Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

The truth in his words slices my chest right open, and I have to stifle a breath to hold back a sob.

“It’s just easier this way,” I say, my breath stuttered. “They know the right moves to get me where I want to go. They got me here—”

“Oh, no, no, no. Jesus, Rock. They didn’t get you here. You did. Your talent did. Haven’t you heard the song ‘Don’t Call Me Angel’?”

“Huh?” I sniffle and crinkle up my nose. “What does a song have to do with anything?”

“This song?” he asks rhetorically. “Everything.”

He moves around the couch toward the stereo on the other side of the room and turns it on before pairing it with his phone. I wait—somewhat impatiently—but not long after, the song finally starts to play.

The intro beat is all it takes for my eyes to widen so far I’m not even sure if they’re on my face anymore, any trace of previous tears completely gone.

Harrison dances, bouncing his hips back and forth and mouthing the words before throwing back his head for a phantom hair toss. When Miley Cyrus dives into her solo, Harrison points to me with a powerful finger gun, emphasizing each word carefully about being the one to make the money and write the checks.

I listen along as three badass women go on about being sexualized and undervalued despite their tremendous success, and by the end of it, every word feels ingrained in me.

I’ve spent my entire career being offered up on some sort of twisted platter as a sexed-up virgin without a voice for herself. I’ve created my success—I’ve performed my job beyond expectation and to great accolades—and yet I’m afraid to stand up for myself and make my own decisions about my life?

Harrison is right. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.

I am the star. I’ve never, ever recognized it in myself, and yet, he’s been treating me that way since the beginning.

Heidi’s entrance may have stolen the sexiness from the night, but as I watch Harrison dance around without regard for pretense or posturing, all in the name of empowering me—making me an advocate for myself—I can safely say that not even remotely all has been lost.

In fact, it might just be that a whole hell of a lot of perspective has been gained.

The very early morning of August 16th, 2:45 a.m.

Raquel

Hakuna Matata, baby.

My fingers are warm prunes, and I can barely contain my excitement at the smell of my clean hair and the satisfying brush of a dry, fluffy towel.

The scents are manly, compliments of Harrison, but after laughing at his jokes and staring at his smile for the last several hours, it’s not exactly a hardship.

Tonight, it’s like I was able to press pause on my life.

I don’t have my phone. I don’t have my team. And for once, I don’t even have the shell of the image they want me to have.

The New York rain more than washed it away.

I’m just Rocky, the woman who used to be a girl Harrison Hughes knew.

It’s all so gloriously simple.

And right now, I want to be a woman who takes what she wants—him.

With newfound confidence, I wrap the crisp white towel around my chest, tucking it in like the fold of a burrito, take a deep breath, and quietly open the bathroom door.

I peer outside into the bedroom. It’s empty and dark, and the soft whir of the TV down the hall is the only thing I can hear.

I tiptoe on bare feet along the hardwood until I make it to the end, and only then do I peek around the corner.

Harrison is stretched out on the couch, bare feet up and crossed with a long arm up along the back. A football game plays softly in front of him on ESPN Classic.

Yep. The jury is unanimous—grown-up Harrison Hughes is a certified babe.

I’m talking full-on hottie.

And in my line of work, I spend some time around guys who’re almost unnaturally good-looking. Some of them, I guess, probably do come by it unnaturally via surgery.

But Harrison was born this way. It’s in the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and the mesmerizing flecks in the irises of his foresty eyes.

I can’t even count how many times I watched his slightly overlong hair fall down on his forehead while we were at the bar, weighted by the rainwater.

Hell, I’d probably still be doing it back at that bar if he hadn’t been ready to leave.

When he spots me playing a Tom of the peeping variety, he smiles and climbs to his feet.

“Hey there. Feel better?”

“Exponentially.”

“Good.”

I awkwardly shuffle on my feet as I try to get my seductive bearings.

Do I drop my towel now? Or do I…?

“You okay?”

“It’s just…” I want to seduce you. I want us to do the sex. I want to not be a virgin anymore. “I…uh…” I pause again and search for something—anything—to say to him that would actually make sense. “I could use some clothes.”