Текст книги "Unforgettable"
Автор книги: Nelle L'Amour
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Zoey
“Lights! Camera! Action!”
The words echo in my ears. I’m so wet I may stain Brandon’s canvas chair. When I first saw Brandon in the raw—just seconds ago—my jaw crashed to the floor and my heart almost rocketed out of my chest.
I’ve seen him in Speedos and tight jeans and I’ve given him massages in his boxers, but nothing’s prepared me for the sight of his manliness full on. Sure, he’s wearing some kind of flesh-colored sheath that wraps around his genitals like a bag of leprechaun’s gold, but it doesn’t camouflage his size. Holy mother of God! I mean, I knew he was endowed when I felt his hardness against me in the shower. But not this big. And his enormity is sans an erection.
Still in a state of shock, I soak in the rest of his body. It’s as if he’s been sculpted by an Italian master. A seamless combination of lean muscle and bronze with washboard abs, a perfect pelvic-V, long worked-out legs, and a chiseled ass that belongs in a museum. As the cameras start rolling, my temperature rises and hot tingles storm my body. I’m throbbing so hard between my legs I can hear it.
I can’t keep my eyes off him. My pupils dart back and forth between the director’s monitor and the set, a near replica of Brandon’s home bathroom. It’s bathed in a cloud of steam and sensually lit in a way that makes Brandon and Jewel glow like two ethereal lovers. Like the stars they are.
Under the powerful spray, Brandon and Jewel magically transform into the characters they play—CIA agent Kurt Kussler and his beloved wife Alisha. Alit with love and lust, Brandon holds his co-star in his arms just as he held me. After he tells her how sexy she is, he fondles her perfect, nipple-covered tits and nuzzles her long, slender neck. I relive every moment, every word. New sensations overtake me, both emotionally and physically. An unexpected bolt of envy shoots through me. Brandon and Jewel look so beautiful together. So comfortable in their skin; so comfortable with their nudity. So oblivious to the cameramen surrounding them. Passion dances in their eyes as the water pounds them. Their flesh glistens. The steam intensifies. I know they’re only acting, but every word, every action seems so real. I wonder—did Brandon ever fuck Jewel? With her blond goddess looks, she’s just his type. Are they possibly drawing from experience?
The thought fades as I watch the scene unfold on the monitor. I hardly blink my eyes as I glom on to every word. I know them so well they’re forming on my lips, and I hear myself saying them in my head. As Brandon sensuously touches Jewel in all the places he touched me, my breathing grows shallow. His moans and groans sing in my ears, causing a fresh rush of hot tingles to swarm me. I can’t stop reliving every minute of my shower with Brandon.
Every touch of his deft fingers.
Every brush of his hard body.
Every sound of his sultry voice.
Every pulse of his wondrous cock.
Any jealousy I harbor gives way to feverish lust and desire. You’re everything to me, Kurt. My breathing grows harsher, and my heart beats like a hammer. Every nerve in my body is sparking as a fire rages between my legs. I have the burning urge to touch myself. To quell the white-hot flame that’s searing every inch of my being. I squirm in the chair and cross my legs. My upper thighs stick together, slicked with wetness. I’m positive now I’ve stained Brandon’s chair. I feel faint like I may pass out any minute. Thank God, I’m sitting.
A thoughtful PA notices my condition.
“Can I bring you some water, Ms. Hart?”
“Yes, please,” I breathe out. “That would be great.”
Waiting for the water, I keep my eyes on the monitor and watch Brandon and Jewel heatedly play out the rest of the scene, making me believe the passion between Kurt and Alisha is so real. And then that kiss. That unforgettable kiss with his lips on mine, our tongues entwined in an erotic dance. Our bodies melded like one. Unable to erase the taste of him, I can’t watch anymore. I’m either going to melt or detonate. I jump off the tall chair and rush to the restroom. I dash into a stall and shove down my jeans. And finger myself until my lips silently cry out his name.
