Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

My eyebrows pull together. Who in the hell is she talking about?

She sits down on the arm of the sofa next to me and pats my shoulder awkwardly. “Obviously, he’s a successful guy. He’s used to being powerful and in control, and he comes here, and he has to take a back seat. Your career is front and center right now, and maybe he thought if he could at least attach himself to you personally, it’d kind of be like he was at the level you are.”

It’s only now that I finally realize she’s talking about Harrison.

“It’s better for both of you if he leaves now. It’s only going to get messier and harder as time goes on, and if he’s willing to leave at the first drop of a fake fiancé who isn’t him, he really isn’t cut out for your world.”

What the fuck? Did she read my note?

My jaw aches as I take in everything she’s saying and try to chew on it enough to make it possible to swallow. I don’t want to think badly of Harrison or that this could really be the reason he would leave to go back to New York so quickly, but if I’m honest with myself, it could make sense.

You don’t want it to make sense, though…

But why would he want to spend his time here, waiting on me to go from place to place? He’s got a life of his own. One where he gets to be more than an accessory to a woman.

God, the mere idea of that hurts like a bitch…

I frown around the possibility of it all, but eventually, I nod. Though, I can’t decide if the nod is more for me or blabbermouth Heidi.

Instantly, she smiles and pats me on the hand before getting up to head over to my agent, Ruth Beslo, to have some sort of a powwow.

I put the glass of water to my lips and take a swig, wishing I were allowed to have something a little stronger, though I think we all know I wouldn’t drink it anyway.

Still, the water is at least cool against my dry throat, soothing the burn of uncertainty left behind from Heidi’s monologue.

I sit there like that for what must be a full thirty minutes because the next thing I know, my doorbell is ringing, and Ben Huddleson and his team are strolling into my apartment like they own the place. I shift in my spot, curling a sweatpant-clad leg under my body and leaning into the arm of the couch with my elbow.

My brand-new fake fiancé is picture-perfect movie-star handsome, and the only thing I feel at seeing him is nausea.

I shut my eyes briefly and try to distract myself from the near overwhelming urge to puke by thinking of a happy place. The beach. Putting my toes in the sand. Think of anything that resembles happiness, Raquel.

But when visuals of bright green eyes and one sexy dimple start to filter into my brain, I quickly open my eyes again and find Ben striding over toward me.

“I’m Ben,” he says without offering a hand.

I nod. I know, obviously. I’m not sure who he thinks I think he is, but I suppose I could be being unfairly bitchy. It’s polite to introduce yourself, Raquel, I remind myself.

I stick out a hand, but he makes no move to take it as his eyes narrow on my face. “Raquel.”

“Right,” he says with a laugh. “You look…different.”

I narrow my eyes and shrug. What was he expecting for this meeting? A ball gown?

“No worries,” he comments, shuffling to take the seat on the couch next to me. “You should be comfortable, I guess. Carrying around a human and all.”

My face pinches into a frown.

“Okay, guys,” Heidi says, interrupting our introduction. Frankly, it’s the first time in what feels like an eternity that I’ve been happy to hear her start talking. “Let’s get organized. The Golden Globes are in three days, and we’ve had to rework both of your red-carpet plans entirely. You’ll be arriving together now, in a single limo during the four o’clock hour.”

Ben settles into his spot, taking off his trendy leather jacket and tossing it onto the sofa right behind me. I’m not even sure why he had it on in the first place. It’s eighty-two degrees outside.

Nevertheless, I shake it off and lean forward a bit as he shifts in his spot to cross his ankle over his knee. He takes up half the space on my cushion, but I don’t press the issue.

I’m obviously feeling extra moody today.

“We’re still on the phone with the seating people. I’ve been explicitly clear that it’s unacceptable for you to be seated separately, and I’ll keep pushing. But so far, they haven’t been able to make the rearrangement happen.”

“Is sitting together that important?” I ask, picturing him taking up the same amount of goddamn space at the Beverly Hilton. At this rate, I won’t even be able to lift my arm to put my fork to my mouth at the table.