A baby on the way first.
Then love and
marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.
Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an
all-new not-to-be-missed, surprise baby romantic comedy standalone by New York Times bestselling author Max
Monroe is available now!
Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
Then comes a baby in the baby carriage.
That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a
simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man
oh man, did he get the order wrong.
One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight
to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how
to carry out the whole melody in reverse.
A baby on the way first.
Then love and marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.
But our situation is far more problematic than just a
simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver
was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin
whom the world adored and watched
like a hawk.
Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation
don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a
selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems.
As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a
multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle
anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be
in over my head.
Good thing I’m all in.
Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take
everything I’ve got.
Download your
copy today exclusively on Amazon or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3dIq5xP
Amazon
Worldwide: http://mybook.to/HollywoodsGoodestGirl
Add WINNING HOLLYWOOD’S GOODEST GIRL to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2Ynwt9j
Excerpt
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 television 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.”
Thankfully,
I am trim, toned, and able to binge on buffalo wings whenever the fuck I want.
My
cell vibrates across the table, and I snag it off the glass surface to see Incoming Call Cap flashing on the
screen.
I
sigh at the idea of listening to Caplin Hawkins’s bullshit before I’ve finished
my first cup of coffee, but I answer it despite my better judgment.
“Harrison,
you sly motherfucker, those stock tips you gave me last quarter have my
portfolio growing green like I’m a damn cannabis farmer.” He forgoes a greeting
and dives straight into what is most likely his selfish needs. “Should I be
concerned you’re getting insider info?”
“Wow,
it’s so great to hear from you too, bud.” I smirk and lick my finger to get
traction on the thin paper and flip through the pages until I get to
yesterday’s closing data for the Dow Jones and S&P 500. Quickly, I scan
through the numbers. It’s only one week away from Christmas and a few weeks
away from New Years’, and this month’s upward trend appears fairly optimistic
for avoiding a choppy close to the year.
“Yesterday,
HawCom was up five-fucking-percent. Seriously, dude, are you dragging me and my
father’s company into some illegal bullshit?” he asks, and I look away from my
newspaper to roll my eyes.
HawCom
is the company I’ve been with for the past decade, and it just so happens to be
owned by Cap’s father, Jared Hawkins. Financial management for a company of its
scale has been tricky these days with the ongoing uncertainty of the market,
but all in all, HawCom’s performance numbers have been stable and steadily
growing for the last nine quarters. As a major media company with “silent”
ownership in some of the world’s most relevant technology companies, it’s not
completely unexpected, but it’s certainly not guaranteed.
“Is
it difficult being the most ridiculous bastard on the planet?” I retort.
“Because, fuck, I can imagine it gets hard coming up with new ways to be this
insane.”
Despite
this idiot’s stupid question, everything I do is by the book. No insider
trading. No fraud. It all comes from a mind that’s been trained since childhood
to be strategic and understand economic patterns.
And
even if I shouldn’t, for the state of my motivation to maintain a certain work
ethic, I do allow myself to take a little credit for HawCom’s success. I’ve
been charged with a large job due to my leadership role in the company, but I
cherish the opportunity. It’d be hard not to with an uncharacteristically kind
and charismatic boss like Jared at the helm.
And
for the last four months, I’ve made it a point to cherish everything.
See,
I choose to be happy every day.
I
choose gratitude and intention in my every action.
I
choose the way my life plays out—all
of us do.
It
took me more than three busy, painful decades and the loss of both parents to
figure that out, but now that I have, the freedom in it is impressive.
The
truth is, until we die, all of us get
to choose our own destiny—
“I
swear to God,” Cap grumbles. “I will end you if I wind up in some kind of
high-security prison for stock fraud.”
I
laugh at the absurdity. “I help you grow your portfolio—without commission, mind you—and you’re threatening murder?”
“Are
you deflecting, son?” he questions, always the fucking lawyer. “Because I swear
on every-damn-thing, I will—”
“Relax.” I snort. “The only thing illegal
about the stock tips I gave you was the fact that I handed them to you on a
silver-fucking-platter without asking
for anything in return.”
