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

  “Take pressure off her when you can, but don’t suggest she’s not still capable. They really hate when you imply they’re not capable. Even of reaching their shoes. And trust me, they can’t fucking reach their shoes.”

  “Anything else?” I ask as the speed of the suggestions starts to slow down.

  “Give her as many hugs as she’ll tolerate, and don’t stop, ever,” Kline says with a soft smile. “She’ll pretend she doesn’t need them, but I guarantee, if you keep it up consistently, eventually you’re going to be the one to comfort her when she needs it most.”

  “At the time she needs it most,” Thatch adds, his words surprisingly wise. “You have to find a way to always be the one she turns to in her time of need.”

  Always be the one she turns to in her time of need.

  The words resonate in my mind and make me think about the night that led to all of this—Rocky pregnant, me moving to California, me becoming a father.

  Was I that someone for her five months ago?

  The very, very early morning of August 16th, 1:45 a.m.

  Harrison

  All grown-up and au natural has never looked better.

  For the tenth time tonight, I watch with avid interest as Rocky’s tongue scores a path along the rosy palette of her plump bottom lip. She has no idea she’s doing it, I can tell, but I am acutely, embarrassingly aware.

  The last time I saw this woman, she wasn’t a woman at all—she wasn’t even really a girl.

  She was a sweet kid with big, violet eyes and a douchebag brother.

  And now, she’s an adult woman, sitting beside me in rhinestone-adorned sweatpants with gloriously messy, wild hair, sans makeup, and the kind of perfectly full lips that could drive a man insane.

  Trust me, I should know. Every time she licks her lips, I grow one step closer to a padded cell and a straitjacket.

  Okay, so that’s probably a bit of an exaggeration, but the sentiment is the same—Rocky Weaver is a full-fledged woman with the kind of natural, gorgeous beauty, I am seemingly powerless to resist.

  I haven’t even thought about her in twenty-five years, but for some reason, after seeing her tonight, I can’t stop thinking about the funniest memory of her brother Luca and me rolling around on her front lawn like a couple of heathens while she looked on, a bag of Doritos in her hand and a smile on her face.

  I never thought about it at the time, but now, rethinking it, I can’t get over the amusing fact that she never once made a move to do anything to stop us.

  Most girls I knew back then would have run shrieking into the house, tattling to her mom or her dad or anyone she could find in an effort to get us to quit pounding on each other.

  But Rocky just stood there, eating her Doritos with orange-stained fingertips and watching us fight, a small smile playing at the tiny corner of her mouth.

  I want to know so badly what kind of woman that girl turned into.

  What I’ve seen so far lives up to the hype and then some.

  “So, what about favorite shows?” I ask, striving to find an easy way to delve further into the inner workings of her clever mind. And even though I haven’t a fucking clue what’s actually on television these days, I figure it’s worth the shot if it gets her talking. “Give me the good stuff. The real guilty pleasure, afraid to tell other people kind of stuff.”

  She quirks a cute, questioning brow, and I have no problem explaining further.

  “What people are willing to watch on constant repeat tells so much about them.” I toss a secret smirk in her direction. “I have to know if we’re compatible.”

  “Holy hell.” She throws back her head and laughs. It’s a loud, free, gorgeous fucking laugh, and I’m one hundred percent down to keep this woman laughing like that for the rest of the night. Hell, if I have to don a clown suit and tap-dance across the bar, I’ll do it. “What kind of shows are you even talking about?” she asks, meeting my eyes. “Like Saved by the Bell?”

  Saved by the Bell? Is that the show that used to have the hot cheerleader chick?

  Fuck if I know, but I’m pretty certain that show is old enough to be the grandmother of anything that’s currently rolling on TV.

  “How about something a little more current? Don’t you ever just sit at home and watch reruns of Project Runway for hours on end?”

  Truthfully, I’ve never watched Project Runway, but I’ve heard Thatch gab about that fucking show enough at our poker night turned book club turned back to poker night to have an idea of the overall details.