Brandon
“Oh, baby!” The final words of the scene tumble out of my mouth. I’m so close to coming, but one little word stops an orgasm of epic proportions.
“Cut!”
Emotionally drained and physically aroused, my head falls onto Alisha’s. Breathing hard, we hold each other, our soaking wet bodies slick against the other’s. It takes a long moment for the word to register. It’s not until some PA hops into the stall and turns off the pounding water. I slowly lift up my head and meet my co-star’s gaze. She’s no longer Alisha but Jewel.
Her wide-set blue eyes penetrate mine. “Brandon, that was amazing. You were amazing.”
My breathing calms. “So were you.”
“Thanks.” My technique worked. To get into the scene, I drew from experience. The most erotic shower experience I ever had. Or at least can remember.
Freeing herself, Jewel casts her eyes downward. My enormous erection stares her in the face.
She smiles playfully. “Brandon Taylor, did I give you a boner?”
I ponder her question for a few quick seconds. “No.”
Jewel laughs. But that’s the truth. Someone else did. While I acted out the scene, she was in my bloodstream, filling my mind and my heart. I tasted her sweetness and felt her soft curves against my body. Dripping wet, I step out of the shower and look for her. My eyes dart around the studio.
Zoey Hart is nowhere to be found. My cock sinks as a PA hands me a towel and helps me shrug on my robe. Jewel joins me. There’s raucous applause and cheers amongst the crew. I just shot my first scene since my accident, and I’ve blown them away.
Jewel’s director husband runs up to us. He hugs his beautiful wife. I wish there was someone to hug me.
Envy grabs me by the balls. To watch and film the woman you love kiss another man must be so challenging. Let alone People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” But he doesn’t seem threatened. Though likely twenty years older, he and Jewel must have a very strong marriage. Something beyond sex. Soul mates? Like my parents?
Breaking from the embrace, Niall pats me on the back. “Brandon, my man, you were absolutely brilliant. You nailed it.”
Before I can thank him, a familiar breathy voice calls out my name. My eyes find her quickly. Katrina. With the dog on a leash, she breezes my way.
“Where have you been?” I ask her while the little monster sniffs around my bare feet. I curl my toes, fearful he’ll bite.
“Oh darling, I’m so sorry I missed the scene, but I had to take Gucci for a walk. He needed to make a wee-wee.”
I mentally roll my eyes. She turns her attention to Jewel and Niall. Niall’s arm is wrapped around his wife.
“Darling, introduce us,” Katrina insists.
Reluctantly, I introduce my co-star and director to my fiancée.
Katrina plays up to them. “So wonderful to meet you! I do hope the two of you will be coming to our wedding.”
At the word wedding, I feel a tightening in my chest. It’s something I don’t want to think about. Make that the last thing I want to think about.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” says Jewel. “In fact, we just received the invitation. So clever to have it attached to a miniature horse-driven pumpkin carriage. I assume you’re going to be a Cinderella bride?”
Katrina’s face brightens. “Yes!”
Niall chimes in. “We’ll be there for sure.”
Jewel excuses herself to get changed while Niall tells us he’s going to review the shot list for the upcoming action scene. Alone with my fiancée, I change the subject to the only one on my mind. “Katrina, did you by chance see Zoey while you were outside?”
She contorts her face with disgust. “Yes. I wish you hadn’t reminded me. That pathetic girl was throwing up by your car.”
My pulse speeds up. “Is she okay?”
Katrina huffs. “How the hell would I know? I don’t associate with her. And besides, how could you even think I’d get close to a pool of vomit!?”
Before I can respond, something that feels like molten liquid trickles down my ankle. I look down and rage whips through me. The goddamn dog has peed on me! Its leg is still lifted.
Katrina gushes. “Finally! That is so cute! Gucci thought you were a fire hydrant.”
Fuming, I clench my fists by my sides. As if enduring this humiliation isn’t enough, on my next exasperated breath, the fucking dog bites me. I yelp and then shout some expletives. Blood is pouring. An observant PA runs to get me a Band-Aid. She returns quickly and wraps it around my big toe. I thank her, wishing I were thanking Zoey.
