Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story)

by Nelle L'Amour

  Talking about privacy, it looks like I have company. A tall, lean figure in a long white robe slinks around the pool, moving like a lioness. Katrina. Unaware of my presence, she shrugs off her robe at the edge of the deep end. My eyes stay riveted on her. I’m in awe of her beauty and her grace. The full moon illuminates her flawless porcelain skin, long sinewy muscles, and broad sculpted shoulders. She’s wearing a sleek white tank bathing suit that’s cut to make her impossibly long legs look longer and to bring out every sensuous curve of her perfectly proportioned body. The slender five-foot-nine beauty looks like a goddess. The perfect mate for a sex god like Brandon. I watch as she gathers up her golden mane into a high ponytail, lowers her goggles over her eyes, and then lifts her long, toned arms above her head into a diving position. Without hesitation, she springs off the side of the pool, headfirst into the water. Her arched form is perfect, elegant just like her, and she meets the water with only the tiniest of splashes. She immediately segues into a graceful yet powerful breaststroke, lifting her head minimally for a breath of air. Swimming lap after lap, she looks like a siren. I can’t take my eyes off her.

  About twenty swift laps in, she catches sight of me on a breath. She swims my way to the edge of the pool. Lifting her goggles atop her head, she rests her elbows on the ledge and meets my gaze. A wicked glint lights her cat-green eyes.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the gopher.”

  I simmer. “My name is Zoey.”

  “Just hanging out?”

  “Yeah, just hanging out.”

  “You should come in for a swim. The water is warm and delicious. And God knows, you sure could use the exercise.”

  The insult stings, but I bite back my tongue. “I’m not dressed for a swim.” And it’s not my thing.

  “Just take off your clothes and go for a skinny dip. Or should I say fatty dip.” She laughs at her own cleverness.

  Rage whips through my bloodstream like an angry cobra. I want to sink my fangs into her. But I can’t. She’s my boss’s fiancée.

  “Katrina, I’m going to head in.”

  Her face darkens. “Please don’t. We need to have a little chat.”

  “There’s nothing to chat about.”

  Her eyes narrow into poisonous arrows. “I don’t like you hanging around Brandon so much. I want you to stop it.”

  “That’s my job and I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Well, you better get used to it because soon I’m going to be the boss of this house.”

  I’ve had enough. “I’m leaving.”

  Katrina scowls at my defiance. “Show a little respect, Zo-eeeey.”

  “Excuse me.” I push myself off the chaise to a standing position.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  I don’t respond and start to walk away.

  “Excuse me. Do you have a hearing problem? I said not to leave.”

  On my next step, I feel a cold clamp clutching my ankle. I look down. It’s Katrina. I try to free my foot from her grip, but her hand grasps it tight like a shackle.

  “Let go!” I yell, struggling to free myself.

  “Bitch! You’re not going anywhere.”

  Tightening her grip, she yanks my ankle so forcefully I lose my balance, and on my next breath, I’m flying into the deep end of the pool. I hit the water hard and open my mouth to scream, but as I go under, the warm salt water rushes in, choking me, burning my throat. Tumbling in all directions, I somehow manage to rise to the surface.

  “Enjoy your little swim,” snickers Katrina as she hoists herself out of the pool.

  Flailing, I plead, “Don’t leave me.”

  She looms above me and scoffs. “Funny, that’s just what I said to you.”

  My head goes back under. Water rushes through my mouth and my nose, this time filling and searing my lungs. I frantically wave my hands and kick my legs in all directions. I rise to the surface again, only to see Katrina loping toward her robe. Terror fills me.

  “Katrina,” I shout out. “Come back! I can’t swim.”

  She ignores me. Panic sets in.

  Oh, God! I’m drowning! I’m going to die the same way my mother did.

  The weight of my soaked sweatshirt—and pure panic—pulls me under again. I try breathing through my nose, only to have more water break in and enter my lungs. The terrifying cycle repeats itself. I manage to surface, but it’s only a few seconds until I’m back under. More water gathers in my lungs, permeating and burning every crevice.

