Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel that is part of our Hollywood Collection.
At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy, the first book in this fantastically hilarious and fun romantic comedy stand-alone collection.
Now that you know, please don’t *conspire with Carole Baskin to make the perfect sardine oil because Winning Hollywood’s Goodest Girl concludes at around 90%. We don’t think we’d like our very last memories to be of a **really big cat.
Also, due to the hilarious nature of this book’s content, reading while otherwise occupied is not recommended. We won’t be there to cover for you when your boss gives you the glare on your Zoom call.
Instead, wait until it’s over and hunker down in your bathtub to get away from your kids/husband/pet/feelings and escape into fun.
Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
*Assuming she has any knowledge of such practices, alleged or otherwise.
**Safe to assume you’re lost at this point if you haven’t seen Tiger King. Sorry. ;)
To the mamas feeling overwhelmed: we are with you. You’re doing great.
To the singletons talking to inanimate objects: let these characters keep you company for a couple hours to change it up.
To the fifteen pounds we’ve gained in emotional eating: we’ve decided to welcome your cushiony nature. We shall call you Fluffy.
And to 2020, coronavirus, isolation, and murder hornets: you can fuck right off.
One fateful night in August
Raquel
Mirror, mirror on the wall, why are you so judgy, girlfriend?
I certainly understand the appeal of mirrors as an aesthetic to a home’s interior, but this bathroom has taken it to another level. Not only does the large double-sink vanity have an equally huge mirror above it, but on the opposite wall sits floor-to-ceiling reflective glass that stops just before you reach the toilet and shower and Jacuzzi tub.
Oh, and let’s not forget about the actual ceilings. They have mirrors too, stretching the full length of the massive bathroom-appointed space.
It’s like a kaleidoscope, only, instead of glitter, it’s my bare ass and boobs flashing all over the freaking place. I’m certain I’ve never seen this much of myself, and considering I’ve been in showbiz for most of my life—seen myself splashed across billboards and buses and magazines—that’s saying a lot.
After a long freaking day in the Big Apple, escaping the watchful eye of my security and management team, and running into a blast from my childhood past, I have found myself inside a handsome-as-hell man’s bathroom, fresh out of the shower, still naked, and getting ready to spend the rest of the evening continuing to catch up with someone I haven’t seen in decades.
Catching up? Ha. Pretty sure your plans don’t simply revolve around having a gab sesh in his living room…
My cheeks flush red at the dirty, forbidden thoughts that have been rolling around inside my brain for the past few hours, and these damn mirrors have no problems displaying the evidence.
Goodness gracious. You’d think, at twenty-nine-years old, I’d be over the whole “blushing like a teenage girl” thing when the idea of sex pops into my mind, but no, not even close.
Pretty sure you actually have to do the sex in order to get over being all blush-y about the sex…
I glance down at the purity ring on my finger and sigh.
Almost thirty years old and I’m still as virginal as the day I was born.
Ugh. I roll my eyes at myself as I run a small comb through my wet locks.
Everyone—and their mother—knows about sex.
Rihanna does. She has a whole song dedicated to the fact that sex with her is ah-mazing.
Limp Bizkit sure as hell does. I mean, Fred Durst is the reason for Nookie.
And Marvin Gaye? Well, his voice is basically used as a soundtrack for getting down and dirty in the bedroom.
Hell, even pornos have made the lingo bow-chicka-bow-wow a part of pop culture.
But me? Besides celebrity, I have nothing in common with any of the above. My only experience with sex revolves around acting it out on screen. Fake, scripted sex is as far as my experience goes.
That’s right, folks. I’m a Hollywood-famous virgin whose real-life sexual encounters can be tallied on one hand and not a single one of them involves penetration.
What a claim to fucking fame, huh?
When I really think about the act of sex, I feel like a prepubescent girl freaking out over a French kiss. But instead of Where does my tongue go? I’m all, So a penis goes inside my vagina?