“Bad boy,” scolds Katrina, lifting the dog into her arms. “You’re getting a time out!”
The little dog cowers at the sound of her harsh voice. For a minute, I almost feel sorry for him, especially when his big brown woeful eyes meet mine. Katrina marches off with the dog. The pup’s gaze stays on me as if he’s expecting me to rescue him from whatever inevitable punishment he faces.
While the crew prepares for the next set up, I hobble to my dressing room. Collecting my cell phone, I sink into the couch and immediately speed dial Zoey. It rings and rings. No answer. Next, I text her. No answer. Finally, I email her. No answer.
Worry washes over me. It’s not like her not to respond. If I didn’t have to dive right into the next scene and spend the afternoon shooting an action sequence, I’d go home and check on her. Suddenly, I wish this day could be over.
I take a deep breath. It doesn’t calm me. I don’t remember the last time I cared so much about a girl. Or if I ever really did.
Zoey
I’m surveying the contents of Brandon’s refrigerator so I know what to order tomorrow when I hear a car pull into the adjacent garage. It must be Brandon. It’s after seven. He must be done with his shoot.
“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen. His voice sounds urgent.
Closing the refrigerator door, I spin around to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Katrina told me she saw you puking in the parking lot.”
“I must have eaten something funky from craft services. Or maybe that donut did me in. I Ubered home. I’m much better now.”
At least, part of my white lie is true. I do feel better. My sudden bout of nausea, however, had nothing to do with what I ate. The panty-melting, passionate shower scene Brandon filmed with Jewel made me more than hot and bothered; it made me sick to my stomach. I had to leave. And then outside, at the sight of Katrina, nausea rocketed to my chest. After puking my guts out, I managed to call for an Uber car and went home. Totally wiped out, I crawled into bed and spent the rest of the day sleeping it off. I still don’t feel one hundred percent and his presence doesn’t help.
Brandon’s violet eyes darken. “Why the hell didn’t you answer my texts or calls?
His angry voice intimidates me. “I turned my phone off and fell asleep.”
“Don’t ever do that again.” His curt tone is reprimanding. “I need to know where you are every minute of the day.”
Control freak. “Maybe you should put me on a leash or insert a tracking device under my skin.”
“Maybe I should. A collar and leash would suit you.”
From the tone of his voice, I think he’s serious. The image of me in Gucci’s rhinestone accessories pops into my head with an amusing yet arousing mental montage. Master and Slave Girl. Sit. Beg. Come. Flushing, I quickly change the subject.
“How’d the rest of the shoot go?”
With a deep breath, he rakes his perfectly mussed up ebony hair with his right hand. My eyes grow wide. It looks like Frankenstein’s. Every finger except his thumb is bandaged in splints.
“Jeez. What happened to your fingers?”
“Fucking jammed them,” he mutters, heading toward me.
“How’d you do that?”
“I did my own stunt. I was supposed to punch my assailant. But just as I was about to make contact with him, Katrina’s damn dog got loose and bit the guy’s ankle. He flinched and I ended up bashing a wall.”
“Ouch! That must have hurt.”
“Hurt like hell,” he says, swinging open the fridge door with his left hand.
“Are you sure they’re not broken?”
“Pretty sure. The set doctor said they’d be more misshapen. It’s just a sprain.” He grabs a beer with the good hand and with his thumb, struggles to pop off the bottle cap. I’m mildly amused he can’t get it off and let him struggle. He’s obviously not ambidextrous—well, at least when it comes to little things.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, frustrated.
“Let me do it,” I finally say, taking the bottle from him. I twist the top off easily. “Piece of cake. Here.” With a smug smile, I hand him back the bottle. He takes it from me with his good hand.
“Thanks.” His voice is small, surprisingly humble. Leaning seductively against the counter, he takes a chug of the beer, arching his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. He looks sexy as sin. Almost orgasmic.