  Gasping for air, I resurface, my head barely above the water. I struggle not to sink back under, but I’m literally and figuratively in over my head. I shout out another desperate plea for help. I glimpse Katrina, smirking. Tears of despair gather in my eyes.

  In full-blown panic mode, my mind races. Think, Zoey. Think! If I could only grab onto the edge. It’s my only hope. But all my thrashing is pulling me farther and farther away, closer to the middle of the pool. I feel helpless and hopeless. And I’m growing exhausted.

  This time when I go under, I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe it’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. This can’t be happening to me. No, it can’t be! It’s not my time. I try to wish it away. But as more water seeps through my lungs, my horrid reality sets back in. I don’t know how to swim. The pool is my nemesis. I’m a drowning fool.

  When my head slices through the water, I blink open my eyes and see Katrina hovering over me. A smug smile plays on her lips.

  “Katrina, please! Help me!” I choke. Tears pour from my stinging eyes.

  She sneers. “You are so pathetic.”

  I grow desperate. “Help! Help! Help!” Maybe God will hear me and rescue me.

  He doesn’t because after my next fading cry for help I’m under again. My lungs are aching. It feels like my chest is going to burst because the air wants to come out so badly. But I don’t want to let it go. It’s the only air I have. For the first time, I notice swirls of colorful lights beneath the water. Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in a sea of Kool-Aid. And then, a peacefulness washes over me. I’m floating. I belong to the water now. To my astonishment, I see my mother’s serene face, her long Celtic-red hair fanned out all around her. She’s floating toward me, her slender arms extended with those beautiful fingers beckoning me. I reach out for them. Oh, Mama! You’ve come back for me. We’re together again!

  “Baby girl, I’m going to take you to Papa.” Her melodic voice ripples in my ears.

  A vortex of white light shrouds me and then I sink into a black abyss.

  Chapter 17

  Brandon

  After the focus group, I drive straight home. Before I dive into the season finale, I need to finish reading the script that’s shooting this week and go over my lines. In just two days, I’ll be on the set again, something that both excites and unnerves me.

  I pull my car into my garage and head into my adjoining house. I step into the kitchen and go straight to the fridge. I swing open the door and pull out a beer. Then, I meander to the living room. The sides that Zoey printed out are still on the coffee table where I left them. Twisting open the bottle cap, I sink into the couch and take a swig.

  I haven’t seen my assistant since the Katrina incident. After coming back from her meeting with her father, she avoided me like the plague and figured out a way to get all my requests done without having to see me. Maybe I should have asked her to undress me, but the smart-mouth would have probably told me: “Taking your clothes off is not part of my contract.” Nah-nah-nah-nah! The truth, disrobing me probably isn’t one of her job requirements. Whoever negotiated this contract should have their ass fired.

  My eyes shift to my sides. An uplifting thought crosses my mind. It’s almost a light bulb moment. I can ask her to rehearse my lines with me. She told me she does that as part of her job. Setting the beer down next to the sides folder, I slip my phone out from my jeans pocket and text her.

  I need u to help me with my lines. I’m home.

  I hit send
and wait for a response. Nada. The little tease is playing games with me again. Tick. Tick. Tick. My patience is wearing thin. I text her again.

  COME NOW!

  My cock twitches as I type those two shouty words. And my pulse quickens. Why does this girl affect me? Considering Katrina and the gorgeous women I’ve been associated with in the past, she’s definitely not my type. Plus, she’s got the bristly personality of a porcupine. I’m always waiting for her to shower me with quills. Yet, inexplicably, I’m attracted to her—her lush curves and her sharp wit. Her fine ass and sass trump Katrina’s fine bones and class.

  Once again, she doesn’t respond. From where I’m sitting, I can glimpse her little house and the lights are out. Maybe she’s sleeping and doesn’t hear her phone. Or has it turned off. Or maybe she’s out with her boyfriend again. The unsettling thought rattles me. Mental note: Talk to her tomorrow and make it crystal-clear she must tell me where she is and what she’s doing at all times. Maybe throw in some restrictions. Like you can’t see your boyfriend while working for me.

