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

by Max Monroe

  I open my mouth to refute his assumption that I need time to think my feelings over, but he shakes his head. “No matter what you decide, I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

  I nod. For as much as I’d like to say, it’s the only thing I can manage, knowing I have to have it out with Heidi first. Because the only way I’m going to be able to give Harrison a fair shot is if I make it clear that he’s around to stay.

  I don’t need the stress of the constant fighting, and neither does the baby, and more than that, there are a lot more important things to worry about. It’s high time everyone gets with the program, starting today.

  Harrison leans down slowly and touches his lips to mine—just one, gentle, beyond innocent touch—but my hormones jump into freaking overdrive. My stomach tightens in a Braxton-Hicks-like contraction at the sudden flood of blood to the area.

  Holy moly, his lips always feel so good.

  My interest is avid as he steps away, back over to the couch, and pulls his previously discarded button-down back around his shoulders. One at a time, his arms go through the white sleeves, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning as he painstakingly does up the front, one button at a time.

  Sweet, merciful Jesus.

  He smirks, clearly knowing what he’s doing, the bastard, and walks over to me again when he’s done. After one quick kiss to the forehead, he heads for the door.

  Only when he has it open does he turn back to say one more thing. “Text me. Call me. Whatever, okay?”

  I nod. “I will.”

  But first, it’s about time I make sure everybody knows how it’s going to be.

  “Thanks, Freddie,” I say as he opens the door to my trailer on the set of Highlander for me. He smiles but otherwise keeps to himself like normal. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever heard Freddie speak in the entire decade he’s been working for me. I’ve spoken to him a ton, and he always answers me with his face, but I really don’t know that I’d even recognize his voice in a lineup.

  Heidi’s, however, I would know anywhere. It practically haunts me in my dreams.

  “Morning, sweetie!” Alejo greets me with a smile. “Ready to become an eighteenth-century Scottish lass with a flawless complexion?”

  Heidi sits on the couch at the other end of the trailer, typing away on her phone like a madwoman. She doesn’t look up, but I can still feel the weight of her every thought even without her gaze.

  I turn back to Alejo and smile. “Almost. I just, um, actually need a minute with Heidi before we get started today, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure, sweetie—” Alejo starts to say, shoving away from his station, but Heidi interrupts.

  “We’re on a schedule, Raquel. Sit down and let Alejandro do your makeup.”

  Alejo’s eyebrows climb to his forehead, but he freezes in his tracks, unsure of what he should do. And I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from lashing out—I know that’s what she’s after. She wants to have a reason to put me in my place before I can get to any of the points I want to discuss.

  So, ignoring the rapidly building steam in nearly every part of my body, extremities included, I reply with a calm and steady confidence. “I know it’s a busy day, and this won’t take long. But it’s important, so Alejo is going to step out for a minute…” I turn to him and smile again. “Thanks, honey.” His eyes alight with happiness at my orders, he scoots around the makeup chair and hustles to the trailer door.

  Heidi finally stops typing on her phone and watches me like a snake watches a mouse as I approach. Lucky for me, my size and the parts contributing to it make me a whole lot harder to swallow whole these days.

  “All right, Raquel. You’ve had your little scene and gotten your way. Now what are you going to do with it?”

  “Well, for starters, I’m going to ask you to drop the attitude. I understand that over the years, I’ve given you reason to use it a time or two, but this isn’t one of those times, and this is a professional conversation. You can either get on board with that or—”

  “Or what?” she says snidely.

  “Or I’m going to have to find someone better suited to me, Heidi.”

  She scoffs, and at the sound, I’ve finally had enough. “Stop, okay? Just stop. We’ve worked together for years—since my parents left—and you’re the closest thing I’ve had to family since. It’s absolutely ridiculous to think that we can’t manage a civil conversation after all of that history together.”

  She sighs, but it’s finally the kind of agreement. “Fine. You’re right. I’m just still dealing with last night,” she says pointedly, and I nod.

  “I understand. I know I’ve made some choices you don’t agree with—choices that don’t fit the mold of a Hollywood starlet—but in the process, I’m finally feeling like I’m on the right track. I’m growing up. Getting my life together. Making some of my own choices, good or bad, because in a couple of months—or hell, maybe less—I’m going to be in charge of more than just my own life.” I put my hands to my stomach as the baby kicks. “I’m going to be in charge of raising a human, Heidi. A life I created. I’m taking that seriously, and that means taking myself seriously. So, from now on, I’m going to be making my own decisions, and you’re either going to be okay with that, or I’m going to find someone who is.”

  Her steely eyes are working overtime as she considers me carefully. I hold them intently, with unwavering challenge.

  Finally, she relents. “Fine.”

  “Okay,” I say, holding out a hand, pride filling my chest over the long-overdue passing of the responsibility torch. “Well, get Alejo back in here, then. We’ve got a tight schedule to keep, you know?”

  Heidi smiles slowly, and though it doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes, I accept it as a victory.

  I’m sure this will be an ongoing conversation, but at least we’re headed in the right direction.