“Aah! Just what I needed,” he says after the long swig. “Do you want some?”
“I don’t think there are any more beers left.”
“No, I mean a sip of mine.”
My heart does a little jump. He’s never shared anything with me, unless you count the nasty flu he gave me last year. Oh, yeah… and those fries the other night.
“Sure, thanks,” I say hesitantly. I take the bottle from him and wrap my mouth around the throat. Tilting my head back and squeezing my eyes the way he did, I take a lengthy sip. The frothy beverage fills my mouth and then I swallow. The cold, refreshing liquid courses down past the back of my throat. I open my eyes and let out a satisfied sigh before licking my upper lip. His violet gaze is on me.
A saucy smile lights up his face. “I like a girl who can drink beer like a man.”
“Doesn’t K-Katrina drink beer?” Shit. I almost said Kuntrina again. A Freudian slip?
“Nah. She’s strictly a champagne girl.” To my utter shock, he dusts my lips with one of his fingertips. Goosebumps pop along my arms.
“Have some more.”
Eagerly, I take another gulp. But this time, the frothy liquid goes down the wrong pipe and I choke. In the throes of a fit of coughing, I feel my face reddening, my eyes watering.
“Jeez, are you okay?” Brandon pats my back vigorously with his good hand while I continue to wheeze.
I nod my head like one of those stupid bobble-head dolls. Not really. I can’t catch my breath. Harsh, suffocating coughs still clog my throat. After almost vomiting up the beer, I finally calm. My cheeks are heated with embarrassment, and my eyes are tearing.
Brandon’s eyes soak me in playfully. “Stop showing off.”
“I wasn’t showing off,” I croak back.
“You were.” He snatches the bottle from me and sets it down on the granite counter.
“I’ll be right back. Would you whip me up a sandwich?”
“Sure.”
“And promise you won’t drink any more beer, at least while I’m not here. I don’t want you to choke to death. A repeat of last night is the last thing I need. I can’t live without you.”
Of course, he can’t live without me, I think as he disappears. No other assistant could put up with all his shit. So far, I’m the only one who’s made it past three months. All the others quit or were fired by his majesty. The one before me had a nervous breakdown. Brandon doesn’t remember any of them. I guess that’s some kind of blessing in disguise. They were all gorgeous. Blond and willowy—I checked out a few on Facebook. Just his type. He probably fucked them into submission and broke their hearts. Or worked them to the bone.
I swing open the fridge door and survey the shelves for what I can use to make a sandwich. Slim pickings. I make a mental note to call Bristol Farms first thing in the morning to stock up; our high-end neighborhood supermarket delivers. In addition to Brandon’s must-haves, I suppose I should also order a few bottles of expensive champagne to appease Katrina. The last thing I need is a hissy fit from the bitch.
Despite his fame and fortune, Brandon’s taste in food leans toward all-American basics—the hearty, down-to-earth brands I grew up on with Auntie Jo and Uncle Pete. Like Oscar Meyer bacon…Skippy Peanut Butter…Kraft Mac and Cheese…and Campbell’s Soup. He’s somewhat of a junk food junkie and prefers a good steak and potatoes to a frou-frou gourmet entrée. Not having much to work with, I settle on an open can of Bumble Bee tuna. With the can in hand along with a jar of mayo, I pad over to the island and start fixing my demanding boss a sandwich. While I search for some bread, Brandon’s voice bellows in my ears.
“ZO-EEEY!!!!
“WHA-AAAT?”
“I NEED YOU!”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“IN THE BATHROOM. HURRY!”
I drop what I’m doing and head over to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. It must be one of his toilet paper emergencies. I grab a roll and scurry to his bathroom.
I knock on the door. “I’m throwing in a roll of toilet paper.” As my fingers curl around the knob, he yells at me again.
“Get your ripe ass in here NOW.”
Huh? Hesitantly, I turn the knob and open the door. Brandon’s pacing his large, state-of-the-art bathroom. His left hand without the splints is fiddling with his fly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t take a dump.”
