“That must be your limo.” I retrieve a folder from Brandon’s dresser. “Here’s your itinerary and the final set of questions Letterman will be asking you. Your publicist says he may surprise you with something spontaneous.”
“Thanks.” Brandon takes it from me and shoves it into the front pocket of his suitcase.
“I’ll go open the gate. Come on, Gooch.” Tucking him in one arm, I take hold of his roll away bag with my free hand and slog to the front door. Brandon trails behind me, wheeling his bag. Balancing Gucci’s bag, I press a button on the wall panel by the door to open the front gate. In no time, the limo’s uniformed chauffeur is at the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Taylor. I’ll take your bags,” says the driver, hauling both of them away.
After planting a little kiss on his head, I hand Gucci over to Brandon. God, there’s something so damn sexy about the little furball in his arms. Tingles swarm me as he sets the dog down on the floor and then holds him by his leash.
“Take good care of him,” I say, trying to mask my arousal and my gloom.
“I will. Are you going to be okay?”
My heart stutters. “Yeah. I’m going to move back into the guesthouse.”
“Be careful.” He holds me in his gaze, his violet eyes penetrating mine.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m worried about Donatelli.”
“Don’t be. He doesn’t know what I look like or where I live.” I also remind him there’s a patrol car stationed outside the house 24/7.
He flashes a fleeting, semi-relieved smile. “Take the weekend off.”
“Thanks.” I glimpse the driver holding open the passenger door. “You better go.” The words are so hard for me to say.
“Yeah, right.”
We share an awkward stretch of silence. Though it’s short, it feels like an eternity. The early morning air chills me.
“Watch me tonight on Letterman.”
I force a half-smile. “I will.”
I long for him to hold me in his arms. To feel his touch. The ache in my chest is so great I may break.
“Go.”
With a flick of my nose, he says goodbye.
Shivering, I shut the front door and hear the limo take off.
I move back into the guesthouse and spend the day taking care of mostly personal things. Bills, laundry, emails. My pampered life is over. My gloomy mood never lifts, and as the day goes on, I fall into a deep depression. I’ve always enjoyed the privacy of my small living quarters, but today, without Brandon, the space feels empty and lifeless. I miss him. I f*ck
ing miss him. And that little dog too. Every menial task I attempt takes me twice as long as it should. That’s because my mind is on him. I keep checking the time, hoping he’ll call me when he lands. But he doesn’t. Of course not. He’s back with Katrina. They must be taping Letterman. And then, I’m sure they’ll go out for dinner at some romantic Manhattan restaurant and f*ck
their brains out in their luxurious suite at The Four Seasons.
Perhaps due to my state of mind and concussion, I fatigue quickly. After a lame, lazy dinner of ramen noodles, I take a nap. When I awaken, I jolt. Shit. It’s eleven forty-five. I hope I haven’t missed Brandon on Letterman. I hastily reach for my remote and turn the TV on to Channel 2.
“And now give a warm welcome to our first guests, Golden Globe winner Brandon Taylor and America’s It Girl, Katrina Moore. Better known as the Hollywood power couple…Bratrina.”
Phew! Just in time. Raucous applause, cheers, and whistles erupt from the audience as Brandon and Katrina breeze onto the talk show set hand in hand. Katrina is clutching Gucci, back in one of his frou-frou pink outfits. She looks positively stunning, clad in a tight sparkling black mini dress that makes her mile-high legs look even longer in her fierce six-inch high ankle boots. Brandon, wearing the outfit he wore this morning minus the scarf, flashes his dazzling smile and waves to the audience. My heart is melting.
They take seats next to Letterman, Katrina taking the one closest to his desk. She crosses her long legs seductively and places Gucci on her lap.
Letterman: “Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Is this the ten thousand dollar dog we’ve all read about?”
Katrina beams. “Yes. This is Gucci. Say hello to Dave, baby boy.”
The dog growls.
Letterman amusingly makes a frightened face and jolts. “Hmm, maybe you should have named him Rambo.”
Katrina breaks into laughter along with the audience. Brandon twitches a nervous smile.
Katrina: “Dave, would you like to hold him?”
Letterman: “Heh-heh. Thanks but no thanks. Maybe later you’ll show us one of his stupid pet tricks.”
Katrina flings back her mane of platinum hair with a shake of her head. “I’d love to. He’s so smart.”
Letterman: “So, Brandon, how did it feel to win the Golden Globe? Were you expecting to?”
Brandon laughs. “Hardly. But it felt great.”
Letterman: “Everyone’s still wondering why you forgot to thank your fiancée.”
Brandon squirms. Katrina butts in. “Oh! It was such a silly mistake. He’s made it up to me a million times.”
Letterman: “Tell us how.”