“Speaking
of handing shit to me on a silver platter, let’s do that again,” he says, a
cunning smile apparent in his voice. “Who is looking profitable for the first
quarter of next year?”
“And
why should I give you anything, you prick?”
“Because
you love me. Because you don’t want to see me become a vagabond, living on the
streets.”
“You’re
one of the most successful corporate lawyers in North America who already has some of the world’s best
advisers handling his money. I’m pretty sure a lack of financial investment
advice from me isn’t going to break your bank.”
“Minor
details.” He chuckles. “C’mon, dude. Help your best friend and his sweet,
lovely, beautiful wife out.”
“Now
you’re bringing Ruby into this?” I tsk. “For shame.”
“You
and I both know, shameless or not, I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I
want,” he retorts, and I laugh outright.
“Are
you wanting stock tips or to get me into bed? Because, truthfully, it feels
like it could go either way at this point.”
Of
course, he doesn’t miss a fucking beat. “I’ll even toss in a candlelit dinner
and champagne if that’s what it’s going to take.”
Just
for the sake of ending this insanity, I start to open my mouth with a few
companies that are worthy of investments in the upcoming quarter, but a shrill
voice on the screen of the TV steals my attention. I wouldn’t normally refer to
any woman’s voice as shrill because I find it incredibly sexist and demeaning,
but I’m telling you, for the sake of painting an accurate description, this
particular voice, regardless of its bearer’s gender, is like the distress call
of a wounded rabbit. I couldn’t miss it if I were in an underground bunker with
six feet of sound-dampening dirt between us. And somehow, somehow, she still made it on TV.
“Thanks,
Chris,” she continues, her voice still painful to my ears. “Today is anything
but business as usual in sunny Southern California. It seems, folks, that the
impossible has happened. Hollywood is abuzz this morning with the most infamous
immaculate conception since the Virgin Mary herself.”
My
eyebrows pinch together at the ridiculous drivel as I lift the spoon to my
mouth. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph must be rolling over in their graves.
“Twenty-nine-year-old
famed virgin sexpot, Raquel Weaver, was photographed leaving Beverly Hills
Obstetrics today with a noticeable bump front and center on her normally trim
figure.”
Brakes
squeal to a stop inside my head.
What the fuck? Did she just say Raquel
Weaver?
I
gape at the television, trying to make sense of why that name of all names just
came out of Screechy’s mouth, but the instant a photograph pops up on the
screen and all-too-familiar violet eyes stare back at me, I have my fucking
answer.
Holy shit. It’s her.
Review:
I need a Harrison for myself. He was one of, if not the most, sincere, loving, and awesome character I have read in a long time. He is going through a personal issue when he meets Rocky in a bar. They realize that they knew each other when they were younger and they end up having a one night stand. Rocky is now a famous movie star and has gotten away from her team for one night. She is well known for being a virgin and wants to be done with that issue. She and Harrison have a ton of chemistry and a wonderful connection.
Fast forward to a few months later and Rocky is pregnant. Not only does Harrison not get upset that she didn't tell him right away, but he steps up and moves to be closer to his child. They end up having a lot of obstacles to deal with. Whether it is a fake fiance and father of her child or her manager (can we say a horrible person) Rocky and Harrison prove to the reader that even a one night stand can turn into something more if you work hard enough.
There were so many hilarious parts to this book, as well, as heart stopping. I liked the connection between Harrison and Rocky and the relationship between Rocky and his friends. Every book Max Monroe writes is one I can't put down and this one wasn't the exception. I loved every moment of this book. I can't wait to see what they come up with next. I received an ARC in exchange for an honest, voluntary review.
About Max Monroe
A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.
Max
Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more
than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time
friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so
often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two
writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most
favorite adventure thus far.
Connect
with Max Monroe
BookBub: http://bit.ly/3bJFJJh
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2ReoxkK
Facebook: http://bit.ly/31XxggS
Instagram: http://bit.ly/39wuCkW
Stay up to date with Max Monroe by joining
their mailing list today: http://bit.ly/2HzGmau
No comments:
Post a Comment