“You’re constipated?” Oh, fuck. I hope I don’t have to stick an enema up his ass. I read on Facebook somewhere that one of his former assistants had to do that. Surprisingly, she didn’t get slammed with a lawsuit for violating her non-disclosure agreement.
“Hardly. I’m practically shitting my pants. I can’t unbutton my fly!”
I can’t help it. I burst out in laughter. Loud snorty laughter that makes me double over in hysterics. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Falling out of my hand, the roll of toilet paper tumbles to the floor and unravels.
“Why the hell are you laughing?” he barks.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” I can barely get the words out. So much for gazillion dollar designer jeans.
“This is serious. I’m going to shit any minute.”
I swipe at my tears. “Okay. Stand still.”
He does as bid. A breath away from him, I work the button of his low-slung jeans. My hand grazes his cock. A bulge rises between his legs. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think he’s getting a hard-on. Holy shit! My fingers fumble. This is much harder than I thought. It’s much harder. I can’t concentrate. My fingers keep skimming his hard as rock length. It’s all I can think about.
“Zoey! How are you doing?” His voice sounds panicked.
“Not good. I can’t get this fucking button through the hole. It’s so tight.” To my horror, my words are loaded with sexual innuendo. An electrical current zaps my body and travels straight to my core.
“Figure it out!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!” I reply, fiddling madly with the impossible button, my hand grazing his swelling organ. I need a new approach. So, I sink to my knees. His bulge is in my face. I work feverishly at the button.
“Hurry, Zoey. It’s coming!”
“Hold on!” In my mind, I wish he were saying, “I’m coming.”
With one more push through the buttonhole, I manage to unbutton his tight-ass jeans. “Did it!”
“Phew!” His good hand immediately pulls at the zipper tab. Panic fills his voice.
“Fuck! The zipper’s stuck!”
Oh, God. No!
“Do something, Zoey!”
In a dither, I try shoving down the fly, jiggling and joggling it. It won’t fucking budge. My knuckles brush his rigid length beneath the denim with each successive tug.
He hisses. “Shit!”
At the sound of that word, I grow more heated and frantic. Breaking into a sweat, I work at the zipper harder, faster. His cock grows bigger, harder. I can feel it pulsating!
“Jesus, Zoey! I’m so close!”
Close to what? Pooping? Or coming? Either way, his voice sounds so desperate. Without stopping my movements, I pray to the fly gods. Please! Please! Help me! On my next forceful tug, a miracle! The zipper slides down with ease.
My jaw drops to the floor and my eyes grow as wide as saucers. He’s commando. At full attention. All rock-hard ten-inches are in my face. So close I can smell his manliness, feel his heat on my cheeks, and practically taste him in my mouth. Speechless, I behold his erection like a magnificent piece of abstract art. Seeing it shrouded today at a distance and on a monitor was one thing. But seeing it in its full glory, up close and personal, is another.
I can’t take my eyes off it. His cock is spectacular—a monstrous pink sculpture with a violet vein that matches the color of his hypnotic eyes. Its unexpected beauty takes my breath away as it arouses every one of my senses. It takes all I have to fight my burning desire to touch it…wrap my hand around his girth and feel the hot pulsing velvet in my palm. And then wrap my mouth around the crown, suck it, and then slide my lips and tongue down his length, tasting and inhaling the essence of him. And that’s just for starters.
Brandon doesn’t give me much time to stretch my imagination. Hastily, he shoves his jeans below his knees with his good hand and plunks down on the toilet. His enormous package parks to the right. My eyes don’t stray.
“I’d better be going,” I manage.
His intense gaze meets mine. Our eyes connect.
“No, Zoey. Don’t leave; stay with me. I may need you.”
Oh, God. Is he going to ask me to wipe his ass? Millions of women would kill to do that. But seriously?
He grimaces. “Don’t worry. I just want to look at you.” And then he grunts.
