Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (17 page)

He tips up my chin with a thumb and shoots me that panty-melting smile. “Don’t worry about it. Right after I shower and dress, we’re going shopping.”

“B-but, I have a million things to do.”

“You have nothing to do. Just get ready. Barneys opens at ten. End of discussion.” Taking his coffee with him, he strides to the back entrance of his house, leaving me a hot, wet, excited mess. As soon as he’s no longer in sight, I leap to my feet and actually do one crazy happy dance. Whoo hoo! I’m going to Cannes with Brandon!!

Barneys in Beverly Hills is bustling with chic, affluent-looking men and women, who obviously have nothing better to do than shop for clothes, shoes, and makeup at ten o’clock in the morning. The stunning women all look like they wear size zero. Clad in chic all-black ensembles or tight-ass designer jeans, they fit in perfectly with the store’s glistening black and white marble décor. All eyes are on gorgeous Brandon, who looks like he belongs here, and on me, who looks like something the cat brought in, my hair a Medusa-like mess from driving here in his vintage Jag convertible. I feel out of my element. Target or T.J. Maxx is where I belong.

Brandon eschews the winding stairs for the elevator off the perfume department. It’s packed. Several pencil-thin, stylish women, who look like they could be supermodels, say hello to Brandon, and stare at him seductively. They’re probably former hook-ups—just his type. A few suspicious eyeballs stay riveted on me. I can read their minds like a magazine: What is
she
doing with him? I face forward to avoid eye contact and eagerly await the elevator doors to part. Brandon allows the other passengers to exit first when we hit the second floor.

“Are we getting out here too?” I ask as they file out.

“Yup. This is the Designer Floor.”

Tingly goosebumps sprinkle over me like fairy dust when he takes my hand. His grip is warm and firm.

“C’mon, Zo. I’ve got a personal shopper lined up who’ll get you everything you need for Cannes.”

Holy shit! A personal shopper. My excitement comes to a screeching halt as I step out of the elevator.

“Why darling, fancy meeting you here!”

It’s Katrina, dressed to the nines in a sleeveless black mini dress that’s complemented by matching stilettos and a monstrous designer bag. Her perfectly coiffed platinum hair cascades over her shoulders as if she’s just come straight from a high-end salon. Behind her, are two weary sales associates. One is clutching all-in-pink Gucci, who wags his tail at the sight of us. The other is wheeling a rack of extraordinary designer dresses. Sparkles abound.

Brandon lets go of my hand before she notices. Katrina flings her toned arms around him, completely ignoring me. Smiling, she turns her head toward the overflowing rack of clothes. Dozens of glittering jewel-toned gowns hang from it, packed like shimmering sardines.

“These are all the dresses I’ve selected to wear on my show over the next coming weeks and on our honeymoon.”

At the word honeymoon, my stomach bunches. I anxiously watch as she yanks one of the dresses off the rack. A strapless persimmon Armani. I glimpse the price tag—twelve hundred dollars.

She holds it up against her. “Darling, this is the dress I’m going to wear when I visit Daddy. I’ll show the world that orange is the new black my way.”

“That’s great.” Two monotone syllables.

Katrina bats her feline green eyes. “Brandy-Poo, since you’re here, would you like me to give you a fashion show? Mommy’s going to be here, too, any minute.”

“Can’t. I have something important to do.”

Spoiled brat Katrina looks miffed. “And what might that be?”

She still hasn’t said a word to me. It’s like I don’t exist. I wonder—does she know I’m going to Cannes with Brandon?

“I need to help Zoey pick out a wardrobe for MIP since she’s coming with me.”

Well, she sure as hell knows now. In the blink of an eye, the expression on Katrina’s face goes from questioning to cold fury. She slaps her manicured hands onto her jutting hipbones as her jaw drops to the marble floor.

“What!? You’re taking that fat peon to Cannes?”

“Yup,” says Brandon matter-of-factly. “And please don’t
ever
call her that again.”

“Are you out of your mind? She’s a total embarrassment.”

I clench my hands by my sides so I don’t punch her in the face. Or pull out a clump of her hair. A catfight with America’s “It Girl” at Barneys would not look good. It would definitely be all over the Internet by noon.

“She’s going to assist me,” adds Brandon. He refrains from telling her that I’m attending the red-carpet premiere of the
Kurt Kussler
season finale.

Katrina calms down with a haughty fling of her hair. “Very well. But you’re wasting your time here. There’s nothing in this store that would fit her fat ass.”

“Katrina! Apologize! Do it now!”

“Puh-lease.”

Gucci growls at her.

I feel myself reddening with rage and want to scratch her eyeballs out. But dammit, she’s right. I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to be ridiculed by some obnoxious salesperson. I need to get out of here as fast as I can. And then
ping!
A light bulb goes off in my head. Why didn’t I think of this before?

“C’mon, Brandon. Let’s go.” I step back into the elevator. Brandon follows me. I pound the ground floor button.

“Brandon, where the hell are you going? We need to talk!” shrieks Katrina.

The doors close in her face, catching her orange dress. She screams, “Open up!” as the elevator descends. So long, bitch!

Five minutes later, Brandon and I are back in his car, heading downtown.

