Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl: A Surprise Pregnancy Romantic Comedy Read online

  Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2020, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-7321702-9-2

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Photo Credit: Wander Aguiar

  Model: Jacob Cooley

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The Big Epilogue

  Chapter: New Life

  Chapter: Billionaire Justice League

  Chapter: The Peace of Forgiveness

  Chapter: Happily Ever After

  Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy Excerpt

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Acknowledgments

  Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel that is part of our Hollywood Collection.

  At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, the first book in this fantastically hilarious and fun romantic comedy stand-alone collection.

  Now that you know, please don’t *conspire with Carole Baskin to make the perfect sardine oil because Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl concludes at around 90%. We don’t think we’d like our very last memories to be of a **really big cat.

  Also, due to the hilarious nature of this book’s content, reading while otherwise occupied is not recommended. We won’t be there to cover for you when your boss gives you the glare on your Zoom call.

  Instead, wait until it’s over and hunker down in your bathtub to get away from your kids/husband/pet/feelings and escape into fun.

  Happy Reading!

  All our love,

  Max & Monroe

  *Assuming she has any knowledge of such practices, alleged or otherwise.

  **Safe to assume you’re lost at this point if you haven’t seen Tiger King. Sorry. ;)

  To the mamas feeling overwhelmed: we are with you. You’re doing great.

  To the singletons talking to inanimate objects: let these characters keep you company for a couple hours to change it up.

  To the fifteen pounds we’ve gained in emotional eating: we’ve decided to welcome your cushiony nature. We shall call you Fluffy.

  And to 2020, coronavirus, isolation, and murder hornets: you can fuck right off.

  One fateful night in August

  Raquel

  Mirror, mirror on the wall, why are you so judgy, girlfriend?

  I certainly understand the appeal of mirrors as an aesthetic to a home’s interior, but this bathroom has taken it to another level. Not only does the large double-sink vanity have an equally huge mirror above it, but on the opposite wall sits floor-to-ceiling reflective glass that stops just before you reach the toilet and shower and Jacuzzi tub.

  Oh, and let’s not forget about the actual ceilings. They have mirrors too, stretching the full length of the massive bathroom-appointed space.

  It’s like a kaleidoscope, only, instead of glitter, it’s my bare ass and boobs flashing all over the freaking place. I’m certain I’ve never seen this much of myself, and considering I’ve been in showbiz for most of my life—seen myself splashed across billboards and buses and magazines—that’s saying a lot.

  After a long freaking day in the Big Apple, escaping the watchful eye of my security and management team, and running into a blast from my childhood past, I have found myself inside a handsome-as-hell man’s bathroom, fresh out of the shower, still naked, and getting ready to spend the rest of the evening continuing to catch up with someone I haven’t seen in decades.

  Catching up? Ha. Pretty sure your plans don’t simply revolve around having a gab sesh in his living room…

  My cheeks flush red at the dirty, forbidden thoughts that have been rolling around inside my brain for the past few hours, and these damn mirrors have no problems displaying the evidence.

  Goodness gracious. You’d think, at twenty-nine-years old, I’d be over the whole “blushing like a teenage girl” thing when the idea of sex pops into my mind, but no, not even close.

  Pretty sure you actually have to do the sex in order to get over being all blush-y about the sex…

  I glance down at the purity ring on my finger and sigh.

  Almost thirty years old and I’m still as virginal as the day I was born.

  Ugh. I roll my eyes at myself as I run a small comb through my wet locks.

  Everyone—and their mother—knows about sex.

  Rihanna does. She has a whole song dedicated to the fact that sex with her is ah-mazing.

  Limp Bizkit sure as hell does. I mean, Fred Durst is the reason for Nookie.

  And Marvin Gaye? Well, his voice is basically used as a soundtrack for getting down and dirty in the bedroom.

  Hell, even pornos have made the lingo bow-chicka-bow-wow a part of pop culture.

  But me? Besides celebrity, I have nothing in common with any of the above. My only experience with sex revolves around acting it out on screen. Fake, scripted sex is as far as my experience goes.

  That’s right, folks. I’m a Hollywood-famous virgin whose real-life sexual encounters can be tallied on one
hand and not a single one of them involves penetration.

  What a claim to fucking fame, huh?

