Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(32)

While I tear it out of the ledger, my manager eyes my computer screen. “How’s the script going?”

Shit. I didn’t close the file on my desktop. I’ve got to be more careful. The story is top-secret. Not even my manager can know about it. Especially one I don’t trust. I hastily stop what I’m doing and shut down the computer.

“Good,” I stammer as the screen goes blank.

While I finish with the check, Scott sets his leather briefcase on the corner of the desk and unzips it. Overstuffed, it tips over and the contents splatter onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Scott mumbles, under his breath. He squats down to gather the assorted papers. Jumping up from my chair, I join him. The repulsive scent of his cloying cologne and smoke-filled clothes wafts up my nose.

“Thanks, man,” he says, stuffing his briefcase.

Helping him, I eye what looks to be an itinerary that includes a round-trip three hundred dollar ticket to Vegas and a three-day stay at The Venetian. He’s departing tonight. Not making mention of it, I slip it into his briefcase. He throws in the last remaining papers and a fallen box of Camels and then zips up the case. We stand up in unison.

“Don’t forget this,” I say, handing him the check.


“Yeah, thanks again, man.” With jittery fingers, he shoves it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m gonna be out of town for a couple of days, but call me if you need anything.”

“Good luck in Vegas,” is what I want to say, but I bite my tongue. There’s a reason why he didn’t volunteer his destination.

As soon as he’s gone, I call Pete and tell him about Scott’s mysterious trip to Sin City. “He’s on Southwest Flight 389 departing tonight at 7:50 from LAX.”

“Me and the missus haven’t been to Vegas in a while.” I can picture Pete smiling on the other end. “Thanks for the tip.”

My next call: Zoey. I share the news with her. To my surprise, her voice is flat and emotionless. Almost cold.

“Thank you for letting me know. I’m sure Pops will keep me informed.”

She hangs up.




That’s not the only time Zoey hangs up on me. Since the spanking incident, the dynamic in our relationship has changed. She avoids me as much as I avoid her, and when we do see each other, we avoid eye contact. I wish I never spanked her. I crossed the line. It was totally unprofessional. Yet, I think she enjoyed getting it as much as I enjoyed giving it to her. She refuses to talk about it.

It’s been three days. Zoey’s become totally closed off. I can’t even share her father’s latest findings about Scott. He’s a big gambler. Likes to play blackjack, the slots, and craps. Donatelli, however, was not spotted anywhere in Vegas. Pete’s not any closer to nailing Zoey’s mother’s murderer or solving my hit and run.

Whenever I begin a conversation, she merely says, “I know” or gives me the cold shoulder and walks away. Her emails and texts are equally terse. Every rejection of one of my advances shreds me. On Tuesday, Zoey delivers my Starbucks in the morning while I’m in the pool doing laps. I’ve decided I’m going to have a come to Jesus meeting with her. Enough with this shit. I want my assistant back. The way she was before. But when I emerge from the water, she’s gone. The sound of a car peeling out of my driveway screeches in my ear. What the f*ck? Sopping wet, I hurry to the table where I’ve left my cell phone and where she’s deposited the Starbucks bag. I speed dial her. No answer. I text her. No answer. I call again. No answer. She’s playing games with me again, and it’s pissing me off. Mad as hell, I reach into the bag for my caffeine fix. To make me madder, there’s no coffee. Only a note scrolled in her elegant handwriting on a paper napkin.

Brandon~

I’m taking some time off. I’m using my vacation time. Please do not call or text me. I won’t answer.

~Zoey

PS I don’t know when I’m coming back.

I crumple the napkin in my fist. I’m so blood-curdling mad I can feel steam coming out of my nostrils. I should just fire her sorry ass. But I can’t. I love that ass. And that’s not all I love about her. I love her curves, her big brown eyes, those kissable lips. Her fire and pride. The way she laughs and makes me laugh. Fuck. She’s under my skin and in my bloodstream. She’s everything Katrina isn’t. I relive the spanking. How she submitted to me yet stayed so strong. Obeyed without questioning. She’s awoken my sexual desire and made me realize I need to be in control. Dominate. With Katrina, I can never be in control. She submits to nothing and to no one. Including me. She’s either * whipping me or busting my balls—and that’s when she’s not as frigid as Lake Michigan in the winter. How could have I fallen in love with her? Was I different before my accident? Did my accident change me?

A familiar voice cuts my thoughts short. “Brandon, that bitch assistant of yours almost ran into me!”

Damn. Katrina. She’s back from Paris.

I wish Zoey had.

I don’t know when I’m coming back.

A horrible thought hits me. Panic grabs me by the balls.

Zoey’s leaving me.





Zoey


I’m heading back to that spa outside Joshua Tree. The one that slimeball Scott banished me to, of all places, while Brandon was comatose in the hospital. Call me nuts but don’t shred me. As much as I loathed it the first time around, it’s exactly what I need right now. An escape. It was relaxing; it made me think clearly, and I shed a few pounds.