I’m not always into office romance probably because all my years working in an office but sometimes it works! Especially if it’s an author I already like, I will still pick it up.
And look, I get it. The late hours, the forced proximity, the power dynamics, it’s hard to resist (fictionally)! Here are some that I’ve really enjoyed.
What do you think the sexiest (… or should I say hottest 🤭) profession is? I don’t know but firefighter has to be up there! There’s something about a man who’s willing to put his life on the line to save old ladies and kittens, you know? Plus he can carry me.
Happy Father’s day! In honor of the holiday, here are some of my favorite fictional daddies. I am such a sucker for this trope, especially if you throw in a small town setting and a blue collar profession.
Do you have any favorites? I need all the recommendations.
Marriage of Convenience gets a lot of well deserved hype, but I also love its drunken little sister, Oops!-we-got-married-in-Vegas. The regret, the hangover, the awkward aftermath, the eventual feelings and trying to figure out how to make the marriage work in the real world – I love it all.
Hot Stuff, an all-new sexy and swoon-worthy rom com from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!
My Take: (ARC Review) Nothing makes me laugh like a Max Monroe novel. I can always count on them for something light and funny with a swoony hero and plenty of steam that will make me actually laugh out loud.
Firefighter Garrett is a recently divorced single father (we met him in Single Dad Seeks Juliet) who is shocked to find out his crush, his new doctor, is the daughter of his chief. They keep running into each other and decide to date in private, including the sweetest first date I think I’ve ever read.
Though they instantly like each other, it’s not all easy going. Garrett is often pulled away for indeterminate amounts of time due to wildfires. Lauren grew up with a firefighter father and knows just how hard it can be. She’s hesitant to tell her father, who doesn’t want that lifestyle for her.
I loved the relationship that both Garrett and Lauren had with Garrett’s kids, and it’s always a joy to see characters from previous books.
It’s a romcom that leans heavily towards the com part, but I had fun reading it, and that’s really something I needed!
Have you ever seen a fireman who’s so insanely sexy you’d actually consider DIY-ing a little at-home arson just so he’d show up at your front door?
Dramatic, I know, but hear me out.
Chiseled hot body, bright blue eyes, and the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen, the first time I saw Garrett Alexander in my exam room, it took everything inside me not to do something crazy like mount him during his yearly physical.
Not only is he a total babe, but he’s charming, hilarious, and the kind of single dad that would make your ovaries explode—the total freaking package.
I know you’re probably wondering, What in the heck are you waiting for, girl? Go get yourself a fireman!
But, see, there’s one teeny-tiny (read: huge) problem—if we got together, we’d have to keep our relationship a secret.
I know. Who even am I? Some heroine in a freaking forbidden romance novel?
Let me guess, now you’re probably thinking…Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.Don’t do it, girl. Don’t fall for the sexy, off-limits man. It’s not worth it.
Well, too late. I already went and did it.
And I have a feeling this fire of ours is going to go up in a big, mushroom-cloud-worthy, ball of figurative smoke.
Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Suddenly, the door to Garrett’s room cracks open, and he peeks his head out, damn near startling me into another dimension.
Noticing my hysterical jump and defensive pose, he quiets his voice to a whisper. “Sorry to, um, startle you. I just… I’m ready.”
“Of course. Yeah.” I nod feverishly, follow him into the room, and take a few discreet, calming breaths to slow down the rate at which my heart is sprinting inside my chest. Honestly, for a woman who did gymnastics in her childhood, you’d think my cardiovascular system would be able to tolerate adrenaline a little better than this. A minor startle from a hot fireman and I’m panting like a dog in heat.
His gown covers everything, but it’s strangely anticipatory and it feels like I’m seeing more of him than I should. It’s weird and odd and completely irrational. So, I shut my eyes for a brief moment and force myself into doctor mode.
“Just take a seat on the exam table, please,” I instruct him with a gesture of my hand.
He does without question.
Then I start my assessment.
First, his vital signs. Blood pressure, heart rate, respiratory rate, and temperature.
All good. All within normal limits.
Next, with my stethoscope, I listen to his heart and lungs and abdomen.
Also, good. Steady, strong, clear.
“Am I going to live to see another day, Dr. Lauren?” he asks once I finish a quick reflex check, smirking up at me from his spot on the exam table, and I can’t not return his expression with a grin.