  When I really think about the act of sex, I feel like a prepubescent girl freaking out over a French kiss. But instead of Where does my tongue go? I’m all, So a penis goes inside my vagina?

  Slow your fornication roll, Raquel… Before you can get to the sex, you have to make him want the sex…

  I’ve played the seductive bombshell in more than a few movies, but I have never been that woman in real life.

  Holy moly. Do I even know how to seduce a man? Am I capable of seducing this gorgeous, sexy, charming man?

  My gaze flits from my face to my boobs and doesn’t stop until it reaches the reflection of my ass in the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind me.

  So…do I just shake my butt a little and then he’ll be seduced?

  I try a shimmy, but when that doesn’t feel sexy or enticing enough, I attempt to mimic a move I saw Demi Moore do in the movie Striptease when I was way too young. Bending all the way over, I look at myself, upside down, from between my thighs.

  Um, geez. Talk about being on display. Everything—my ass, my vagina—is right there, staring back at me.

  Thank God I’m a religious Brazilian waxer.

  Instantly, blood starts to rush to my head, and I try to stay strong, blinking past the discomfort. I’m certain Demi was able to hang out here for longer than two fucking seconds.

  I move my hips a little from side to side and silently wonder if this is all it will take.

  Just bend over and show him the goods, and bam, off to the sex races we go?

  But how exactly do you find a legitimate reason to be in this position?

  I can’t just walk out of this bathroom, butt-ass naked, and offer a sexy greeting via bending over and showing him my beaver. That’s pretty fucking forward, especially for a virgin like me.

  Good God, all those years of homeschooling on set without any sort of sex ed have really handicapped me in the knowledge of seduction and fucking. You’d think teaching teenage child actors about sexual intercourse would’ve been the first damn thing on the agenda, but no. Not a single boom-boom lesson plan was given.

  I can hear Tai from the movie Clueless in my head right now—You’re a virgin who can’t drive.

  Obviously, I can drive. Well, I can drive an automatic. But a stick shift? Yeah, that might as well be a metaphor for my sex life. Inept and literally clueless.

  It can’t be that hard, though…right?

  People have been having sex since…forever.

  And the sex equation isn’t fucking rocket science. Take one hard penis, add in a vagina that serves as a metaphorical shaft slip-n-slide, and bingo bango, sex is happening.

  I stare at my virginal beaver in the mirror and wonder if there’re some details I’m missing here…

  Does lube need to be involved?

  Is my vagina one-size-fits-all like those jeans in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants?

  Or does size actually matter in this scenario?

  Jesus. Am I really trying to understand the logistics of sex right now? While I’m fresh out of the shower, in a sexy, charming man’s bathroom? A man I just so happen to know from my childhood?

  Yes. You really are that woman. I awkwardly push myself back up to standing, brush the wet locks out of my eyes, and hitch my bare hip against the bathroom counter.

  A heavy sigh escapes my lungs when I glance down at the purity ring on my finger again.

  This stupid ring might as well be an albatross around my neck. It has followed me all the way through my teenage years, and now, only a short while away from my thirties, I’m still wearing the damn thing.

  What is it with this stupid ring?

  What is it with me?

  Personally, I actually love the idea of sex.

  You also want to do the sex.

  Hell yes, I do. I want to have sex.

  I want to know what it feels like to have a man inside me.

  I want to fucking feel a man inside me.

  But with my insane schedule and my overbearing team that includes my agent and manager and her assistants and a whole plethora of other people who help me be the flawless, virginal sexpot that is Raquel Weaver to the rest of the world, I don’t even have time to date, much less have sex.

  I stare at my reflection again in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks are rosy from my hot shower, and my hair is wet and hanging past my shoulders. But my eyes, well, they’re bright. Mischievous, even. It’s like they know more than I do.

  Three soft raps tap against the door, and I jump at the unexpected sound, gripping the marble counter in surprise.

  “Rocky?” A husky, now-familiar voice asks gently from the other side. “You okay? You need anything?”

  Rocky. Talk about a true blast from the past. No one has called me that ridiculous nickname since I was a kid, but damn, I kind of love it. It reminds me of simpler times, easier times, better times.

  I mull over his questions in my mind. Am I okay? Do I need anything?