  I settle into the makeup chair as Heidi goes out of the trailer, and my phone buzzes from the pocket of my sweater. I pull it out, hoping it’s Harrison, but instead, it’s a creepy message from one of his amazing friends.

  Cap: Good mowning, mummy. I wants to meet you! Espeshy the parts my milks comes fwom.

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  This day, it seems, is off to a great start.

  And I can’t wait to meet you too, baby. Thanks for changing my life.

  Harrison

  I need some alone time with Rocky like my cousin Irene probably needs therapy from that tragic fall she took at my father’s funeral. It’s become a fucking necessity, like oxygen to breathe.

  A full week since we kissed in the rain, and so far, there’s been no mention of the conversation we had the next morning at all.

  To be fair, I’ve had a ton of work meetings and construction site visits to the new HawCom LA location, and Rocky has been filming fourteen hours a day for the new season of Highlander, so it’s not like we’ve been sitting around staring at each other.

  But still, I feel a little like I’m starting to go crazy.

  Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m delusional. But I want time alone with Rocky, and come hell or high water, I’m going to find a way to make it happen. I’ve already laid the groundwork via a text message to her this morning between conference calls at the office.

  “Can you just tell me if it’s a boy or a girl, motherfluffer?” Thatch says in my ear, reminding me that I’m still on the phone with him. Thirty minutes of trying to say goodbye, and the guy just keeps dragging me back in.

  I laugh. “No, I can’t. Because even I don’t know. Rocky doesn’t want to find out. Doesn’t even want to put it out into the universe for the paparazzi and gossip magazines to latch on to. She wants to be surprised.”

  “That’s dumb,” he says petulantly, and I have to laugh again.

  “You only think it’s dumb because Cassie sent you on a mission to get the answer, and you don’t want to have to go back to her without one.”

  “Damn
straight, bro! Don’t you care about my health?”

  “Your health is fine.”

  “It won’t be if she comes back from Jersey with Harriet, and I don’t have the intel! You ever heard of Lorena Bobbitt?”

  I guffaw so loud, the lady in the office supply store jumps.

  Whoops.

  “Cassie isn’t going to cut off your…”

  “Superior penis,” he supplies helpfully.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah. She’s crazy, but she’s not that crazy. Just tell her we don’t know, so you can’t know.”

  “You think that’s good enough for Cassie, dude? Pfft. I’m literally going to have to figure out how to get my own lab work done. What’s the name of Rocky’s doctor again?”

  “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

  “Beverly Hills something, right?”

  “Thatch.”

  “Oh yeah. Beverly Hills Obstetrics. It’s listed right on People’s website.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  “Thatch, don’t even think about—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

  “Well, I gotta go. Calls to make…”

  “Thatcher Kelly, don’t you fucking—”

  “Don’t worry, bro,” he interjects again. “I won’t spoil the surprise for you guys.”

  “Jesus Christ—”

  Click.

  Goddammit!

  Quickly, I swipe into my message inbox and furiously type out a message.

  Me: I will end you, motherfucker. I swear on your superior penis, you won’t have anything left for your wife to Lorena Bobbitt if you find some way to swindle Rocky’s doctor into disclosing the gender of my baby to you.

  The giant bastard responds a minute later.

  Thatch: I don’t swindle, I sweet-talk.

  That is so not the fucking point. I’m about to type out an incredibly explicit murderous message when the girl behind the counter calls my attention.

  She’s maybe fifteen or sixteen and has so far been absolutely mystified by my requests.

  “Did you want the sunset the same as the beach scene, sir?”

  “Yep. Seven by nine feet, thanks.”

  She shakes her head, presumably wondering what she did to deserve to be on shift when I came in for this shit, but goes back to working on my project for me all the same.

  Meanwhile, my phone goes off with a text from someone I actually want to talk to.

  Rocky: You want us to go on a date? Are you really sure that’s a good idea?

  I smile. Looks like she’s finally had a break between filming to read my message.

  Me: Yeah. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.

  A week of no private time with her at all feels like a lifetime. Plus, all the time we’ve spent together since that night in August has either been devoted to her job or the baby, and I have big, big plans to pay attention to something else entirely tonight.

  Rocky: That’s sweet, Harrison, but what are we going to do? It’s not like we can go out somewhere. We’d be mobbed. It’d be too crazy.

  I smirk down at her response.

  Oh, how little does she know what I have planned…

  Me: Don’t you worry about that, Rock. I have something up my sleeve, and I know just where to take you.

  Rocky: It’s not, like, an underground bunker with the skeletons of women past, is it?

  Me: That was my second choice if my first didn’t work out, but you’re in luck. No bunkers this time.

  Rocky: All right, all right. Where and when?

  Me: Tonight. When are you going to be done filming today?

  Rocky: Probably not until 6.

  Me: Okay. Meet me at my apartment at 7:30. I’ll take care of the rest, and yes, I promise, there will be food. Lots of it.

  Rocky: Geez, am I that predictable?

  Me: Not you, the baby, remember? ;)

  My baby.

