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.”
I cringe at the thought of them doing the walk of fame, arm in arm, all smiles and waves, the paparazzi having a field day. Technically, I shouldn’t even be working. Sunday is my one day off. But because of the Golden Globes, Brandon demanded my presence. I have no choice.
Brandon tosses his cell phone on the coffee table. “I’m going to shower. Meet me in my bathroom in ten minutes.”
The still steamy bathroom smells intoxicating, a mix of Brandon’s expensive hair products, body lotion, and cologne. Clad in a thick white towel that hangs low on his hips, he’s perched at the vanity counter, studying himself in the lit-up, wall-to-wall mirror. I stare at his reflection, mesmerized by his sculpted pecs, muscled arms, and gorgeous face. A few strands of his unruly damp hair dangle just above his dark brows. His violet eyes sparkle. He’s everything a movie star should be.
With his good hand, he scratches his beard. With his sprained fingers, he hasn’t been able to shave all weekend. Usually he has a faint trace of stubble along his sharp jaw line, but it’s grown in thick like thistle. It’s a new form of sexy that I rather like. I long to run my fingers through it and try to imagine what it feels like. Wet velvet? Raw silk? Sweet blades of grass?
Catching my reflection in the mirror, he narrows his eyes. “I need to shave.”
“You look good with a beard.”
He cocks a brow. “You think so?”
“Totally.”
He quirks a sexy smile and strokes his jaw again. “My fans won’t like it. It’s got to go.”
He’s right-handed. His right hand is useless. It takes me a second to decode his words. Gah! He wants me to give him a shave. Take a razor to his face.
“You trust me to shave you?” I ask nervously.
“I have no choice. Have you ever shaved someone?”
“Yeah. I shave my armpits and legs all the time.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean a man.”
I used to pretend-shave my Ken doll when I was little, but that doesn’t count. I shake my head no.
He hoists himself on the marble counter and faces me. We’re almost eye-level.
“What if I cut you?”
“You won’t. Just follow my instructions and you’ll do fine.”
He has more confidence in me than I do.
A few minutes later, I’m gripping a badger brush and lathering his face in circular motions with his shaving cream. It smells clean and rich, intoxicating like him. His warm, minty breath tickles my neck. My skin is prickling.
He brushes the fingertips of his left hand along his foamy beard. “Perfection.”
I beam. A tingly sensation sweeps through my body. Mr. Put Down just gave me a compliment. My confidence surges.
I set the brush back down on a silver tray and take hold of the shaver. It’s an old-fashion safety razor, not a disposable one. With a hint of melancholy, Brandon tells me that it and the brush belonged to his late father. I have the burning urge to ask more about his deceased parents, but we’re short on time and I don’t want to arouse any more memories that may dampen his spirits on this big night. Maybe some other time. What I’ve learned, however, is that behind his macho, controlling façade is some tenderness and vulnerability.
My heart leaps back into my throat as I put the razor to his face. What if I screw up? Mutilate him? Make him bleed to death? Even the tiniest nick can spell disaster. All these worries bombard me as I glide the sharp blade downward toward his jaw with my unsteady hand. He holds himself perfectly still as I clear his bristle. Bingo! I repeat my actions, and before long, I’ve cleared the entire right side of his face. I can’t help running my fingers along his jaw. It feels smooth, but I’ve managed to leave just a fine layer of stubble. He mimics my action.
That dazzling smile flashes on his face. “You’re good at playing barber.”
I smile back at him while I rinse the blade and then shave the other side of his face. My confidence is soaring. And so is the bubble of sexual energy rising inside me. This sensuous experience is turning me on. And then when I set the blade down, my eyes pop at the sight of a tent between his legs. Holy shit! It’s turned him on too! Beneath the towel, he’s got a raging hard-on! I swallow hard. My heart pounds. So close to him, I’m sure he can hear it.
A smug smile curves up his delicious lips. Oh yeah, he knows. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I stammer. Who am I kidding? I’m so sexually charged I may combust.
“Good. You’re almost there. You just need to douse my face with some of my aftershave.” He points to the bottle on the counter. I grab it and pour a little of the lavender-scented French cologne onto my palm. And then I splash it on his smooth skin, cupping his breathtaking face in my hands, his lips dangerously close to mine. My hands linger and my mind wanders back to that shower with him. I replay his kiss. And feel those luscious lips back on my own. My mouth parts involuntarily as if ready for his deft tongue.