“Yes, it appears that you will,” I answer and make a few notes in his chart. “Now, if you don’t mind, please stand up in front of the exam table so I can…uh…check…your…uh…te$ticles.”
Okay, Lauren. Be cool. Be. Cool. It’s just another day at the office, and Garrett is just another set of anatomy…
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.
Best Friends Don’t Kiss, an all new friend zoned bestfriend rom com from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe available now!
My Take:
(ARC Review) This is a fun friends-to-lovers holiday themed book with typical Max Monroe humor and tons of Billionaire cameos from previous books.
It is pretty slow burn and the pacing was a little odd to me. The first half of the book was her dating other men, we were very far into the book before either realized they had feelings for the other. If there were more longing or unrequited love, maybe a spark from a brush of the hand, the slow burn wouldn’t have been a problem but it felt off as is because the feelings came very quickly and late into the story.
The second half had all the action, steam and holiday events and I loved it once the pace picked up! Overall I did like it since it’s funny throughout and the second half was lovely.
Goal: Find a boyfriend, get married, buy a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, and pop out 2.5 kids.
Deadline: Sixty days.
That’s possible, right?
HAHAHA. *Faints*
I’m kidding. Well, kind of. I mean, I’m not going to attempt a shotgun wedding or try to get knocked up by some guy I met on the internet, but there is no doubt that, this year, home for the holidaystakes on a whole new, terrifying meaning.
I have to travel from New York City—my home and safe haven for the last fifteen years—to my tiny hometown in Vermont for Christmas, my baby sister’s wedding, and my high school reunion.
Talk about a trifecta of single-doom.
Throw in Callie Camden—aka my high school class’s version of Regina George—and it’s a recipe for certified disaster.
Especially since my mouth ran away from me when she asked me if I’d be bringing someone to our reunion, and I told her to put me down for two.
Gah. Now I can’t go alone.
But the online dating world is a cesspool of bad manners, speedy hookups, and outright weirdos.
Handsome, single, successful—that’s what I’m looking for.
And it just so happens that my best friend Luke London fits all of the criteria.
I only get two steps toward my door when my phone starts ringing from inside my purse. I dig it back out again to find an unknown number with a Vermont area code flashing on the screen.
I know I should let it roll to voice mail, but Aunt Poppy called me from jail one time, and I never heard the end of how I wasted her one phone call by not answering.
Reluctantly, I hit the green button and put it to my ear.
“Ava! It’s Callie!”
Damn Aunt Poppy and her fascination with streaking!
“Oh, uh…hi, Callie…”
“Sorry to bother you, but I had one more question to ask, and since I now have your number, I figured I’d just call you really quick!”
Greattt. “Sure thing,” I say with saccharine sweetness.
“Since I have to finalize the head count for the venue by tomorrow, I need to know if I should just put you down as a single,” she begins. “Pretty sure your mom told me you weren’t married or engaged or dating anyone, but I just want to double-check that you’re still single. Honestly, I think you’re one of only ten people from our high school that isn’t married yet!” she exclaims through an amused giggle.
I put my phone on speaker, drop it down on my entry table, and give it the double finger with as much gusto as I can manage.
Obviously unaware of my display, she continues. “So crazy that most of us have reached the age where we’re married, and some with kids now. Which, by the way, I can’t believe your baby sister Kate is getting married before you. Soon, you’re going to be the only single Lucie left!”
My tongue is tied by an imaginary angry fist, but it doesn’t matter. One of the only positive qualities Callie possesses is the ability to carry on an entire conversation herself.
“By the way, you’re the best for helping me plan the reunion!”
“That’s me.” The best people-pleasing lunatic in NYC who really should look into finding a good therapist to help me work through all of this before I have to head home to Vermont to watch my baby sister get married in the same week I get to attend a fifteen-year high school reunion I somehow got roped into helping plan. With the Regina George of my high school class. In less than two short months from now.
Okay. So, I don’t need to find a therapist; I need to find Jesus. I just hope he lives in Manhattan.
“So…one or two?” Callie asks, pulling me from the deep recesses of my thoughts.
“One or two?”
She giggles again. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. “How many people should I put you down for, silly?”
This is a remake of Nightmare on Elm Street; it has to be. A new Halloween movie or something. Michael Myers himself must be right outside my freaking door. That’s the only way the universe would be cruel enough to add Callie’s interest into the swirling, boiling pot my family already has roasting over the Ava’s Relationship Status fire.
