Winning Hollywood's Goodest Gir - Max Monroe Page 0,2

okay? You need anything?”

Rocky. Talk about a true blast from the past. No one has called me that ridiculous nickname since I was a kid, but damn, I kind of love it. It reminds me of simpler times, easier times, better times.

I mull over his questions in my mind. Am I okay? Do I need anything?

As if they have a mind of their own, my eyes spot the reflection of the ring on my finger. The pavé diamonds shimmer and shine beneath the vanity lights hanging above the mirror, and my brain begins to think about all the things I do need…

Things I need to see and touch and taste and feel.

Things I need to experience for myself.

Things I need to finally do for me and no one else.

“Rocky?”

His voice doesn’t startle me this time. Instead, I smile.

“I’m good,” I say, and I quickly realize there is one thing missing inside this bathroom—a change of clothes. The very change of clothes—his clothes, in fact—that he said he’d get me.

Could this be the most perfect seduction scenario?

“Almost done,” I spout a half-truth, and my smile brightens like the lightbulb that just switched on in my mind.

Technically, I am almost done in this bathroom.

But, tonight? Yeah, I think I’m just getting started…

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