  “Um…no, I’ve never seen it,” she answers with a curious tilt of her head. “Should I?”

  “Well, I hear Tim Gunn is the best in the biz.” Per Thatcher Kelly, everyone and their mother loves Tim Gunn. Me, on the other hand? I don’t have a clue who he is or what he does.

  “You hear? You don’t watch it yourself?” An amused giggle escapes her pretty little mouth, and it’s music to my ears. Instantly, I smile.

  “Nah. I’ve never seen it.”

  She crinkles her nose. “What do you mean, you’ve never seen it?”

  “That I’ve never had occasion to watch it.”

  “Then why are you giving me a hard time?” she nearly shouts between another round of giggles.

  “Because you should. And so should I.” I wink. “Why don’t we pick a day to do nothing but sit around and let Project Runway episodes roll right from one into another?”

  She quirks one eyebrow. “Do you even know what that show is actually about?”

  “No, but that’s why this is perfect. You’ve never seen it, and I haven’t a fucking clue what I’m getting myself into.”

  Rocky snorts. “Sitting around all day isn’t really something that happens in my world.”

  “Busy lady, huh?”

  She takes a gulp of her drink and nods before biting her lip. “You could say that.”

  “What are you up to?” I ask. “I’ve barely asked you anything about yourself. Tell me something.” Tell me anything.

  She balks for a minute before finally turning to face me with serious, piercing eyes. “I’m kind of…living a double life.”

  “Secret Agent Rocky Weaver?” I ask with a laugh.

  She nods, and a playful smile starts to slip across her lips. “Very top-secret stuff. I spend a ton of time pretending to be someone I’m not, moving in circles I otherwise wouldn’t. Just the other day, I was in a car chase where I had to outmaneuver a group of guys.”

  “Okay, okay. So, you don’t want to tell me personal details. I can handle that.” I chuckle and raise up both hands in acquiescence. “How about you tell me something that’s completely unimportant about yourself, then? Something no one knows but is insignificant in its detail.”

  “Something no one knows?” She stares at me for a long moment, running her fingertips across the surface of the bar.

  “It can be anything,” I encourage, and a little, secret smile kisses her mouth.

  “Well…” She pauses, but eventually continues. “I…uh…I wrote vulgar letters to my grandmother as a kid, complaining about my parents, and hid them under my bed.”

  “Vulgar?” I ask, and she nods. “How explicit are we talking?”

  “Like…unedited rap songs, I guess?” She shrugs, and that smile of hers turns shy. “I called my dad a pussy in one of them,” she admits softly, and I can’t stop myself from throwing back my head and howling with laughter.

  “Oh my God, that’s amazing. Probably the best secret anyone has ever told me.” A blush joins the smile party on her pretty face. “But I have to know…why your grandmother? And why didn’t you ever send them?”

  “Because my grandmother was crazy. It felt like, somehow, she’d understand me, even if I was being ridiculous. But my parents didn’t get along with her, so I didn’t see her. I didn’t even have her address.” She laughs. “Though, I doubt I’d have had the guts to send them even if I did.”

  “If she and your dad didn’t get along, she was prob
ably the perfect person to send a letter in which you called him a pussy.” I chuckle and shake my head. “God, I’m dying to know why you were calling him a pussy in the first place. That’s pretty damn hilarious. I mean, I knew your parents in a very remote, removed sense, but I didn’t have any real occasion to know anything other than that they were always very punctual when coming to get your brother from the principal’s office. Mine were always a little late.”

  “I can’t say I remember the exact incident that incited the word pussy,” she explains further. “But I believe it had something to do with the way he always rolled over for my mom.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to let your wife set the pace.” I offer a knowing smirk. “They don’t have that saying happy wife, happy life for nothing.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t created for my mom. The exact opposite, actually. She was never really happy, and my dad let her bully him into decisions that were questionable.”

