“I’d better be going,” I manage.

His intense gaze meets mine. Our eyes connect.

“No, Zoey. Don’t leave; stay with me. I may need you.”

Oh, God. Is he going to ask me to wipe his ass? Millions of women would kill to do that. But seriously?

He grimaces. “Don’t worry. I just want to look at you.” And then he grunts.

Watching Brandon Taylor take a shit with his violet eyes on me becomes the most perversely sensuous experience of my life. Personal assistant has a whole new meaning.

The bathroom incident is just the beginning of my week from hell. In addition to enduring the wrath of Hurricane Katrina for ordering the wrong brand of champagne (Dom Pérignon instead of Cristal), physically challenged Brandon is totally co-dependent on me. While he’s taken to wearing easy to pull on and off sweats, there are so many things he can’t manage. I only hope fingering Katrina is one of them.

On top of everything, the Golden Globes are coming up. They’re being held on Sunday at the Beverly Hilton. Brandon’s nominated for one in the Best Actor in a Television Series, Drama category. Half my days I spend dealing with his stylist and publicity team; the other half schlepping him to the set and various pre-awards events. Since both of Brandon’s sports cars are shifts, he can’t drive them with his splinted fingers. The spoiled brat refuses to ride in my cute little Mini. He says it’s too small for him—there’s not enough legroom and his head almost hits the roof. The truth is there’s barely enough room for his cock in the front seat. So, I’m stuck taking him around in his Hummer, which he also refuses to drive. His excuse: he’d rather sit back and use the time to study the file of nominees and presenters I put together for him. With his amnesia, he doesn’t know who’s who.

The bright red Hummer isn’t a car. It’s a veritable monster that takes up two lanes. I can barely navigate it let alone see above the steering wheel. It’s made for someone built like Brandon, not diminutive five-foot three me. Every time I get in it, sweat pours from behind my knees, and I think my heart is going to ricochet out the windshield. Today’s no exception.

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Brandon yells at me. “We’re going to be late.”

Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I gulp. Driving at a snail’s pace is the best I can muster. Mr. Impatient will get to his pre-awards luncheon whenever. And that may be never. As the Hummer slowly winds down the narrow twisting Hollywood Hills streets, a speeding Jag comes at us at full force. Oh, no! We’re going to collide! With an ear-piercing screech, I swerve off the road.

“Jesus! What the fuck are you doing, Zoey?” screams Brandon as I jam down on the breaks. “You’re going to get us killed!”

I narrowly miss crashing into the hillside. Catching my breath, I’m near tears. “I don’t know how to drive this car. It’s too big for me.”

“Well, you better learn because you’re going to be driving it for a while.”

Hasn’t he heard of the words “Uber” or “taxi”? And there’s a new service called Lip Service. My entire body shaking, I get back on course and silently pray that we’ll both still be alive for the awards. Five minutes later, I sideswipe a delivery truck.

By Friday, as if all this Golden Globes stuff isn’t enough, I’m dealing with one insurance claim after another. I’ve hit so many cars parking the fucking monster I’ve lost count. While there’s hardly a dent on the invincible Hummer, the damage I’ve caused is substantial. I even knocked someone’s fender off. Brandon’s insurance premium is going to skyrocket.

I do some online research. It could take several weeks for a finger jam to heal. I’m not sure I’ll last that long with him. I’m exhausted from everything I’ve had to do for the invalid. From driving to spoon-feeding him. You’d think he’d be appreciative, but he’s not. He’s been in a bad mood all week. And with each passing day, he’s grown testier—a combination of frustration and pre-awards show jitters. He no longer talks; he growls.

Saturday rolls along with the force of an avalanche. The Golden Globes are only a day away, and he still hasn’t written his acceptance speech should he win. We’re engaged in a working lunch. Awaiting our delivery order from Brandon’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Chin Chin on Sunset, we’re sitting side by side on the couch. He’s so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. His long, muscular legs are stretched out onto the coffee table. I’m sitting cross-legged with my laptop on my thighs.

“Let’s try this…” He’s dictating his latest version of the speech to me. “This has been the greatest year of my life.”

I hastily type the words. I’m a super-fast typist…another one of my outstanding personal assistant skills.

“Scratch that. That’s so untrue. Someone ran me over. I’ve got fucking amnesia. I can’t remember a goddamn thing. For all I know, this year sucked.”

I hit delete. “Why don’t you just keep it simple? You only have a minute or so. Just thank the Hollywood Foreign Press and the most important people in your professional and personal life.”

His face brightens. “That’s a good idea. Why didn’t you think of that before?”

I mentally roll my eyes. “Thinking for you isn’t part of my job description.”

“It is now. I’m giving you a raise.” He tugs on my messy ponytail. A jolt of electricity bolts through me.

“Okay, go for it.” My fingertips are on the keyboard, ready to go.

“Got it.” He pauses briefly. “Thank you, members of the Hollywood Foreign Press for this incredible honor. There are so many individuals I want to thank, but tonight I’m just going to thank the most important people in my life. A big shout-out to Conquest Broadcasting and Blake Burns for believing in Kurt Kussler…my producer Doug DeMille and our wonderful production team…my amazing co-stars, the beautiful Jewel Starr and the funny and talented Kellie Fox…my faithful, long time manager, Scott Turner… my late parents for believing in me…um…uh…”

He tugs at his bottom lip with his thumb while I chime in. “You should thank your mentor.”

“My mentor, Stella Adler…”

“Bella Stadler.” I quickly correct him.

“Right.” He quirks a grateful little smile. “And last but not least…”

Feverishly typing away, my heartbeat speeds up as I await the final mention.

“…My beautiful fiancée, Katrina Moore, for never leaving my side when I needed her most.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. My fingers quiver. I force myself to type her name. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. I think that does it.”

I fight back hot tears. And forget to hit save.

Zoey

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Brandon is pacing the living room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His brows knit. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

He ends the call. “Shit!”

“What’s the matter?” I’ve been running over his schedule. His stylist along with the hair and makeup team should be here any minute to get him ready for the Golden Globes. While the actual awards ceremony doesn’t start until five o’clock, he needs to be at the Beverly Hilton by three to walk the red carpet and get settled.

“That was Scott. The van with my entourage got into an accident on the 101.”

“Oh my God. Are they okay?”

“Minor injuries, but they’ve all been taken to the hospital.” He looks at me beseechingly. “Zoey, I need your help.”

I knew that was coming. Go-to-Zo. That’s me. “Why can’t your ‘beautiful fiancée Katrina’ help you get ready?” I make air quotes with my fingers. My tone is snippy.

“Because she’s at her condo getting ready herself. She’s been at it all day. Make that all week. She wants everyone to look at her on the red carpet.”