A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

At her name, my blood curdles and my chest clenches. I gulp my bottled water and swallow it over the rising lump in my throat.

“I’ve met her a couple times,” I stammer. Two times too many. The second encounter flashes into my mind—at the hospital after Brandon came out of surgery. The bitch was with Scott and she told me three was a crowd. Especially with a heifer like me. Her insult stung me, and if the tears from Brandon’s life-or-death condition weren’t enough, I shed another round and fled. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. It was just too much.

Brandon’s voice hurls me out of the painful memory. “What do you think of her?”

Mama always told me if you have nothing nice to say don’t say it all. But growing up with my uncle and his family, I learned to speak my mind. So, this is hard. I take a deep breath. “She’s okay.” Fucking stuck up bitch. I hate her guts! “I guess I owe you a congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Brandon’s voice is distant. He polishes off his Scotch, and I take a last sip of the water. A blue feeling washes over me.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to settle back into my quarters. I’ll have your Starbucks for you first thing in the morning—right after your swim.”

“I like to swim in the morning?”

“You never miss a day.”

“That’s good to know. Can I help you with your bags?”

Well, that’s a first. It’s just a simple roller bag that’s in the trunk of my car, so I politely decline.

Brandon’s eyes stay on me as I hop off the stool. “Good night, Zoey. I hope you can help me piece together the last ten years of my life.”

Silently, I pray and hope they include me.

Zoey

It’s good to be back home. Three weeks at that new age spa was unbearable. It was closer to being in prison. Cell phone and computer usage was banned, and even if you managed to sneak some time with your devices, there was no cellular or Internet access. I bunked in a small room no bigger than a jail cell, and there was no air conditioning in the hundred-degree desert heat. And I’m the kind of person who’s always hot to begin with. I almost died doing hot yoga. I couldn’t even cool off in the pool since I’m not a swimmer. And don’t get me started on the food. The food Nazis forced me to do a cleanse. All I ate—or should I say drank—was vile-tasting green juice that looked like Nickelodeon slime. I learned a new four-letter word. KALE. I hate the way it tastes and hope I never see another one of those monster-ugly leaves ever again. Ugh! Cabbage with a bad perm.

Next to my “spa” accommodations, the furnished guesthouse I reside in is a palace. It sits on the edge of Brandon’s property just off the pool. With a bedroom, living room, and kitchenette, it’s small but functional. Mimicking Brandon’s main residence, the contemporary furniture is high-end Italian stuff—not exactly my taste, which leans toward funky, but I can’t complain since I live here rent-free. Plus, the multiple windows offer a view of the city that so many would kill for. On a clear day, I can see all the way to the ocean. As I stash away my garments, the sky darkens and the timed lights of the city kiss it a gentle goodnight. Twinkling like stars, they never cease to amaze me.

Just as I unpack my last bra, my cell phone pings. Sure enough. It’s a text from the slave driver. I haven’t been back for more than ten minutes and he’s already bugging me. So much for wishful thinking. Nope. Nothing’s changed. Scrunching my face, I read it.

I’m hungry. Pick up a burger and fries.

Fucking great. I was looking forward to curling up in bed and watching some TV before getting some work done, but now I have to run out to service his majesty. And it’s not like I can just go down the hill to close-by McDonald’s. Mr. Taylor is very particular about his burgers—and in fact, just about everything. The only burgers he’ll eat are from In-N-Out, so I have to schlep all the way down Sunset in rush hour traffic to get him what his heart desires. But wait! Maybe he doesn’t remember what he likes and I can go to McDonald’s. I almost give in to temptation but in the end decide weathering his bad temper isn’t worth it.

If battling the insane traffic is not enough, the drive-thru line at In-N-Out is thirty cars deep. Moving at the speed of a slow freight train, it takes me forty long minutes to get my order, and by the time I get to the pick-up window, I’m famished. I ask for another cheeseburger with everything on it but then change my mind. Thanks to the spa, I’ve lost some weight (the one and only benefit), and I’m determined to keep it off. So instead, I force myself to order a Protein Burger—a measly hamburger that’s wrapped up in a lettuce leaf and not sandwiched between one of those delicious toasted buns. My stomach rumbles. Trying to be thin sucks.

“What took you so long?” snaps Brandon as I strut into his living room. Now wearing perfectly ripped jeans and a white tee, he’s sitting on the couch fiddling with the remote.

“Can you show a little appreciation, please?” I snap back at him before handing him the bag with his burger and fries. “I got you a cheeseburger exactly how you like it with ketchup and grilled onions.”

Without thanking me, he reaches into the bag. I watch his toned biceps flex as he bites into his burger.

Bite me, asshole.

With my burger bag in hand, I march off.

“Where are you going?” he asks before I’ve taken two steps.

“To my living quarters. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my dinner in solitude.” And in peace and quiet.

He grabs a couple of fries. “That’s not going to work. We need to make this a working meal. I have a lot of catching up to do. Now take a seat.”

“Are you going to pay me overtime?”

“Yes.” His voice borders on a growl. “Now, please take a seat.”

Well, at least he said please. I search for a good place to sit, the farther away from him the better. I head toward a corner chair. His voice stops me in my tracks.

“No. I want you to sit next to me. There’s a lot to go over.”

Grrr. Reluctantly, I meander back to the couch and plop down on the leather cushion beside him, curling up in a cross-legged position. He stretches his long legs out on the coffee table in front of us. My knee brushes against his rock-hard thigh and my eyes glimpse the sizeable package between his legs. It’s quite a chunk of meat. My hunger consumes me. I take a bite of my pathetic burger.

“What exactly do you have in mind?” I ask after swallowing. The Protein Burger isn’t as bad as I thought. It’s pretty juicy.

“I thought we’d screen some episodes of my show, mainly from this past season.”

My insides light up. I love Kurt Kussler and could totally binge on it. I’ve been watching the series since the day it premiered. I’ve seen every episode a dozen times and, with my crazy memory, know many of them by heart. When I found out from the job recruiter that I’d be working for the superstar, I practically drove my car off a cliff. I should have. Little did I know at the time what I had in store.

“Sure,” I say casually, masking my excitement as he presses the remote with one of his long tapered fingers. Just like the rest of him, his hands are beautiful, sculpted works of art. The action-packed opening credit sequence set to the pulsing theme song instantly plays on the built-in big screen TV. A fast-paced montage of memorable clips culled from various episodes, each ending with Kurt in a sexy pose. Kurt Kussler is hot. So scorching hot. My heartbeat speeds up and a heat wave melts my entire being. I feel like the deconstructing Wicked Witch of the West. All hot molten liquid.