“Yes,” I squeak. “There was only a little bit to begin with.”
“But now, there’s none. And I’m starving. We’re going out to buy some.”
“Now?”
“Now. End of discussion.”
My ego deflates like a balloon that’s been stuck by a pin. Who am I kidding? I’m no princess. I’m his personal assistant. His workhorse and slave.
Ten minutes later, we’re at all-night “Rock ’n Roll” Ralph’s on Sunset, pushing a shopping cart through the packed supermarket’s freezer section. Though I’m dressed in my pajamas and he’s in his tux, no one so much as gives us a glance or a damn who he is. Everyone’s stoned or on some kind of high. Silence prevails. Still shaken from my dream, all I can think about is what would it be like to really fuck Brandon Fucking Taylor.
I’m more and more convinced this man’s gone bi-polar. I mean, how can someone who’s just had the biggest and best moment of his life be in such a bad mood? He hasn’t said a word to me since rudely knocking at my door and waking me up. Seriously, if he doesn’t stop frowning, he’s going to get a permanent frown mark that won’t add anything to his character.
“Are you happy now that you’ve got your ice cream?” I ask him, my voice thick with attitude.
Wordlessly, he sits at the island in the kitchen and rips off the lid.
“I’ll get you a bowl and spoon,” I say, heading toward the cabinets, “and then I’m going back to bed.”
“Forget the bowl,” he growls. “Just get two spoons. We’ll eat the ice cream straight from the carton.”
We’ll? I don’t think so.
I fetch him a spoon and say goodnight as I pad toward the back door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To sleep.”
“No, you’re not. Get your ass over here.”
It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning. It’s now Monday. So contractually, I’m on duty, back to officially being his majesty’s lowly personal assistant at his beck and call. With resignation, I join him at the island and hop onto a stool cattycorner to his. Glimpsing the shiny Golden Globe statuette on one of the kitchen counters, I falter trying to make conversation.
“Congratulations on winning. I guess your lucky cufflinks really worked.”
No response. Silently, he picks up the spoon and digs into the ice cream. One heaping teaspoon after another. My elbows are anchored on the counter, my head sunk between my palms. I glumly watch him devour the container of Häagen-Dazs, my eyes riveted on his sensuous hands and mouth. You’d think I’d be drooling over the caloric ice cream, but I’m too consumed by my erotic dream. And the way he licks the melting dessert off his spoon.
“Why aren’t you having some?”
“I’m not hungry.” I squirm on my stool to quell the throbbing between my legs.
“Eat.” He scoops up a heaping teaspoon of the ice cream and puts it to my mouth. “Open.”
I part my lips and clamp my mouth over the cold spoon. His eyes stay on me while I gulp down the creamy dessert and lick off the remains.
“Have some more.”
“Why aren’t you at one of those awards parties?” I ask, ignoring his order.
He looks up from the ice cream. “I had a big fight with Katrina.”
My ears perk up. And so does my mood. “Oh. What did you fight about?”
“I fucking forgot to thank her in my speech. The press is already all over it. Tomorrow’s going to be a living nightmare.”
“How could you forget to thank her?” Easy!
“I don’t know. I was nervous. Plus, I had to wing it. To be honest, I can’t remember what the hell I said.”
Should I remind him? Forget it.
His words meant nothing. My heart sinks to my stomach. Prince Charming could never forget Cinderella. But I hold no candle in Brandon Taylor’s heart. Svelte Cinderella was blond and beautiful like Katrina. I’m fat and mousy. I’ve got to stop dreaming. A fairy tale ending is not going to be mine.
Brandon
I begin my morning after the Golden Globes the same way I always do—with a swim. Except instead of my normal twenty laps, I only do ten. Booze and a quart of Häagen-Dazs don’t mix well. Hoisting myself out of the pool, I spot my manager Scott. He’s heading my way at breakneck speed. Already smoking, he looks agitated. I throw a towel over my shoulders and meet him halfway.
“Brandon, the shit’s hit the fan. Your speech last night is the talk of the Internet. It’s worse than I anticipated. Every fucking gossip columnist online is wondering why you didn’t thank Katrina. He hands me his phone. He’s googled me. While Scott puffs on his cigarette, I read one headline after another:
Perez Hilton: “Brandon Taylor Wins Big at the Golden Globes. But Will He Lose Katrina?”
TMZ: “After the Golden Globes, Is It Splitsville for Bratrina?”
Celebuzz: “Katrina Cusses Kussler at Awards Party!”
E! Online: “Thanks but No Thanks. Is That It for Brandon and His It Girl?”
I scroll down until I’ve had enough. Scott follows me as I stride to a table. He takes the chair opposite mine. I hand him back his phone.
“I fucked up.”
Scott blows out a cloud of smoke. “Big time. Katrina is fuming. She hasn’t spoken to the press, but she’s demanding a public apology.”
“Shit.”
I haven’t seen or spoken to Katrina since last night. The scene she created at the Conquest Broadcasting after-party was beyond embarrassing. The shrieking and expletives were just the tip of the iceberg. She went ballistic and yanked my award out of my hand. She seriously would have either struck me with it or hurled it across the room had not security reined her in. Mobbed by reporters, I was lucky Blake Burns used his clout and got me out the back door and arranged for one of his company limos to take me back home. But nonetheless, the damage was done. And I’m sure today I’m going to pay the price. I have people who deal with these kinds of things, but Katrina’s a loose cannon.
Contemplating what I’m going to say to the press and how I’m going to handle Katrina, I catch sight of Zoey coming toward us. She’s carrying a folder and a Starbucks bag. At the sight of her, my mood brightens. And my cock flexes. She always has that effect on me. I’m glad she was around when I came home last night even if she seemed a little down. Eating ice cream with her more than cheered me up. It aroused me. There was something about the way she wrapped her lips around my spoon that made them so kissable. I, of course, refrained, but it wasn’t easy with my raging boner. If she only knew.
Meeting my gaze, my assistant shows no emotion. If anything, an expression that borders on coldness is etched on her face. Once at our table, she silently sets down the bag. With not as much as a good morning, she hands me my regular iced Caffè Americano. Scott eyes it.
“Whatcha got for me, sweetheart?” he asks my assistant before I can thank her.
“Nothing. Not even a smile. And by the way, my name is Zoey.”
Do I detect some animosity? I wonder if she’s still pissed at him for sending her away while I was in the hospital.
Her voice stays icy cold. “Brandon, here’s your schedule.” She places the folder in front of me. I flip it open and peruse the printout. It’s a fairly light day. I just need to go to the recording studio at noon to do some pickup lines.
Avoiding eye contact, she continues. “I’m outta here. I’ve got a lot of things to take care of.”
As she pivots, Scott grabs her by the elbow. She tries to shake herself free. “Let go of me, Scott.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve got your work cut out for you today. I need you to draft an apology statement for Brandon. You know, something along the lines of him being so excited last night, he totally forgot to mention Katrina in his acceptance speech.”