  “Wow, Rock. That’s some really personal shit for a non-personal conversation.”

  It is some deep shit, but the fact that I’m here, at this bar, on the same day I buried my dad is evidence that I’m certainly not one to judge.

  She sinks her face into her hands and laughs. “God, you’re right. What have you started here, Doctor? How much do you charge for the hour?”

  “Oh no,” I admit, more than ready to allow my own personal baggage to serve as her salve. “You don’t want me as your therapist, baby. I’ve got my own psychological issues when it comes to my parents. I’ve come here tonight,” I whisper, “straight from my dad’s funeral.”

  “Oh my God,” she says, putting a delicate hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, see…I’m not.” Her eyebrows jump up, and I laugh. “I told you I had my own issues.”

  “So, you’re saying we’re both headcases?” she asks, and the soft, relief in her voice makes my chest feel a thousand times lighter.

  I chuckle and shrug again. “If the shoe fits.”

  “Well, whatever. I guess I’ve been called worse.”

  I blow out my chest in mock-masculinity. “By whom?” I say, lowering my voice to a timbre reminiscent of Tarzan. “Show me man, and I beat with club.”

  She giggles before taking the last sip of her water. “Usually it’s people I don’t even know, I’m afraid.”

  The sentence doesn’t exactly make a ton of sense to me, but I don’t spend too much time on it. I just did a caveman impression, so I’m hardly the right person to hold either one of us to any kind of standard at this point.

  The bartender brings over another round of water and iced tea and slides them onto the bar top in front of us, distracting both of us from the conversation unfolding for a brief moment. We simply smile at each other before taking a swig of our fresh drinks.

  Tonight is so damn…unexpected.

  No doubt, I didn’t anticipate finding an old California nemesis’s sister in a bar in Manhattan, but I really didn’t expect to end this day having a good time.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve chatted with a woman in a way that didn’t feel forced—and I spend plenty of time chatting with women. I’ve certainly dated my fair share over the years and then some.

  But now that my friends have all found their soul mates, it’s like I’ve got nothing but free time to fill. Sure, I’d like to find what they have, but I’m not set on it either.

  I mean, while they’re busy at home with their wives and kids, I’m busy meeting different women and banging my head against a wall. Of course, sometimes it’s because we’re having the kind of sex that shakes a room; sometimes it’s because I’m bored out of my mind.

  “What about you, then?” she finally says, pulling me from my thoughts. “I’ve given you one of my deepest, darkest secrets. It’s only fair that you give me one of your own now, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose you’re right.” I put a finger to my chin and ponder. “A secret. Hmm. What do I even have that I can—”

  She rolls her eyes and cuts me off dramatically. “Oh God, give me a break. Start with something easy. How many women have you slept with?”

  My brows shoot to my hairline. “You think that’s an easy question?”

  She snorts. “It’s not? Jesus, how high is the number that you can’t count it?”

  “It’s not hard because of the math involved,” I correct with a laugh. “It’s hard because that’s the kind of thing a man usually keeps close to the vest just in case the answer is something that might scare off the woman he’s currently talking to.”

  “You can’t scare me,” she insists.

  “Right.”

  “You can’t.” She loops a finger over her chest in a crisscross. “I promise, I won’t hold it against you. We all have our pasts.”

  I groan.

  “Come on! I was practically a closet gangster!”

  Goddamn, she’s so fucking cute.

  “Fine,” I finally concede, somehow completely unable to not give in to everything she asks of me. “It’s somewhere in the neighborhood of…twenty.”

  She chokes on her drink, and I have to pat her on the back violently as I shake my head. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

  “No,” she denies. “Twenty is fine. Twenty is…well, it’s just two tens put together, you know? It’s just…twenty.”

  I nod and bite my lip to fight my laughter. “I’m familiar with the number, obviously.”

  “So…um…how does one go about sleeping with twenty women?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s pretty easy, I guess. I’ve had a couple of moderate-length relationships, but nothing that lasted years. If you consider the fact that I’ve been sexually active since I was sixteen, and I’m thirty-four now, that’s really only about one a year.”