  It’s late. Taking another chug of beer, I remove my sides from the folder and begin to study my lines. Repeating them over and over. Forget it. I take a deep, frustrated breath. I’ve gone over this scene a dozen times today, and I’m just not feeling it. And it’s shooting in just a couple days. It’s a flashback—a heavy-duty love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. It takes place in their shower. It’s not like there are many lines. More moans and groans than words. But I can’t seem to instill the few lines I have with any real emotion and make them convincing. I sound passive when I should sound passionate. Apathetic when I should sound orgasmic. Have I lost it?

  Rehearsing the lines again, I have a small memory breakthrough. I hear the husky voice of my acting coach, Bella Stadler, telling me to draw from experience. Bring what you’ve lived to every part you play. If you need to feel sad and cry, think about your pet dog or a loved one that died. Thinking about putting down my lab Buddy or my parents’ fatal car crash is not going to help me. This is a love scene, a very sensuous one. From what I’ve read, me-the-player never did love…well, up until Katrina. I’ve loved her enough to ask her to marry me and exchange “until death do us part” vows, but still cannot remember a damn thing about our history or relationship. Thanks to my amnesia, it’s a void in my life. I feel nothing toward her. Dig deep, I tell myself. I try to remember. America’s It Girl doesn’t do it for me. Nothing comes to mind.

  Halfway into my next line, screams for help steal my attention. I listen carefully. A woman’s voice; the cries grow louder. They’re coming from the pool area. It must be Katrina. She told me she loves to take late night swims. My panic button sounds. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Dropping the pages of the script, I fly out of my house.

  Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I arrive at the pool in no time. Breathing hard, I need to reset my mental button. Katrina is there, but she’s not the one in trouble. It’s Zoey. Her body is floating across the surface of the water. I brush past my dumb-founded fiancée and, fully clothed, jump in. With a few adrenaline-powered strokes, I reach my assistant and immediately flip her onto her back and then manage to drag her through the water to safety. Cradling her in my arms, I hoist her lifeless body out of the pool onto the cement deck. In a rapid heartbeat, I’m by her side on my knees. All color is drained from her angelic face; she’s as limp as rag doll.

  “Zoey!” I shout out. No response. “Zoey!” Then it hits me.

  Panic grips me by the balls. “She’s not breathing!” I say aloud while a half-amused Katrina with her arms folded casually looks on.

  “Puh-lease. It’s just an attention-seeking act,” she snips.

  I think my fiancée is wrong. Not wasting a second, I begin to administer CPR. Having been a lifeguard before I was an actor, it’s something I know and remember how to do. Parting Zoey’s bowed, bluish lips, I immediately cover them with mine and breathe into her mouth. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The kiss of life.

  “C’mon Zoey, breathe,” I plead as I take a brief reprieve to catch my own breath. Renewed with oxygen, my mouth goes back down on her hers. I resume breathing into it. “C’mon, Zoey,” I silently pray. My sinking heart almost beats out of my chest.

  “Jesus Christ.” Nada.

  Chapter 18

  Zoey

  “Zoey.”

  It’s God. His warm lips are breathing life back into me. His strong hands pump my heart rhythmically.

  “Breathe, Zoey, breathe!” The heavenly voice is louder, more desperate. He pumps me harder, faster, his soft lips touching down on mine once again.

  “C’mon, Zoey!

  All life is ebbing out of me. I’ve gone to a higher place.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He’s called out his name. I’m with Mama. I’m His.

  “Damn it, Zoey. Breathe!”

  The words drift into my ear. Consciousness seeps into my veins. Wait a minute. God doesn’t cuss. I’m not in heaven. Nowhere near. Heaven, so close to the sun, is supposed to feel light and airy. Wherever I am feels cold, hard, and wet. My eyes flutter open, and as they do, I cough up water. Reality sets in. Soaked to the bone, I’m lying flat on my back on a slab of cement. I blink again. The vision of my blurred, stinging eyes grows clearer. Kneeling next to me is another god. My boss. The sexiest man on the planet…Brandon Taylor. His glistening face looms over mine. His lips are dangerously close to my mouth, his breath so close I can feel it heat my cheeks. His violet eyes are wide with worry. When I cough again, his anxious expression eases up. Dripping wet in a T-shirt and jeans, he gently lifts my head into his arms.

