“You’re an ET fan? That’s one of my favorite movies too.”
He laughs. “Not at all.” And then his expression turns a bit somber. “These cufflinks belonged to my father. His name was Edward.”
“Oh,” I mumble, covering up my embarrassment. I catch sight of a family photo on his nightstand and can see the powerful resemblance.
“They’re my lucky cufflinks. My most treasured possession. I may win tonight if I wear them.”
A wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if I break them or can’t fasten them? It’ll jinx his chance of winning the Best Actor award. Oh, God! What should I do?
Brandon’s impatient voice cuts into my despair. “Zoey, what are you waiting for?” Using his splint-free fingers, he plucks one of the cufflinks out of my hand. “I’ll hold this one while you insert the other.”
After a short internal debate, I decide not to tell him that I don’t know the first thing about cufflinks. I don’t even know where to start. Logic tells me I’m supposed fold up the cuff that drapes over the back of his hand, lining up the two sets of button holes, and then insert the cufflink into each slit to hold the cuff together. Fumbling, I manage to fold up the stiff, starched fabric and line up the holes. A fine layer of soft dark hair dusts the edge of his large, manly hand.
Pinching the edges of the cuff together with one hand, I attempt to slip the bottom half of the cufflink through the top slit with the other. Makes sense. Except I can’t get the disk through no matter how hard I try. My hands are shaking and the damn buttonhole won’t give an inch.
“Zoey, what’s taking so long? The limo will be here any minute.”
At the sound of Brandon’s miffed voice, I panic, and the cufflink slips through the cracks of my fingers.
“Oh shit!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just dropped your cufflink.”
“Jesus,” he says, following my eyes to the carpeted floor.
Crap. Where is it?
“I don’t see it!” he exclaims.
“Me neither!” My voice is thick with despair. I drop down on all fours and frantically search the carpet. Brandon follows suit, getting down on his hands and knees in his tux, the unfolded cuff trailing along the floor. We circle each other in our desperate scavenger hunt. Why can’t we find it? It couldn’t have gone far. And it shouldn’t be that hard to spot.
Guilt stabs me in the gut and shoots through my blood. These are his lucky cufflinks—a family heirloom. If he doesn’t wear them, he may not win tonight and it’ll be all my fault. My eyes start to water. Several rebel tears escape and fall to the carpet.
“Why are you crying?” To my surprise, Brandon’s voice is soft and sweet.
“I feel terrible. If we don’t find it, I’ll jinx your chances of winning. I’m so, so sorry.”
I’ve never failed him like this. But to my even greater surprise, Brandon grabs the edge of the loose cuff and dabs at my tears. “Stop it. We’re going to find it. It has to be here. Maybe it’s on the bed.” He stands up, slipping his bare feet into his tux slippers.
“Ow!” he shouts out.
Plunking back down on the fluffy bed, he removes one of the slippers and gives it a little shake. His face brightens with an ear-to-ear grin.
“Look what I just found!” He holds up the cufflink.
“Phew! Thank, God,” I say with a loud sigh of relief. I leap to my feet.
He winks at me. “Here. Try again.”
Before he can hand it to me, I draw in another sharp breath and, on the exhale, tell him the truth. “Brandon, I have a confession. I don’t know a damn thing about cufflinks.” With my help or without it, he may not be wearing his lucky charms. A resurgence of guilt mixes with despair.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do them myself.”
What!?
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets as I watch him yank the splints off his fingers and fling them across the room.
“B-but—”
“My fingers are just fine now,” he says as he fastens the cufflinks with ease.
For the second time tonight, my mouth crashes to the floor and I can’t get a word to form. Finally, while he adjusts his bow tie around his collar, my mouth moves.
“Why the hell—”
He cuts me off. “Because I was having too much fun with you. I liked having you feed me and dress me.”
I want to kill him! The asshole—make that, the sadistic bastard—tricked me. Played me for a patsy. He’s done a lot of things to piss me off, but nothing comes close to this. I’m humiliated and furious. My blood is curdling. Did I tell you how much I really, really want to kill him?? His voice hurls me out of my treacherous thoughts.
“How do I look?” Smiling, he makes a final adjustment to his bow tie. The rich purple color turns his eyes an even deeper shade of violet. Two sparkling amethysts.
Holy hotness! My heart flutters and my pussy pulses. I’m melting like a popsicle. He looks breathtaking. Devastating. Sexy as sin. Every bit the big star he is.
“Y-you look…beautiful.” So, so, beautiful. I think I’m going to die.
He flicks my chin, and the very touch of him brings me closer to my inevitable demise. A glint in his eyes and a small grateful smile light up his face. “Thanks, Zoey.”
Before I can reply, I hear a car pull into the driveway. He hears it too.
“That must be my limo.”
With a sinking heart, I follow him into the living room. It takes another nosedive at the sight of Katrina. Clad in a body-hugging sparkly gown in an eye-catching shade of coral, she looks like a goddess. Her golden hair cascades over her shoulders like a shimmering cape and an array of glittering diamonds light her up like the glimmering North Star. She completely ignores me. It’s as if I don’t exist.
She grabs Brandon’s hand. “Come on, darling, let’s go. I don’t want to miss one red carpet opportunity.”
“Good luck tonight, Brandon,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. Yet, every word’s an effort.
He looks over his shoulder as Katrina hurls him toward the door. Our eyes connect. I swear there are sparks flying between us. The ache in my core is palpable.
His eyes never leave mine as he quirks a small melancholic smile. “Thanks, Zoey. Look for me on TV.”
Fighting back tears, I simply nod. They disappear, and after a forlorn sigh, I hear the limo pull away.
I slump down onto the couch and bury my head between my hands. I feel like poor Cinderella, left behind for the ball. Except Cinderella was way better off. At least she had a couple of cute mice to hang out with to cheer her up along with a trusty fairy godmother to make her dreams come true. Bippity-boppity-boo.
Brandon
Flash! My eyes flutter madly. My head hurts. I’m having a memory breakthrough. I remember something and silently curse. I hate this shit. It’s a goddamn circus. A media frenzy. The part of being a megastar that I despise. Our limo pulls up to the entrance of the Beverly Hilton, and even before we step out of the car, paparazzi storm us. Click! Click! Click! The never-ending flashes blind my eyes and clog my eardrums. I fake a megawatt Hollywood smile when really what I want to do is smash each and every one of these assholes’ cameras. Wearing Katrina on my arm like a clunky piece of jewelry, the walk of fame down the red carpet feels like an eternity. That’s because my fiancée insists on talking to every E! Entertainment reporter who accosts her and mugging for the paparazzi and glamcams. While zealous fans gathered outside the hotel are roaring “We love you, Bratrina!” and hoping to get a shot of us with their phones, I seriously feel like Mr. Katrina Moore.
A fashion blogger runs up to Katrina. “I love your dress. Who are you wearing?”
“Monique Hervé. She’s also designing my wedding gown.”
“When are the two of you getting married?”