Watching Brandon Taylor take a shit with his violet eyes on me becomes the most perversely sensuous experience of my life. Personal assistant has a whole new meaning.
The bathroom incident is just the beginning of my week from hell. In addition to enduring the wrath of Hurricane Katrina for ordering the wrong brand of champagne (Dom Pérignon instead of Cristal), physically challenged Brandon is totally co-dependent on me. While he’s taken to wearing easy to pull on and off sweats, there are so many things he can’t manage. I only hope fingering Katrina is one of them.
On top of everything, the Golden Globes are coming up. They’re being held on Sunday at the Beverly Hilton. Brandon’s nominated for one in the Best Actor in a Television Series, Drama category. Half my days I spend dealing with his stylist and publicity team; the other half schlepping him to the set and various pre-awards events. Since both of Brandon’s sports cars are shifts, he can’t drive them with his splinted fingers. The spoiled brat refuses to ride in my cute little Mini. He says it’s too small for him—there’s not enough legroom and his head almost hits the roof. The truth is there’s barely enough room for his cock in the front seat. So, I’m stuck taking him around in his Hummer, which he also refuses to drive. His excuse: he’d rather sit back and use the time to study the file of nominees and presenters I put together for him. With his amnesia, he doesn’t know who’s who.
The bright red Hummer isn’t a car. It’s a veritable monster that takes up two lanes. I can barely navigate it let alone see above the steering wheel. It’s made for someone built like Brandon, not diminutive five-foot three me. Every time I get in it, sweat pours from behind my knees, and I think my heart is going to ricochet out the windshield. Today’s no exception.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” Brandon yells at me. “We’re going to be late.”
Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I gulp. Driving at a snail’s pace is the best I can muster. Mr. Impatient will get to his pre-awards luncheon whenever. And that may be never. As the Hummer slowly winds down the narrow twisting Hollywood Hills streets, a speeding Jag comes at us at full force. Oh, no! We’re going to collide! With an ear-piercing screech, I swerve off the road.
“Jesus! What the fuck are you doing, Zoey?” screams Brandon as I jam down on the breaks. “You’re going to get us killed!”
I narrowly miss crashing into the hillside. Catching my breath, I’m near tears. “I don’t know how to drive this car. It’s too big for me.”
“Well, you better learn because you’re going to be driving it for a while.”
Hasn’t he heard of the words “Uber” or “taxi”? And there’s a new service called Lip Service. My entire body shaking, I get back on course and silently pray that we’ll both still be alive for the awards. Five minutes later, I sideswipe a delivery truck.
By Friday, as if all this Golden Globes stuff isn’t enough, I’m dealing with one insurance claim after another. I’ve hit so many cars parking the fucking monster I’ve lost count. While there’s hardly a dent on the invincible Hummer, the damage I’ve caused is substantial. I even knocked someone’s fender off. Brandon’s insurance premium is going to skyrocket.
I do some online research. It could take several weeks for a finger jam to heal. I’m not sure I’ll last that long with him. I’m exhausted from everything I’ve had to do for the invalid. From driving to spoon-feeding him. You’d think he’d be appreciative, but he’s not. He’s been in a bad mood all week. And with each passing day, he’s grown testier—a combination of frustration and pre-awards show jitters. He no longer talks; he growls.
Saturday rolls along with the force of an avalanche. The Golden Globes are only a day away, and he still hasn’t written his acceptance speech should he win. We’re engaged in a working lunch. Awaiting our delivery order from Brandon’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Chin Chin on Sunset, we’re sitting side by side on the couch. He’s so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. His long, muscular legs are stretched out onto the coffee table. I’m sitting cross-legged with my laptop on my thighs.
“Let’s try this…” He’s dictating his latest version of the speech to me. “This has been the greatest year of my life.”
I hastily type the words. I’m a super-fast typist…another one of my outstanding personal assistant skills.
“Scratch that. That’s so untrue. Someone ran me over. I’ve got fucking amnesia. I can’t remember a goddamn thing. For all I know, this year sucked.”
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.
