pops?”

“I’m a detective. I may not read big books with fancy words, but I read body language.”

My father can read people like an encyclopedia. That’s what makes him so good at his job. My chest tightens, my throat constricts, and my heart speeds up. I let him continue because I’m speechless.

“It’s the little things. The way you look at him. Hang on to his every word. The tilt of your head. Those little eye tics. The way you let him touch you.”

Tears cluster in my eyes. My voice is a rasp. “It’s that obvious?”

He brushes away a rebel tear that’s fallen. “Yupparoo.” Before I can bemoan my fate, he adds, “And he’s in love with you.”

My heart skips a loud beat. That can’t be! I’m just his overweight, lowly assistant. “Pops, what are you talking about?”

“Trust me, I can tell. He can’t take his eyes off you. I saw the way those purple orbs tenderly held you when he found out you called 911. And how his hand brushed along your jaw. Only a man in love would do that.”

Pops’s heartfelt words are almost like poetry. Powerful emotions pull my chest apart. Like a tug of war. There is so much of me that wants to believe what my father just said, but doubt yanks at my heartstrings.

“Pops, he’s in love with Katrina. He just doesn’t remember. I’m not even his type.”

Moving both hands to my shoulders, Pops holds my teary gaze in his loving gray eyes. “Babycakes, you may not be his type, but you’re his preference. Trust me, I’ve seen that Katrina and she doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

I warm at Pops’s compliment, but it doesn’t change reality. I remind him they’re getting married on national TV in May.

Unfazed, Pops smiles. “A lot can change in a couple of months.” He unlocks the car door and then swings it open. Before sliding into the beat up vehicle, he slaps a kiss on my forehead.

“Life’s not a done deal. One kiss…one night…one memory…can change everything. See you two kids tomorrow.”

He scoots into the car, turns on the cranky ignition, and then pulls out of the driveway. I hug myself to keep warm as he disappears into the night.





Zoey


“Holy mother of Jesus! Is that who I think it is?” gasps Alma Lopez, who’s co-manning the front desk at my father’s busy downtown precinct.

I can’t help smiling. “Yes, Alma. Meet my boss, Brandon Taylor.”

Looking like she may faint, the flustered officer’s breathing grows shallow as she begins to fan herself. “Dios mio!”

“I’d be honored to take a photo with you before I leave,” says Brandon, acting every bit the star he is. “You can post it on Instagram or Facebook or wherever you want.”

My eyes stay on Brandon while my smile grows bigger. I just love the way he gives back to his adoring fans. So willingly and unabashedly. So many stars don’t. I remember once when I was thirteen with a plaster cast on my arm (a stupid rollerblading accident), I encountered a famous star (sorry, no names) who I adored in a restaurant and built up the courage to ask him to sign the cast. The * refused. “Excuse me. I’d like to enjoy my lunch,” he said coldly and dismissively shooed me away. He made me feel like I was three feet tall. Total humiliation!


More and more people recognize Brandon while Alma calls my father. In no time, he’s mobbed. It’s almost a sitcom. Even the drunk homeless guy recognizes him and begs him to sign his tattered blanket. Brandon is cordial to everyone, regardless of race, background, or creed. With a big smile, he poses for one photo after another and signs autographs for everyone on everything—from body parts and outerwear to subpoenas and parole papers.

A familiar voice grabs my attention. Pops. Munching on a sandwich, he lumbers through the security door. He grins at the sight of Brandon’s fandom.

“C’mon, babycakes. Brenda, our sketch artist, is eager to meet with you.”

I tug at Brandon’s non-stop autographing arm. He turns to me and I’m seriously in awe of how hot damn gorgeous he is even under unflattering florescent lighting. My heart thuds.

“I’m going with Pops to meet with the sketch artist.”

“Want me to come with you?” he asks while signing someone’s police report.

Pops answers before I can. “It’s better if they’re one on one.” And then he grins. “Besides you have your work cut out for you.”

“It’s all in the line of duty,” retorts Brandon with a line that’s straight out of a Kurt Kussler episode.

After exchanging a smile with my busy superstar boss, I follow Pops through the door to a small, windowless room at the end of a long, bustling hallway. An attractive, casually dressed forty-something woman with a coil of copper curls is seated at a table. She smiles at me warmly.

“Hi, I’m Brenda”

I glance at her badge. Her full name: Brenda McCay. Her sparkling hazel eyes meet mine.

“We’re going to work together to figure out who this * is.”

I like her…her choice of words…her f*ck-the-bastard mentality.

“I’m ready,” I say, taking a seat across from her. In addition to her laptop and a tablet, numerous binders are scattered on the surface of the table. The memory of talking to a sketch artist right after Mama’s shooting comes back to me as if it were only yesterday. The binders are filled with reference images that will help me pinpoint the features of the man I saw with Scott and help Brenda build her facial composite.