Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

Her steely eyes are working overtime as she considers me carefully. I hold them intently, with unwavering challenge.

Finally, she relents. “Fine.”

“Okay,” I say, holding out a hand, pride filling my chest over the long-overdue passing of the responsibility torch. “Well, get Alejo back in here, then. We’ve got a tight schedule to keep, you know?”

Heidi smiles slowly, and though it doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes, I accept it as a victory.

I’m sure this will be an ongoing conversation, but at least we’re headed in the right direction.

I settle into the makeup chair as Heidi goes out of the trailer, and my phone buzzes from the pocket of my sweater. I pull it out, hoping it’s Harrison, but instead, it’s a creepy message from one of his amazing friends.

Cap: Good mowning, mummy. I wants to meet you! Espeshy the parts my milks comes fwom.

I laugh. I can’t help it.

This day, it seems, is off to a great start.

And I can’t wait to meet you too, baby. Thanks for changing my life.

Harrison

I need some alone time with Rocky like my cousin Irene probably needs therapy from that tragic fall she took at my father’s funeral. It’s become a fucking necessity, like oxygen to breathe.

A full week since we kissed in the rain, and so far, there’s been no mention of the conversation we had the next morning at all.

To be fair, I’ve had a ton of work meetings and construction site visits to the new HawCom LA location, and Rocky has been filming fourteen hours a day for the new season of Highlander, so it’s not like we’ve been sitting around staring at each other.

But still, I feel a little like I’m starting to go crazy.

Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m delusional. But I want time alone with Rocky, and come hell or high water, I’m going to find a way to make it happen. I’ve already laid the groundwork via a text message to her this morning between conference calls at the office.

“Can you just tell me if it’s a boy or a girl, motherfluffer?” Thatch says in my ear, reminding me that I’m still on the phone with him. Thirty minutes of trying to say goodbye, and the guy just keeps dragging me back in.

I laugh. “No, I can’t. Because even I don’t know. Rocky doesn’t want to find out. Doesn’t even want to put it out into the universe for the paparazzi and gossip magazines to latch on to. She wants to be surprised.”

“That’s dumb,” he says petulantly, and I have to laugh again.

“You only think it’s dumb because Cassie sent you on a mission to get the answer, and you don’t want to have to go back to her without one.”

“Damn straight, bro! Don’t you care about my health?”

“Your health is fine.”

“It won’t be if she comes back from Jersey with Harriet, and I don’t have the intel! You ever heard of Lorena Bobbitt?”

I guffaw so loud, the lady in the office supply store jumps.

Whoops.

“Cassie isn’t going to cut off your…”

“Superior penis,” he supplies helpfully.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. She’s crazy, but she’s not that crazy. Just tell her we don’t know, so you can’t know.”

“You think that’s good enough for Cassie, dude? Pfft. I’m literally going to have to figure out how to get my own lab work done. What’s the name of Rocky’s doctor again?”

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“Beverly Hills something, right?”

“Thatch.”

“Oh yeah. Beverly Hills Obstetrics. It’s listed right on People’s website.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Thatch, don’t even think about—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“Well, I gotta go. Calls to make…”

“Thatcher Kelly, don’t you fucking—”

“Don’t worry, bro,” he interjects again. “I won’t spoil the surprise for you guys.”

“Jesus Christ—”

Click.

Goddammit!

Quickly, I swipe into my message inbox and furiously type out a message.

Me: I will end you, motherfucker. I swear on your superior penis, you won’t have anything left for your wife to Lorena Bobbitt if you find some way to swindle Rocky’s doctor into disclosing the gender of my baby to you.

The giant bastard responds a minute later.

Thatch: I don’t swindle, I sweet-talk.

That is so not the fucking point. I’m about to type out an incredibly explicit murderous message when the girl behind the counter calls my attention.

She’s maybe fifteen or sixteen and has so far been absolutely mystified by my requests.

“Did you want the sunset the same as the beach scene, sir?”

“Yep. Seven by nine feet, thanks.”

She shakes her head, presumably wondering what she did to deserve to be on shift when I came in for this shit, but goes back to working on my project for me all the same.

Meanwhile, my phone goes off with a text from someone I actually want to talk to.

Rocky: You want us to go on a date? Are you really sure that’s a good idea?