Just like that, it hits me. I cannot go to this reunion and attend my baby sister’s wedding alone in the same damn week. I just…can’t.
I completely break under the fucking pressure of it all, and the words blurt from my lips before I can stop them. “Two.”
“Two?”
“Uh…yeah… I’ll be bringing my…boyfriend.”
You’ll be…what? You don’t have a boyfriend, Looney Tunes!
“Your boyfriend? Oh, how exciting! Your mom didn’t tell me you were seeing someone!”
“It’s…uh…fairly new.”
Yeah, it sure is. It hasn’t even fucking started yet…
Thinking better of my answer, I add to it quickly before Callie can undercut it. “But serious. Really serious, actually. We’ve just been keeping it private so we can enjoy the perfectness by ourselves for a while.”
Dear God, Ava.
“That’s so awesome! What’s his name?”
Yeah, Ava! Tell your old archnemesis all about your imaginary boyfriend!
Panic sets in when I realize there is absolutely no way I can talk myself out of this conversation. So, I do what anyone in my situation would do—avoid it.
Three bangs of my fist to my own freaking door, I end the call in a rush, “Oh shoot, Callie! I have to go. My boyfriend just got here, and we’re already late for a big, fancy Halloween party in SoHo. Talk soon! Bye!” Click.
It’s official. I’m pathetic.
I might as well be Debra Messing’s character in The Wedding Date.
Sure, my sister didn’t have an affair with my ex while I was still dating him, but she is my baby sister whose impending nuptials will make me the oldest and last single Lucie sister. And now, because I let Callie fucking Camden get the best of me with her backhanded bullshit, I told the snooty biotch that I have a boyfriend and I’d help plan the reunion.
Oy vey.
Call me crazy, but I highly doubt I can find a hot, Dermot-Mulroney-looking escort in under sixty days.
You know, you could just be an adult about this and tell Callie how you really feel—that you don’t have a boyfriend and you don’t want to help plan that stupid reunion with someone who was a total bitch to you in high school…
That would certainly be the easy way out, wouldn’t it?
Too bad my damn pride is making that feel like an impossible option.
On a heavy sigh, I drop my phone back in my purse, sling my bag over my shoulder, snag the stupid invitation off the counter, head straight out of my apartment, and stride right across the hall, barging through my best friend’s unlocked front door.
I swear, one of the best things Luke and I ever did was rent apartments in the same building—and on the same floor—from his rich uncle Gary. It makes freak-out moments like this a heck of a lot easier to handle.
My go-go boots pound across the hardwood floors as I make a beeline past Luke—who is standing in his living room—dump my purse, and head straight for the kitchen.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where’s the fire?” he says on a laugh. “Please tell me you haven’t gone old-school and brought a hot plate into your apartment.”
“Funny ha-ha, Luke,” I retort but keep it moving to the fridge. “The fire is my life. Everything is shit, I need a drink, and I’m pretty sure we’re already late to the party!”
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.
I hate him. I want him. He’s a jerk. A player. Addicting. Trouble.
Hate the Player, a slow burn and hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!
My Take:
(ARC Review) This was a very sweet, very funny enemies to lovers romance that was super fun to read. I was craving something lighthearted and this baby fit the bill! Sometimes it’s comforting to read romance that you know won’t break your heart but will still make you swoon.
The banter between Birdie and Andrew is top notch. I loved how they couldn’t stop riling each other up, but I loved even more when they realized they no longer wanted to play that game.
I thoroughly enjoyed Andrew’s journey from renowned Hollywood player to lovesick, sweet, caring boyfriend. Highly recommended if you want something funny and romantic that won’t make you cry!
“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s *ahem* because no other women ever do.”
That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my!
And that’s not even the worst of it.
My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new co-star and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms.
Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease.
It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me.
As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him.
Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him.
I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game.
I’m sure of it.
Download your copy today or read for Free on Kindle Unlimited!
True to my name, I’m about to take fucking flight. At least, I would if I could.
In this moment, it really would have been helpful if my trainer hadn’t successfully eliminated all the extra flappy meat on my upper arms. Surely, if I got them going fast enough, the wind beneath those bat wings could have carried me up and through the ceiling of this place.
C’mon, you big baby, I coach myself. You can do this.
