Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

Ironic, huh? Being so rich you could have anything you wanted and still having to use someone else’s card you essentially stole because you don’t have any money on you.

Yes, stole. I fucking stole Heidi’s credit card while I was making a vanishing act from my entire team. I just up and left everyone—my security, my manager, every-damn-one—at the television studio where Niall Beans films his dumb show. Surely, I’m in for one hell of a shitstorm tomorrow, but I can’t bring myself to care.

I needed this.

I deserved this.

And tonight, I shall enjoy being by myself for once.

Nerves overwhelm me suddenly as I sidle up to the front of the bar and slide onto a barstool.

It didn’t occur to me until this moment that I’ve never done this before—ordered my own drink, I mean.

Ludicrous, I know, but I’ve been in the business, and at least somewhat famous, since well before I reached drinking age. If I wanted something, I was never the one to go to the bar.

Flailing emotionally as the bartender approaches, I do the only thing I can and draw upon the only experience I have—the fake kind.

I did a movie once where I went to the bar to order for my friends.

Oh God. Am I completely overthinking this?

I’ve got to be. Just order the damn drink.

The bartender steps up in front of me and jerks his head up and out.

I sit there for a few seconds, waiting for him to ask me what I want, but when he doesn’t say anything within a reasonable amount of time, I worry I’ve flubbed it.

Evidently, he already asked me what I want with the jerk of his chin.

“I’ll, um, take a vodka and cranberry.”

He narrows his eyes slightly, like maybe he doesn’t approve of my choice. No big deal. I might be offended if I’d made my selection confidently, but given my limited experience in this area, I just went with the first thing that came to mind.

I’m hoping to everything I can stomach the harsh liquid enough to numb some of my emotions. But knowing myself well enough to admit I’m probably ninety-nine percent bluster when it comes to suddenly turning into a boozehound, I add a glass of ice water to my order too, just in case.

I watch closely as he pours the vodka halfway up the glass, the clear liquid slinking and sliding to cover the ice cubes at the bottom.

And then, I take a big, huge, deep breath and bask in the moment of true autonomy. I am, for once in my life, my own woman—even if only for a little while.

I startle as a man pushes into the bar next to me, his hair as wet as mine was pre-canine shake. Droplets drip off the dark brown ends and onto the surface of the bar as he flags down the bartender with the wave of a finger. He’s certainly done the whole bar thing on his own before.

The stranger glances my way with a small smile, I return it, and then he does a noticeable double take.

Ah fuck.

Instantly, I move my gaze down to the bar as the panic of discovery overwhelms me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, juking a little farther into the bar to try to get a better look at my face.

I try to shield it without looking like I’m shielding it. I don’t know that my efforts don’t make me look spastic, but I can’t seem to help myself. Gah, and this was going so well!

“Do I know you?”

I shake my head without looking up, hoping my dark hair is covering my face enough to hide my apprehensive expression.

“You just look so familiar. I could have sworn you had the same smile as…”

He shakes his head, and in a moment of weakness—powered by overwhelming curiosity brought on by his sumptuous, deep voice—I look up to meet his eyes.

They’re green and inviting and seem to go on forever. And at the sight of me, they warm immediately.

“Rocky…Rocky Weaver, is that you?”

Did he just say Rocky? Holy hell, talk about an awful nickname blast from the past.

My heart trips over itself as it takes off at a run. No one other than my brother has called me Rocky in twenty-five years—which means no one has used it in eight—and the sensation is overwhelming. The little tomboyish girl everyone knew as Rocky—a nickname given to me by my then five-year-old brother because he wasn’t very good at saying Raquel—seems like an entire lifetime ago. And I guess, it almost was. My blood thrums as I try to come to quick terms with the merging of new and old. It kind of feels like I’ve been in witness protection, and for the first time ever, I’ve been reunited with someone I used to know.

Still, other than a vague familiarity to his face, I don’t have a freaking clue who this guy is, and having him know me at all feels sketchy at best.