In no time, thanks to unusually minimal traffic and Brandon’s need for speed, we’re in downtown LA at Chaz’s fabulous new showroom. After his former studio, in a rundown building, virtually evaporated in an electrical fire, Jeffrey raised the funds to relocate the studio to the hip Arts District and make his fiancé’s studio a showcase—a sleek, vast modernist space that mirrors the aesthetic of his designs. It’s way beyond what his insurance claim would have covered.

“Zoeykins, let’s get this show rolling,” gushes Chaz after a big hug and learning about my trip to Cannes. “This is so exciting.”

While he scurries to put together a new wardrobe for me, Brandon plops down on an oversized white leather chair. He leans back, folds his arms across his chest, and gives me the once over. My skin prickles everywhere.

“What size are you?”

My heart skips a beat as my eyes flick to the model-sized mannequin in the corner of the studio. I scan her long sculpted legs, narrow waist, jutting hipbones. Katrina!

My eyes shift back to Brandon. Cocking a brow, he shoots me an unnerving look. “Well…”

“I’m a size…”

Six!
I so want to say six.

“S-s…”

Brandon taps his foot impatiently.

“S-s…” The number is on the tip of my tongue.

“S-size…” I vomit the next word. “Ten.”

To my horror, I swear he mentally undresses me and then to my surprise, smiles approvingly. “A perfect ten.”

The next hour is ripped from the pages of a fairy tale. A medley of Meghan Trainor songs blasts out of concealed speakers, followed by Mark Ronson’s “Uptown Funk.” I parade out of the dressing room, wearing one outfit after another, each one more fabulous than the one before. I effortlessly and sexily move to the beat of the music. Strutting my stuff with hip moves that rival a supermodel’s, I feel like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
though she’s far from my size and four inches taller. Brandon just sits there, sexily slouched, legs spread apart, and either nods approvingly or gives a thumbs up. He’s enjoying every minute of my show. Much more than he lets on. It’s hard to miss the visible bulge between his legs. I’m fucking turning him on! And the truth is I’m turned on like a fire hydrant. I may need to buy a new pair of panties to replace my drenched ones.

By noon, I’ve line up over two dozen outfits for MIP—ranging from sequined mini dresses and gowns to chic jeans and a super-sexy tux outfit similar to the one Rihanna wore on the Grammy’s.

My brother’s exuberant fiancé beams. “Zoeykins, you’re going to rock it in Cannes.”

Brandon’s eyes travel from my face to my toes, lingering on parts of me he has no right to be staring at. He flashes his trademark cocky grin.

“Yeah, she is.”

Brandon

T
aking Zoey shopping for clothes is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I’ve never done that before to the best of my recollection. I mean, taking a woman shopping. By this time, the experience would have triggered a memory. My memory’s coming back to me at the speed of an avalanche, though I’m constantly thrown off course by things I can’t remember. One thing’s for sure, I’ve never taken my fiancée Katrina on a shopping spree. She’s perfectly capable of doing that herself. I banish the thought of her before she spoils all the fun.

Zoey’s so fucking sexy as she models one seductive outfit after another. Halfway through her—or should I say my—fashion show, inhibition gives way to exhibition. She’s practically a Gloria’s Secret supermodel as she struts out of the dressing room in a sparkly body-hugging violet gown with a thigh-high slit that accentuates every curve of her sensuous body. It’s definitely what I want her to wear to the
Kurt Kussler
season finale premiere at MIP…and then I will rip it off of her curvy little body as soon as I can. Yup, that’s the plan. My cock couldn’t agree more and applauds her as she does her spin.

Zoey changes back into her jeans. While she’s in the dressing room, I remember one more thing she’ll need for Cannes.

“Chaz-man, do you by chance have a woman’s leather jacket lying around?”

Chaz grins. “You’re in luck. Hang on.”

My eyes follow him as he scuttles over to one of the racks filled with heavy woolen clothes made for colder weather. In no time, he’s back, holding up a hanger with a snazzy brown leather jacket draped on it.

“This is my Jazzy-Chazzy motorcycle jacket. It’s a sample from my Fall line.”

I smile. “It’s perfect. We’ll take it. How much do I owe you?”

“Forget it,” he says. “The publicity I’ll get with Zoey wearing my designs is priceless.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally.”

“What about a charity I can contribute to?”

Chaz’s eyes light up. “That would be awesome. How ’bout my friend, Gloria Zander’s organization—Girls Like Us? It’s a non-profit that helps neglected and abused girls find a positive course in life.”

While Zoey’s never been neglected, the senseless murder of her mother to me was abusive. So, this charity makes sense.

I write out a $25,000 check while Chaz organizes the garments I’ve selected. The best money I ever spent. And an added surprise. Gloria Zander, the founder and CEO of Gloria’s Secret, will undoubtedly send over a boxful of sexy lingerie and shoes to match all the sexy dresses as her own special thank you. The skimpier the better I tell Chaz. I also tell him to keep the delivery anonymous. He shoots me a conspiratorial wink.

Cannes awaits us. I have a week to spend away from Katrina. To figure out who and what I want in life. My heart gallops. I think I already know. Despite my amnesia, my mind’s never been clearer. Should I tell her before we leave?