One cavernous breath into my lungs and then another and another, and eventually, just before my vision turns tunneled, I will my feet to move away from the door.
Gleaming marble floors, golden statues, and a freaking fountain in the center, the lobby of Capo Brothers Studios is everything I should have expected and more.
If everything is bigger in Texas, then everything is most certainly richer in LA.
I check in with security quickly, my voice only a little croaky thanks to the frog in my throat, and head for the elevator bank at the far side of the lobby.
I’m to head to the fifteenth floor, I’m told, and then go straight down the hall to the glass doors on the left at the end. There, I’ll find William Capo’s office—the head honcho and only surviving brother of Capo Brothers.
My cowgirl boots are noisy on the marble floors when I do as instructed. The sound you make when you walk is such a small detail—one I don’t normally think about—but the echo of their clack today makes my heart feel like it’s knocking into my rib cage and each step across the ornate floor is merely a sound effect.
Fifteen floors eclipse quickly—clearly, they’ve spared no expense on their elevator—and the hallway that leads to William’s office seems strangely one-directional. Like once I go down it—once I take this step—there will be no going back. Which is probably why, after forcing myself to go the distance to the end, I pause at the open door, the points of my booted toes just shy of crossing the line.
“Good morning.” A pretty assistant dressed in a white power suit greets me before I’ve even cleared the threshold of the door, and all thoughts of escape are dashed. Like it or not, I’ve just been shoved over the line. I will my feet to do the same as she continues to speak. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Birdie Harris,” I answer and have to swallow hard against the dryness threatening to close my throat. “I have an audition.”
My nerves are so obvious, the assistant offers a sympathetic smile.
If she were from my childhood hometown in West Virginia, she’d most likely be thinking Bless her heart.
She taps something across the keyboard of her iMac and places her hand to the Bluetooth at her ear. “Mr. Capo, I have Birdie Harris here.” Immediately, she looks away from the computer and meets my eyes. “They’ll be ready for you shortly. You can take a seat over there.” She points behind me, back through the door and across the hall to what I’m assuming is a fancy-schmancy waiting room of some sort. I haven’t encountered a place in the building that doesn’t have some sort of gilded or marble inlay, so I highly doubt I’m going to step through that door and into a room styled by the set designer for Saw. Though, I can’t say some sort of torture device wouldn’t be completely misplaced right now. I’m already doing a pretty good job of mentally waterboarding myself with worry.
I offer a little nod, keeping my twisted, sicko thoughts to myself. I doubt they’re interested in hiring a woman on the brink of a hysterical episode.
The secretary quirks a brow, and I realize, though I’ve nodded my affirmation of understanding, I’ve yet to move.
Good God, Birdie! Go sit down.
Annoyed with myself, I turn on my boots and march across the hall so violently, it’s like there’s an invisible person helping me along with a heavy hand at the nape of my neck.
When I cross into the room, a man is sitting on a swanky leather sofa with his booted feet up on the coffee table. He glances up briefly before returning his eyes to the phone in his lap. Embarrassed, I smooth my clomps instantly.
You’re a gazelle, Birdie, not a herd of buffalo, I coach. Move like it.
With his attention occupied, I survey him more closely as I move to take a seat across from him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his jawline would make steel beams look weak. Seriously. Confronted with an earthquake, I would seek shelter right under the eave of his jaw.
I’d love to get another peek at his eyes just to study the color, but fearing the eye contact that would require, I’m careful not to make any overt noises that might draw his attention again.
When he smirks, a devilish proposition-like smile at the screen of his phone, I don’t have to wonder anymore.
Oh no. I know exactly who this man is.
Andrew Watson.
The very man Rocky warned me about and I subsequently Instagram stalked. A laundry list of different women dotted through his timeline, it confirmed everything Rocky told me and then some.
All relaxed and cool, he sits on the white leather sofa with one arm outstretched across the back. Confidence and charm ooze from every freaking cell in his body. No doubt, Andrew Watson is more than capable of commanding the attention of everyone in the room, no matter the situation.
No wonder he’s one of Hollywood’s most famous actors.
The only time I have that kind of quiet confidence is when I’m onstage, singing my songs, lost in the music I created.
Just play it cool, Birdie.
On a deep breath, I force the uncertainty and unease out of my shoulders and settle my ass into the sofa across from him. He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the other and casually adjusting the denim at his crotch.
