Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(3)

Zoey shrieks. “Don’t lie to me, you f*cking slimedog! You were there!” Red with rage, she bolts over to Scott and, with her white-knuckled fists, begins to pound him. “You f*cking, f*cking liar.”

“Christ, Brandon. Get this hallucinatory psycho bitch off me.”

An intervention. Clamping Zoey around the waist, I try to pull her away from my manager. She resists, pounding him harder. “No, leave me alone!! He’s lying!!”

I finally force her away. In defeat, she sobs louder, hunched over and heaving. She’s close to collapsing. I’m virtually holding her up. Her lifeline.

Softly, I say, “C’mon, Zoey. Hold on to me.”

Depleted of energy and will, she clutches me and lets me usher her back to the bed. I get her tucked in.

“Liar!” she croaks one more time.

I turn to face Scott. “Scott, I think it best you leave.”

He scoffs at me. “Call me when you’re done with the nutjob.” He pivots and stalks out the door. I take a seat once again on the edge of Zoey’s bed. My body is turned so I’m facing her. Her sobs have grown softer, and with her forlorn eyes, she looks at me imploringly.

“Brandon, please tell me you believe me.” Her rasp is another desperate plea.

I have no choice. I say yes because I don’t want to upset her.

“Thank you.”

“Come here.” I gently take her into my arms once more, her tears ripping me apart.

“Thank you,” she whispers again.

She can’t forget; I can’t remember. What an odd couple we make. But at this moment, holding her in my arms, we’re kindred spirits, united through the loss of our parents by water and fire.





Zoey


I’m released from the hospital later in the afternoon. After spending time on the set of his TV series, Kurt Kussler, Brandon comes by to pick me up and accompanies me as I’m wheeled out a secret entrance of the hospital that’s reserved for celebrities and VIPS. He helps me into his Hummer. Though the painkillers have numbed my excruciating headache, I still feel queasy and uneasy. Totally shaken. Mama’s killer is out there! Scumbag Scott! His lie is eating at me, making every cell in my body sizzle with rage. Thankfully, I finally got to talk to Pops. He believed me. I knew he would, and he’s already started an investigation. As soon as he’s back in town, he’s going to stop by to see me.

With minimal traffic, we get to Brandon’s house in no time. He pulls the scarlet Hummer into the garage next to his Lamborghini, jumps out, and rounds the monstrous SUV to open my door. I undo my seatbelt and the next thing I know I’m in his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Carrying you. What does it look like I’m doing? The doctors want you to take it easy and stay off your feet as much as possible for the next couple of days.”

“I think I can walk,” I protest as he kicks open the door to his house.

“Trust me, you can’t.”

The truth is I secretly love every minute of being back in his strong arms. He makes me feel safe and protected. And like a waif. My arms circle his broad shoulders as he enters the kitchen.

“Wait! Where are you taking me?” I ask when I realize he’s not heading to the back doors that open to the patio and lead to the guesthouse where I reside.

“You’re sleeping here for the next forty-eight hours so I can keep an eye on you. I’m setting you up in one of my guest bedrooms. It has an adjacent bathroom.”

“But I need my things!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll retrieve your personal items,” he says, carrying me into the spacious guest room. Like the rest of the house, it’s furnished in high-end contemporary furniture in muted shades of lavender and gray. He sets me down on the inviting four-poster steel bed. Slipping off my shoes, he insists I get under the covers and helps tuck me in. Sitting up, I’m supported by a mountain of fluffy white pillows that coordinate with the delicious down comforter.


“Don’t move. I’ll be right back. I’m going to get your things.”

“Don’t forget my toothbrush and deodorant.”

He winks at me. “Don’t worry.”

“And some clothes.”

Oh, Jeez. Why did I say that? He may go through my underwear drawer and see my big girl panties. Yikes!

“Brandon, I’m fine with what I’m wearing.”

He smirks at me. “You need a little more but not much.”




Brandon orders in lunch—comforting chicken soup for the soul—from Greenblatt’s, our nearby deli on Sunset. Making bowls for the two of us, he agrees to let me get out of bed and screen some rough cuts of the latest episodes of Kurt Kussler. Snuggling on his couch so close to him takes my mind off my recent ordeal. The show looks amazing, and the story’s on fire. The plot isn’t the only thing heating up; his body brushes against mine and incites me. A barrage of tiny bolts of lightning bombards me.

“What’s going to happen between Kurt and Mel?” I ask him. While subtle, things have been simmering between the tormented ex-CIA agent and his faithful assistant.

A coy smile lights up his gorgeous face. He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

Bullshit. I want to punch him. By that smug expression on his face, I so know he knows. He’s after all writing the season finale. As the end credits roll, the smartass clicks the TV off and reprimands me.