  “Hey.” His voice is soft and breathy.

  Still choking, I can’t get a word out.

  “You all right?” Genuine concern fills his eyes.

  Catching my breath, I nod and give him a little smile.

  He smiles back with a sigh of relief. “Jeez, Zo. You almost drowned.”

  The memory of my near-death experience rears up like an angry sea serpent. Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina, yanked me into the pool. On purpose. I’m almost sure of it. And she just watched me flounder even though I was crying out desperate for help. My eyes dart around the circumference of the patio. Katrina is nowhere to be found. I shiver. In part, because I’m so wet and cold; in part, because of the harrowing experience, and in part, because Brandon is holding me.

  Rage and revenge rising, I debate about telling him what happened, but in the end, I simply don’t have the strength. Or desire. Besides, I can’t prove the evil bitch’s actions were deliberate. It could easily end up being a nasty my word against hers shouting match with my ass getting fired.

  “I guess I’d better be going.” My voice is hoarse, and my throat burns from all the salt water I’ve swallowed.

  Slowly, I lift myself to sit up, but before I can get into an upright position, Brandon scoops me into his strong arms as if I’m a mere waif. An incredible lightness of being sweeps over me as he carries me to safety. Depleted of energy, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean my head against his wet, chiseled chest. His heart beats into my ear like a psalm. Now, I’m in heaven.

  Chapter 19

  Brandon

  Zoey clings to me like I’m a lifesaver. In reality, that’s what I am. If I hadn’t jump into the pool as fast as I did, she might have been a goner. The thought rattles me in my steps.

  She feels so light in my arms. Wet and delicious. I could carry her for miles, but arrive at her guesthouse at the end of my property in no time. I kick open the front door and transport her straight to her bathroom. I set her gently down on the tiled counter. It’s impeccably neat and organized. A reflection of her personality.

  The question—how did she end up in the pool?—is hot on my mind, but right now my assistant needs attention. Dripping wet, she’s shivering like crazy, her teeth chattering madly. I rake my fingers through her soaked straggly hair, brushing errant strands out of her eyes. I meet her waterlogg
ed gaze. “You need to take a hot bath.”

  “I prefer a shower.” She smiles at me, her bluish lips quivering from the chill. “You need one too.”

  She reminds me that I’m as drenched as she is, and I admit I’m a little chilled too. With a shudder of my own, the thought of taking a shower with her enters my mind. While her soaked oversized sweatshirt and baggie sweats leave a lot to the imagination, in my mind’s eye, I picture her luscious curves, scrumptious ass, and her bountiful tits. What would it be like to shower with her…wash every ounce of her…part her long chestnut hair and plant a kiss on the nape of her neck…trail my mouth down her spine to her ass… and spread those sweet cheeks and…

  What’s wrong with me? I keep fantasizing about my assistant. Maybe this hit and run accident messed with my head in more ways than one. Is it possible that my inexplicable attraction to her is related to my amnesia? Her soft raspy voice cuts into my mental ramblings.

  “Brandon, you’d better get going. The last thing you need is to get sick before your first day back on the set.”

  She’s right. After being out of commission from my accident for almost a month, I don’t need to get sick. And I sure as hell don’t need to get carried away with her, especially when she’s so vulnerable. I should say goodnight, but I don’t want to leave her quite yet. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? I can make you some tea.”

  Her eyes light up with silent laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She grins. “The thought of the macho man who plays vigilante Kurt Kussler making and drinking tea. It’s so… contradictory.”

  A sudden electrical current zaps my brain and I blink several times. A mixture of pain and pleasure consumes me. It’s like a memory is trying to poke through my thick skull. Tea. There’s something special about tea. I like it and drank it with someone before. But who?

  “Are you okay?” asks Zoey, responding to the pinched look on my face. I can see my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom counter. There’s a deep crease between my brows and an equally deep frown line that slices across my forehead.