My eyes are immediately drawn to his bulge, and thanks to Rocky’s colorful descriptions of his favorite appendage, a little penis-shaped soldier is burned in my brain. After a few seconds of imagining the shape of his helmet and intensity of his salute, I jerk my gaze away in a panic.
Jesus. As if this audition wasn’t screwing with my head enough! Now I have Saving Ryan’s Privates, a military-themed porno my head just made up starring Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson, complicating things even more!
I must make a noise I don’t realize—the sound of my saliva gurgling in my throat while I choke on it, perhaps—because Andrew looks at me with curious eyes. I try like hell to keep my calm and act like I haven’t just gone to mental war with the soldier in his pants, but there’s only so much hysteria containment my mind is capable of.
“Uh…hi,” I say, trying so dang hard not to glance back down at his crotch that I start spewing diarrhea of the mouth about goddamn military-themed movies. “I never saw A Few Good Men, but I hear Tom Cruise was good in it.” When I realize what I’ve just said makes absolutely no sense to him—punctuated perfectly by his eyebrows drawing together noticeably—the gurgling saliva turns into a full-blown choke, and suddenly, the only way to breathe is through a hacking cough.
Holy shit, I’m too anxious to be around other humans right now! Also, I’m going to kill Rocky for putting this crap in my head about this guy’s penis.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I hold up my hand in some kind of gesture. I’m not sure of its technical name, but its meaning is clear—please forget I exist right now.
He asks me once more, but I nod, and once the embarrassing coughing fit passes, I meet his piercingly gray-blue eyes—seeing their color is strikingly unavoidable now—and I offer a halfhearted smile.
“Sorry,” I apologize. I didn’t mean to drag him into an impromptu SNL sketch where I choke on spit and say ridiculously inappropriate, off-the-wall things. “I guess you could say I’m a little nervous.”
His responding smile gleams so bright, I have to wonder if he has an endorsement deal with Crest toothpaste. His mouth would make a dental hygienist get on their hands and knees and thank the Lord above.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. There’s no need to be nervous around me,” he responds, punctuating his words with a wink.
If my mind were a screenplay, the nerves would be exiting stage left.
Did he seriously just wink at me after assuming that I’m nervous to be in his presence?
Surely, I’m hearing this wrong. No one is that obsessed with themselves…right?
“Excuse me?” I ask, and his megawatt smile is still ever-present.
“If you’d like me to sign an autograph or take a selfie with you,” he enunciates slowly, as if my being able to understand him clearly was the problem. “I can probably sneak that in before I have to head in there.”
His autograph? You have got to be kidding me. He sure is a cocky bastard—and for the first time today, I’m not even talking about his dick.
Like the tip of a match being swiped across the edge of a matchbook, aggravation bursts into my veins.
“I’m here for an audition,” I assert.
Unfazed, he quirks a brow as if to say, my invitation for an autograph still stands.
Attractive or not, this guy is one of the biggest asses I’ve ever been around.
“I’m Birdie Harris. I’m auditioning for the role of Arizona Lee.”
And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna land this acting gig just to spite this prick.
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.
Hate the Player, a slow burn and hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is LIVE EARLY!
“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s *ahem* because no other women ever do.”
That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my!
And that’s not even the worst of it.
My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new co-star and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms.
Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease.
It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me.
As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him.
Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him.
I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game.
I’m sure of it.
Download your copy today or read for Free on Kindle Unlimited!
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.
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!
My Take:
(ARC Review) Hollywood’s virgin good girl superstar accidentally knocked up during her one and only one night stand? Sounds like the set up to a perfectly juicy romcom to me.
First of all, Harrison is perfection. Steady, reliable, eager to step up and support his baby and baby mama. Raquel drove me absolutely insane. She just lets everyone walk all over her and won’t stand up to obvious abuses of power. Grow the f up, girl. You are the boss here. Her naive little-girl role was just so weak.
The book was absolutely saved by Harrison, and of course his merry band of billionaire brothers. Anytime Cap and Thatch are involved you know you’re in for a good time. Despite Raquel’s personality, the book was still very sweet, very funny, very reliably Max Monroe and I enjoyed reading it. 4 stars
Blurb:
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.
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.
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.
Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.
Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl, an all-new laugh-out-loud surprise baby rom com by New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!
BLURB: 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.
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.
Romance Reviewed 