  As if they have a mind of their own, my eyes spot the reflection of the ring on my finger. The pavé diamonds shimmer and shine beneath the vanity lights hanging above the mirror, and my brain begins to think about all the things I do need…

  Things I need to see and touch and taste and feel.

  Things I need to experience for myself.

  Things I need to finally do for me and no one else.

  “Rocky?”

  His voice doesn’t startle me this time. Instead, I smile.

  “I’m good,” I say, and I quickly realize there is one thing missing inside this bathroom—a change of clothes. The very change of clothes—his clothes, in fact—that he said he’d get me.

  Could this be the most perfect seduction scenario?

  “Almost done,” I spout a half-truth, and my smile brightens like the lightbulb that just switched on in my mind.

  Technically, I am almost done in this bathroom.

  But, tonight? Yeah, I think I’m just getting started…

  Harrison

  Never cry over spilled milk.

  That’s what my mom always said, but I have to admit, until today, I never paid it much attention. As a kid, I spilled shit all the time. Milk. Juice. Water. If it was liquid, I was splattering it all over fucking creation.

  Our mop got a lot of action, sure, but every time, my mom would simply laugh. Not a little, demure giggle, but big, uproarious belly laughing. Ellie Hughes thought life was made for living, and she’d be damned if she let me dwell in the valleys. Hell, maybe that’s why I was always wreaking havoc on all of our flooring—my accidents were a precursor to something upbeat.

  Anyway, I haven’t thought much about all those puddles of laughter in a long time.

  But today is proof positive: my mom—well, she was a teacher way ahead of her time.

  Cereal poured and the financial section of the New York Times in hand, I make my way to my circular, glass kitchen table and take a seat that faces the TV.

  Hello, Today!, the syndicated fluff show during the eight o’clock hour on TBC, prattles on about the perfect Christmas breakfast for a family of four while an obnoxious elf bounces around in the background. I roll my eyes as some celebrity—fuck if I know who it is—pretends to know how to make frittatas and turn my eyes back to the paper.

  Growing up, television was forbidden fruit in my childhood home. My hard-ass of a dad thought it was more important to read the Wall Street Journal and understand the stock market than watch what he called drivel. He was one of those top 1% people, and his power-wealthy position in life included uber-rich hedge funds, strategic million-dollar stock market swing trades, and a money-hungry mind-set.

  The only time the one television—I’m serious, one fucking TV—in our home was actually used, it revolved around big news conglomerates and State of the Union addresses by current presidents.

  But despite the old man’s eccentric views on televisi
on and movies and normal people’s forms of entertainment, I can’t deny that learning about the stock market at an early age and being forced to understand things like the global economy and trade deals has served beneficial in adulthood.

  My morning routine normally synchronizes beautifully for an all-out news download before heading to the office. But today, because of a late dinner meeting last night and too many Christmas-themed cocktails that have nothing to do with the holly-sprig adorned ones on TV, I’m running behind schedule.

  The great news is, as CFO of one of the largest media conglomerates in the world, I’m actually allowed to do that on occasion without getting docked on my time card. In fact, I haven’t seen an actual time card in ages. The only punching I do is at Tommy John’s Kickboxing on Wednesdays in a basement studio all the way over on 75th and Broadway.

  In the interest of full punching disclosure: I suck at it. Mohammad Ali in training, I am not. But flab is real, friends, even for the studly men in your life, and punching a bag with little to no precision keeps the excess weight off me. In layman’s terms, it keeps the ladies from grabbing on to anything other than muscle in bed.

  Ha.

  Scratch that last line. They grab my dick; I didn’t mean to make it sound like they don’t. There’s actually more penile touching than any other kind of touching in the cottony comfort of my sheets, and I’m very good at touching the ladies, in turn, with my mouth and penis. In fact, when my dick hears the words dick pic, it asks for photo credit because it was most certainly the one taking the picture.

  Okay, maybe I’ve gotten a little carried away, but my point is the same.

  What I meant to imply was that they don’t grab on to a beer gut—and trust me, if I didn’t work out, they would. I love beer and chicken wings, and I indulge in them both on way too many occasions to maintain some kind of quota weight “naturally.” If it weren’t for all the strenuous, practically nightly kickboxing workouts, if I were a woman in the public eye, I would be a constant ludicrous headline for my “fluctuating waistline.”