✰ Bianca ✰ 
• 11 June 2020
• connected standalone
• Meet Raquel's Brother ► here ◄
• ... and since we see a lot of former heroes in this book, why not start with Max Monroe's very first and very hilarious book ►Tapping The Billionaire◄
• connected standalone
• Meet Raquel's Brother ► here ◄
• ... and since we see a lot of former heroes in this book, why not start with Max Monroe's very first and very hilarious book ►Tapping The Billionaire◄
★★★★
4 Stars
4 Stars
A baby on the way first.
Then love and marriage?
It’s complicated on its best day.
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.
We already heard about Raquel in her brother's book and of course we know Harrison from the Billionaire's Book Club Poker Nights. But this can be read as a standalone!
Raquel has been a famous Hollywood star for over 20 years now. And somehow she's become the most famous virgin on the planet.
But she's not anymore.
Because a few months ago, in a bar in New York, she met Harrison. The boy she remembers from joyful childhood days - before he left California when he was ten.
And after one night with him she's not a virgin anymore.
But she's still a very famous Hollywood star - which Harrison doesn't know. He has no clue about celebrities and whatnots. That's why it's slightly shocking when he finds out he's going to be a daddy on national breakfast television!
LET THE FUN TIMES BEGIN!
ADORABLE!!!
I loved this story!
It was such a sweet and funny and very emotional love story.
Raquel and Harrison are so perfect for each other, but it's not as easy as it could be.
She's famous and the paparazzi are following her around. And he's the CFO for a billion-dollar company and he has no clue about any of that Hollywood stuff.
But he wants to be an amazing father to his kid!
It was funny, sweet, crazy Hollywoody. Crazy Thatch & Cap-y!
BUT ...
I had a few tiny little problems with it though. Sometimes the writing seemed so weird. As if a 90 year old ? Professor or Lawyer had written it, instead of a young person in 2020. Weird sentences.
And then the storyline. Or rather some of the ways the story went. I HATED the whole fake fiancé thing. And I hated Raquel's whole team. Why hasn't she fired them all years ago? She's almost 30 and has been in the business forever - she has to know things. She has to grow up. It was ridiculous. I would've fired them all the second I first witnessed her whole team in one room - I'm kinda proud of Harrison for not killing any of them! And then towards the end when that typical romance-story - and in my opinion not needed - 'misunderstanding' happens?! UGH! Wouldn't have happened if we had just fired everyone sooner! I really hated the book in those moments. A lot. I almost DNF! I just can't understand how two talented authors can't come up with a smarter or more creative turn of events. I don't want this stupid over-the-top / unnecessary drama thing in all my books. It's been done too often. Get creative, or just don't add any drama at all - it's a rom-com - we want it all happy happy fun fun.
But, I still really loved the story. I loved Raquel and Harrison - and of course all the cameos of our all time favorite people like THATCH! And Kline and Cap et cetera. ♥ And I can't wait to read the next book about the Country singer turned Hollywood star and her co-star!
How are none of Max Monroe's books streaming their behinds off on Netflix yet??? The world is a weird and sad place!!
WINNING HOLLYWOOD'S GOODEST GIRL was a funny & adorable Hollywood-NYC-Baby love story! Hurry to your nearest amazon for your own Harrison - he'll be sold out in no time!!!
• 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.
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The Girl in the Painting
Over two years ago, a dynamic duo of romance authors teamed up under the pseudonym Max Monroe, and, well, the rest is history...
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.
