“No, Mommy, I mean how we’re going to get there.”
Enid dramatically throws up her hands and rolls back her eyes. “How could I forget? The two of you will be arriving at the hotel in a custom-made pumpkin carriage drawn by four white Arabian horses. Miniature replicas are accompanying the two thousand invitations I just sent out.”
What? The invitations are out. There may be no turning back now. I gulp.
Enid gives me the once over. “We should talk about what you’ll be wearing, Brandon.”
I bet I’ll be dressed in some ninny prince suit that looks like it comes straight out of the Disney store. I don’t even want to know. “When is all this happening?” I ask, evading the subject.
Katrina chimes in. “Why in four months—at the end of May sweeps—Saturday, May twenty-third. It’s going to send the ratings of my show into orbit. America’s It Girl is going to become a universal sensation!”
One last question. “And who’s flitting the bill for all this?”
Smiling coyly, Katrina answers. “Well, since the budget for my show is only $20,000 per episode and poor Daddy is in jail and can’t even come to his own daughter’s wedding, you are.”
“I am?”
“Of course, darling. I discussed it all with our mutual business manager Scott while you were in a coma, and he agreed to everything. You’ll never miss the ten million dollars.”
Dinner arrives. Maybe, I would have been better off staying asleep in a coma. At least past our wedding date.
Zoey
The only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—Get Well. I love you! <3—while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans: Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3 I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!
I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.
Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.
Did u say u give massages?
I reply.
Yes.
He responds.
I want one now.
Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.
Well…???
In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.
Do I need to fire u?
GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.
FINE. Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.
Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.
“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.
He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”
His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!
“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”
“I don’t do underwear.”
My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?
He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”
“Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.
His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”
His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”
A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.
He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”
No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.
His mouth twists. “Yeah, right.”
I detect attitude. “By the way, how was your dinner with her mother?”
“Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”
Don’t ask. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”
Five minutes later, he’s back, clad in adorable purple and white polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart beating fast, I soak in his bare-chested body. My eyes travel down his gorgeous chiseled chest and land on his crotch. His cock is just a handful away. One could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and own it.
“Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.
He does as requested, setting his head on the headrest attachment. His long, muscular legs reach almost to the very end of the padded table. I admire his beautiful sculpted back and his broad swimmer’s shoulders. The burning urge to run my hands over every glorious ridge and contour has my heart racing with anticipation.
“Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”
I tread over to his sound system and make a selection. A vintage compilation of Kenny G’s Greatest Hits. “Loving You” is first up. The sound of the saxophone is slow, smooth, and soothing. Pure perfection. On the way back to the table, I dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is just right for a sensuous massage. Or a sensuous fuck.
“Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.
“Yeah. More than ready.”
“Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”
“No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”
Mr. Hot and Bossy. Ms. Hot and Bothered. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table before rubbing my palms to warm it.
I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most tension. I press my strong, oiled-up hands on his taut flawless flesh and start to knead his muscles, making deep circular motions with my thumbs. My hands melt into his body.
He curses under his breath. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“I went to a special training school. I told you I’m a certified massage therapist.”
“Mmm. What smells so good?”
“The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.”
As I continue to work his back, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and then lets it out with a sensual, drawn out sigh that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.
“You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.
“Tell me about it.”
“Why?” I ask.
“A lot of reasons. The amnesia, the wedding, going back to work. Plus, I have some other major shit I’m dealing with. A crisis.”