Do people say they hate someone’s guts so that they can still fall stupidly, head-over-heels in love with the other parts?Asking for a friend. Okay, fine . I’m not asking for a friend. I’m asking for me—and I’m begging you to tell me that the practice of falling in love with your should-be-enemy is common. Please tell me that I’m not the only person to track down a guy—who used to be Hollywood’s baddest bad boy before he left LA for good—at his off-the-grid cabin in Alaska, show up unannounced, and find him gloriously naked. This probably happens all the time… right ? Tell me I’m not alone in my stupidity—that I’m not the only woman who would fall for gorgeous blue eyes and a sexy devilish smirk, even if they belong to a broody, mysterious jerk. Please. Please. Please . Tell me I’m not alone in this. For the love of everything, I need all the supportive girl power I can get if I’m going to convince Luca Weaver to come back to Hollywood—otherwise known as the place he hates so much that he ghosted Oscar-level success and escaped to no-man’s-land for the last eight years just to avoid it. Yeah, don’t worry—that smoke you’re smelling isn’t your house catching fire as you read this…it’s just my career and what was previously known as my heart going up in flames. Gah . Is it just me, or am I totally, completely, and utterly screwed?

Raquel and Harrison sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes a baby in the baby carriage. That’s how her brother used to sing it when we were kids—a simple ploy to get under my skin and make me stick my fist in his face—but man oh man, did he get the order wrong. One night of “kissing” in New York catapulted us straight to the pregnancy portion of the song—surprise!—and now I have to figure out how to carry out the whole melody in reverse. A baby on the way first. Then love and marriage? It’s complicated on its best day. But our situation is far more problematic than just a simple twist of nursery rhyme lyrics. Before our night together, Raquel Weaver was the best-known good girl in Hollywood—a twenty-nine-year-old sexpot virgin whom the world adored and watched like a hawk. Obviously, the consequences of that kind of reputation don’t just go away. Add in pregnancy hormones, the media, a fake fiancé, and a selfish manager, and you have the short list of my problems. As a thirty-four-year-old, successful CFO of a multibillion-dollar media conglomerate, I thought I would be able to handle anything show business could throw my way, but I’m starting to think I might be in over my head. Good thing I’m all in. Winning Hollywood’s goodest girl is going to take everything I’ve got.

“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s \ahem\ because no other women ever do.” That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my! And that’s not even the worst of it. My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new costar and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms. Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease. It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me. As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him. Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him. I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game. I’m sure of it.