  Her eyes bug out. “You’ve been having sex since you were sixteen?”

  “Yeah,” I answer with a laugh. “Why? When did you lose your virginity?”

  She waves me off, her cheeks heating, and instantly, I’m mesmerized by the idea of watching that blush travel all the way down her chest and onto her breasts.

  I try to shake off my thoughts and concentrate on her as she laughs. “We’re talking about you, not me. You already got a secret out of me.”

  “And I only get one?”

  “Tonight? Yes.”

  “Fine.” I take a sip of my drink.

  “So…twenty.”

  I sigh. “Yes, twenty. Jesus. Now I feel like I need to go take a bath in some holy water or something. It’s not really that many, is it?”

  “No,” she says comfortingly. “One a year is pretty reasonable, I guess.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, who was your favorite?”

  I spray my drink all over the bar, and she giggles.

  “What the hell happened to one secret?”

  “That was for me, not for you,” she doesn’t hesitate to respond. “You have to tell me as many secrets as I want.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And why is that?” I ask.

  “Because you said before you’re hoping to see me for a while.”

  “That’s right,” I affirm.

  “Well, the only way you’re going to keep me around is if you continue to tell me things to keep me interested. I’ve had a rough day, and you could be the one to help me turn it around.”

  Me, be the one to turn this day around for her?

  Well, hell. Count me all fucking in.

  Raquel

  I never would’ve thought a real-life version of Live PD could take place in my apartment, but I also never would’ve thought I’d be a woman who gets pregnant after having sex for the first time in her whole freaking life.

  When my bodyguard opens the door to my apartment, the last thing I expect to find in front of it is Harrison Hughes.

  Unfortunately for Harrison, my bodyguard seems just as surprised. I don’t even get a full second of
eye contact before Freddie grabs him by the throat and spins him around to slam his back against the wall.

  Oh, for the love of God!

  I let out a scream—not helpful, I know, but it’s the only thing I can seem to manage under the circumstances—as Harrison’s hands shoot to his throat out of instinct, and the skin of his neck at the edge of Freddie’s hands looks red and distressed.

  “Freddie! Fred! No!” I scream at the top of my lungs, and it shocks my bodyguard long enough to make his eyes meet mine. “Let him go! I know him!” When my wits finally outwrestle the freak-out in my head and the squeezing, violent suppression of life hasn’t ceased, I clarify. “Gah! You know him, Freddie! It’s Harrison!”

  “Oh.” Instantly, Freddie Bones releases his hold, and as a result, Harrison’s feet once again find their home on the floor. “Sorry, bro.”

  “It’s all good.” Harrison just chuckles and adjusts his shirt.

  I step out into the hall and fret my teeth into my lip as Freddie steps back inside and shuts the door behind him, leaving Harrison and me alone. And we sit under a cloak of silence for nearly a full minute before I timidly force myself to speak my mind.

  “I…I thought you’d gone back to New York.” It’s been nearly two weeks since he left me that note. And those two weeks felt like an eternity.

  “I did. To get my stuff.” Harrison smiles, the dimple settling into his cheek ever so noticeably. “I also had to pull some strings—namely promising the previous tenant season tickets to the New York Mavericks along with the rest of my more than generous offer—but I managed to get an apartment downstairs. I hope that’s not too forward of me, but I wanted to be close enough to help you with anything you might need. Cravings, putting furniture together—whatever.”

  My head spins.

  He moved here? Into the same building as me?

  To be here for me and the baby?

  Holy hell.

  My tongue is tied like freaking shoelaces, and I can’t get my thoughts together to form words before he takes my silence the wrong way.

  “I mean, I know you have other people who can do that stuff for you, obviously,” he adds, his voice starting to resemble quiet and unsure. “And if you’d prefer that, that’s totally okay. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to be as involved as possible.”