Page 25 of Naughty Nelle

CHAPTER 11

Zoey

My routine with Brandon returns to normal the next day. While he swims early morning laps, I fetch him his Starbucks—an iced Grande Caffè Americano—and a hot Venti version for me. When I get back to the house, he’s already at a poolside table, wearing a thick terrycloth robe and his favorite pair of Ray-Bans. His jet-black wet hair is slicked back and his face glistens in the sun.

Setting the coffees on the table, I take the empty seat opposite him and hand him a manila folder with his schedule. He likes it printed out. I act very business-like—as if my emotional and physical breakdown didn’t happen last night. My minimal acting skills have come in handy. I refrain from asking him anything more about his dinner with Katrina and her mother or the rest of his night. To my relief, he offers no information. I’m glad the bitch is nowhere in sight, and I don’t press him for her whereabouts. If she’s not rotting in hell, I don’t want to know.

I latch onto my coffee and take a sip through the plastic flap on the lid. The rich, steamy brew seeps into my veins. Brandon eyes me. My skin prickles. It’s like ultra-violet rays are shooting out of the dark lenses of his shades and penetrating me.

“What happened to your finger?”

I’m in shock he’s noticed the Band-Aid on my middle finger.

“Nothing,” I reply, trying hard to eradicate last night’s breakdown though my finger’s still throbbing. “Just a paper cut.”

“You should be more careful.”

His voice is cold, almost reprimanding. I didn’t expect him to say, “Can I kiss the boo-boo?” but yes, be a bit more compassionate. He’s for sure in one of his bad moods.

His gaze stays fixed on my finger. “It’s still bleeding.”

I glance down. He’s right. Blood is oozing through the Band-Aid. It’s a bloody mess.

“Don’t move,” he tells me. “I’ll be right back.”

I sip my coffee and in five minute’s he’s back, holding a box of bandages and a tube of Neosporin. Setting the first aid treatments onto the table, he unwraps my nasty Band-Aid. I grimace. My jagged cut looks worst than I thought. Fiery red and inflamed.

“A paper cut?” he asks.

I splutter. “It was a thick piece of paper.”

Unsure if he believes me, I hold out my quivering finger while he squirts some of the anti-bacterial ointment onto the wound and re-bandages it. One Band-Aid over my fingertip, another around it.

I wiggle my stiff finger. Not too much motion. But he’s made it feel better. “You’re good at first aid.”

He quirks a cocky smile. “I was a lifeguard. I know how to do these things.”

“Thanks.”

Not acknowledging my small grateful word, he lifts his sunglasses on top of his head, and after a sip of his iced coffee, studies his schedule. His brows knit tightly.

“Why aren’t we reviewing more episodes of Kurt Kussler together? I thought that was the plan.”

“I think you’ve gotten the gist of it. I have many more important things to handle.”

“Like what?” he challenges me, his voice as brisk as it is confrontational.

“You’ve got to do a gazillion press conferences. Everyone in the world wants to see you’re alive and well.”

“Write up some pithy lines for me. Let them know Brandon Taylor aka Kurt Kussler is ready to kick some butt.”

“What should I say about your pending wedding to K-Katrina?” It’s so hard for me to say her name. In fact, I almost say Kuntrina.

Brandon’s face tenses. “Just tell them we’ve set a date in May. To be announced shortly.”

So, that’s what their dinner was probably about. My heart sinks to my stomach. Suspicion confirmed. They’re madly in love. I glumly mumble, “Sure.”

Sipping his coffee through the straw and oblivious to my gloom, Brandon continues to review his schedule. “Who’s this one o’clock lunch with?”

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