I take that to mean expensive.

“You’re just going to love everything we pick out.”

“I’m sure I will.” At that moment, I see Zoey heading toward us, carrying a small Starbucks bag.

Katrina doesn’t notice her and starts spewing all the registry items she has in mind. From hand painted china sets to sterling silver tea sets. I half-listen. My mind is more focused on my iced coffee, and the girl who’s bringing it our way. She doesn’t have movie star looks, but she’s fucking adorable with her curvy-little body and that kissable, upturned mouth.

“And Brandy-Poo, one more thing we really need to think about is our honey—”

“Your coffees.” Zoey sets the bag down on the table and serves us both, Katrina first.

Katrina immediately grabs her coffee without acknowledging Zoey.

“You’re welcome,” singsongs my assistant, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I have to love her. She hands me mine.

“Thanks, Zo.” Our eyes connect and she smiles.

“No, prob.”

“Why don’t you join us?”

Katrina’s eyes narrow. “Zoey, why don’t you go to the kitchen first and get me a cup and saucer. I don’t care for drinking coffee out of a paper cup. It’s so uncouth.”

“You have two legs. Get them yourself.” She stalks off with an air of confidence.

Score one for Zoey. Katrina’s jaw drops to the ground.

“Brandon, how could you let that rude girl talk to me like that? You should fire her sorry ass.”

There are a lot better things I want to do to her ass. Shit. I’m engaged. A pang of guilt assaults me.

After coffee, Katrina splits, and I take a hot shower and get dressed—jeans and a T-shirt. I spend the rest of the morning going over my Kurt Kussler script and rehearsing. I’m at once excited and anxious about being back on the set tomorrow. It’ll be my first time since the accident. I’ve decided once again not to let anyone know I have amnesia. It’s pointless and will put everyone on edge. I’ve watched enough episodes to know who’s who, and Zoey put together a file of the cast and crew. I don’t quite have all the crew members down—between cameramen, ADs, grips, wardrobe, hair and makeup, catering, and PA’s, there’s well over a hundred. It takes a village to produce a TV series. But yours truly has a plan. I’ll just avoid calling people by their first names, and if I screw up, I’ll just cover it up with a lighthearted excuse à la: “It’s been a long time, man. It’s easy to forget.” You have no clue!

The first scene up tomorrow is the love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. A flashback. No matter how many times I’ve rehearsed it, I’m still not getting it. Or should I say, making it work. I’m growing frustrated and anxious. The last thing I want is to suck tomorrow. I’m an Emmy and Golden Globe nominated actor. My cast and crew expect me to be good. Make that great.

At half past one, I’ve had it. Cussing, I crumple up my script pages in my fist, toss them across the living room, and then pour myself a Scotch. It’s way to early for me to be drinking, but I’ve got a throbbing headache and need to de-stress.

Nursing the Scotch, an idea comes to me. The same one I had last night before all the drama.

Zoey. Rehearsing my lines with me is on her list of job responsibilities.

Slamming my tumbler down on the coffee table, I reach for my iPhone and text her.

Print out two more copies of my sides and get ur ass over here.

Before I hit send, I modify my message.

Print out two more copies of my sides and get ur sweet ass over here.

One word can make a difference. As Jackie Gleason used to say on the Honeymooners, an old show from the fifties my mother loved to watch… How sweet it is.

I impatiently wait for her reply. Zippo. My feisty assistant is back to playing games with me. I text her again.

If ur not here soon, I’m going to drag u by ur hair like a caveman.

My cock flexes as I type the words. And I silently chuckle. The savage Neanderthal image gives me more than a rise and a laugh. The thought of dominating her like that sends a ripple of recollection through my head. I blink several times, searching for a memory I’m obviously suppressing.

Before I hit send, she responds: Coming.

My rigid cock strains against my jeans in anticipation.

Damn my amnesia!

Damn that girl!

Zoey

The asshole hasn’t changed one bit. He’s still texting me obnoxious messages and I’m still at his beck and call. I take that back. He’s gotten worse. That head injury has given him more than amnesia. I think he’s gone bi-polar. One minute, he’s super nice to me, the next a total jerk. I don’t know what to expect.

I re-read his text and read more into it than I should. If he wants my sweet ass, I’m going to give him what he wants. I hastily change from my baggy sweats into a sexy tight black mini-skirt and sleeveless tank top, both courtesy of Chaz. Before heading over, I examine myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. Before my sojourn at the spa, I made a decision to take it down once and for all—waking up to my chunky body was not the best way to start a day—but now that I’ve shed some pounds, I don’t mind it. I study my reflection. Okay, though far from thin by Hollywood standards, I look good. Wearing all black is slenderizing. I shove my hands under my skirt to fix my top. With a couple of tugs, it hugs my solid curves perfectly. I’m wearing my best Gloria’s Secret push up bra—and in this clingy top, I must say my cleavage is outstanding. Thanks to the spa, my legs are thinner and more toned, and the platforms I have on make them look longer. Retrieving the sides from my printer, Go-to-Zo is ready to go.

“Hel-lo-O. I’m here”

I catch Brandon off guard on the couch reading the trades. While most now read The Hollywood Reporter or Variety online, he still likes to read the daily paper versions. I wonder if it’s because his late father owned a newsstand. He doesn’t know I found that out online. I’ve googled just about everything about him. With my uncanny memory, I’m a walking encyclopedia when it comes to Brandon Taylor.

He looks up and stares at me. Let me rephrase. He eyes me from head to toe. “You look nice.”

Surprised at the compliment, I adjust my skirt. “Thanks.”

“Are you going some place special later?”

“I have a date tonight.” I have no clue what made me say that.

“Oh,” he mutters under his breath. “That guy you went out to lunch with?”

I flash a smile. “Yes.” Well, it’s true.

He knits his brows. “Your boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah.” That’s true, too, depending on how you interpret the word “boyfriend.”

He frowns and I change the subject. “I brought your sides. Two copies like you asked.” I slide them out of the folder I’m holding and hand them to him.

He hands one stapled set back to me. “I need you to rehearse the first scene with me.”

My breath hitches. To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to his sides. I just hit print and threw them into a folder.

“Sure, no problem.”

“You should study the lines and then we’ll work on them.”

With the sides in hand, I plop down on the leather chair closest to him. I can feel his eyes on me as I read over the scene. I cross my legs to quell the sudden tingly sensation between them.

With every word, my pulse quickens and chest tightens. And I grow heated. It’s one of those flashbacks with Kurt Kussler and his late wife. A love scene. An explicit one that takes place shortly before Alisha is brutally executed by Kurt’s nemesis, The Locust.