  God. It’s crazy how quickly life can change.

  Funny thing is, now that I’m here, I can’t imagine going back.

  Harrison

  If I were a magician, they’d have to call me Mr. Romantic because I have all sorts of what Thatch’s favorite books would call “swoony” up my sleeves.

  Sunset- and beach-scapes taped to the appropriate walls, tropical candles lit, comfortable blanket on the “sand,” a cold bucket of refreshments and the biggest picnic basket of food California’s ever seen all set up and waiting, I’m ready when Rocky knocks on my apartment door at just after seven thirty.

  Dressed in a white tank top, denim maternity shorts, what I’ve lovingly designated as her Mr. Rogers sweater, and no makeup on her face, she’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Hi,” she says sweetly.

  “Hi.” I smile. “I see it’s a good day in the neighborhood.”

  She glances down at her sweater and laughs. “It’s comfortable!”

  “I know. I love it.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she snarks back as she steps farther into the room and turns from looking over her shoulder at me to the inside of my LA apartment. “That’s why you—”

  A gasp jumps from her mouth, and one petite hand pops up to cover it. Scanning desperately around the room, she looks at the scenes on the walls, the rolling ocean track I have on the TV, the candles on the counters, until she stops on the setup in the center of the room. Her hand falls from her mouth, but it takes a while before anything finds its way out of the newly created opening.

  “What is this?” she finally whispers, spinning on her heels and looking up at me with the most painfully earnest violet eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “It’s a beach picnic.”

  “A beach picnic,” she repeats reverently. “For me. In your living room.”

  I nod. “Like you said, we can’t go out. This is the next best thing. I tried to think of everything to make it the most authentic beach picnic experience I could manage, but I’m sorry if I forgot anything.”

  “Are you kidding?” she cries, jumping up to wrap her small arms around my shoulders. I take her weight and lean into her hair as she speaks directly into my ear. “This is the sweetest, best, most thoughtful, amazing thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “I know it’s not quite like the real thing—”

  She shakes her head, stopping my words. “This is better than any and every tropical island I’ve ever been to.”

  It pains me to separate her body from mine. I’ve been desperate for this connection since last week—and a hell of a lot longer, if I’m honest—but I know she has to be starving, and no matter my wants, taking care of her needs is my number one priority.

  “Come on,” I say, taking her hand and helping her down to the floor onto a giant, cozy pillow. “There’s tons of food.”

  “Thank God,” she replies, confirming her hunger. “I haven’t eaten in about six hours, and this baby of ours finds that entirely unacceptable. Another twenty minutes of making it wait and I’m pretty sure it’d be using its wittle tiny womb phone to call CPS.”

  “Wittle tiny womb phone?” I ask with a laugh before shaking my head. “Which one of my demented friends came up with that one?”

  She frowns almost comically. “How do you know that’s not my original material?”

  “Is it?” I say, lifting one eyebrow.

  She huffs. “No.”

  I chuckle again. “Don’t fret. I just know Thatch and Cap. In fact, I know them even better than I ever thought I’d want to. And the word “wittle” with a w could only come from one of them using their imaginary baby voices.”

  She shakes her head. “Well, now that you’ve ruined my joke, I guess all that’s left to do is eat.”

  I shrug before grabbing a couple more pillows and artfully arranging them behind her back to give her some much-needed support. The picnic on the floor is only romantic if you can manage to make sure nobody’s limbs go numb. Once she’s comfy and set, I slide down in front of her, stretch out on my side, and lea
n into one of my elbows across from her.

  She giggles. “If I get down into that kind of position, I’ll never get up.”

  “Sure, you would. I would help you,” I tease with a wink.

  She peels open the lid on the basket and roots around until she stumbles on the answer to her cravings. Spaghetti Bolognese from Cesarino’s, one of her favorite restaurants in the city, is apparently the winner.

  “Oh my Gaaawd. This is…” She scarfs a bite down and chews manically. “Mmm,” she hums through an exhale. “Oh my God.”

  A smile climbs from the corners of my mouth all the way to my eyes. “That good, huh?”

  She nods frantically, all the while putting several more bites into her mouth.

  “If I bribe you with food like this, would I be able to convince you to come see me here at my place every night?”

  Her eyebrows pull together as she chews more.

  “I’ve missed you, Rock.” I admit the full truth, not holding back anymore. “This week, especially. But if I’m honest, I’ve missed being alone with you since the moment you left my apartment…in New York…in August.”

  Her head jerks up, and for the first time since she found the spaghetti, she stops chewing, attempts to clear her mouth with a big swallow, and sets down the container of pasta.

  “Harrison,” she whispers, clearly taking me seriously enough that I’ve ruined the mood. In an effort to change that, I keep the main point of my topic but lighten up the subject matter considerably.

  “I don’t understand. I mean, there are always people around. When do you fart?”

  “Excuse me? I do not fart!”

  I roll my eyes. “Right. No farting. I’m sure that’s humanly possible without, I don’t know, exploding from the gases.”