Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 10

  I don’t waste any time hopping into Benjamin’s back seat, but while he’s taking his time double-checking my destination, I spot an all-too-familiar blond mullet striding out of the ER doors.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Uh…Benjamin…I’m in a little bit of a hurry…” I try to kindly tell my driver to put his damn foot on the gas and get us out of here before I’m spotted.

  “Just one moment, miss,” he says and proceeds to set his phone in the holder beside the stereo. “Just need to make sure the address is in my GPS correctly.”

  The blond mullet is moving toward me, and I don’t hesitate to throw my body down onto the back seat, hiding like a total coward.

  Benjamin glances over his shoulder and finds us nearly eye to eye.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, and I nod.

  “Uh-huh, everything is great.”

  His expression turns confused when I make no move to sit back up like a normal human being. And he certainly doesn’t make any sort of move to get us on the fucking road.

  C’mon, Benny! Work with me here!

  “I just prefer to…uh…ride in the back seat like this…” I search for some sort of rational reason to explain why I’m folded up like a pretzel. “Otherwise, I get…car sick…yeah, that’s it. I get car sick in the back seat.”

  “Oh, you should have said something,” he comments, and understanding fills his eyes. “Here, you can sit up front—”

  “No!” I shout, and my voice echoes so loudly in the small car that I startle my driver. “I’m sorry. I just… I really need to get home. Like, right now. I just need to get home.”

  I sound crazy. I know I sound crazy, but hell, we need to get a move on it, Benny!

  And I know this might be the last time I’m allowed to use Uber, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it allows me to avoid Andrew.

  Finally, my driver puts his foot on the gas and pulls out of the hospital parking lot. I peek cautiously out the back window to see if I’ve been spotted, but there’s no mullet to be found—not even the party side. It seems Andrew Watson has finally lost out on a woman.

  Thank goodness.

  Andrew

  I sure love when a good old Aha! moment pops up at just the right time.

  At a little after six, I walk into my house to find Blake rummaging through my fridge.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask and toss my wallet, phone, keys, and discharge paperwork onto the kitchen island.

  “I wanted to see how your little lunch meeting went.” His statement is casual—he’s too preoccupied with gorging on my groceries—but when he peeks around the fridge door, his mouth falls open. “Uh…what happened to your face?”

  It’s not a surprise he notices. A broken nose that requires a slight setting by a doctor provides some gnarly bruises under your eyes. Purple, blue, black, my skin is giving its best impression of a fucking rainbow at the moment. In fact, now would be a perfect time for Skittles to offer me an endorsement.

  “It’s no big deal.” I shrug. “A minor confrontation.”

  “A minor confrontation? You look like the losing party in a heavyweight fight.” He nearly chokes on his saliva. “Which, of course, means I’m dying to know who the winner is.”

  “Birdie Harris.”

  “Hold the phone,” he says, a ridiculous smile spreading across his lips. “Birdie Harris kicked your ass?”

  I laugh at that. “I wouldn’t say she kicked my ass, but her elbow made contact with my face.”

  “You’re fucking with me.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head and raise up one arm, showing the patient bracelet from the hospital that’s still wrapped across my wrist before tearing it off and throwing it onto the kitchen island. “Even ended up in the ER.”

  “Oh, holy shit,” he mutters, shuts the door, and with a Red Bull in his hand, he leans up against the fridge like he’s posing for the cover of a magazine. “This is almost too much for my brain to process. I’ve never had to question my sexuality before, but I think I really might love her.”

  I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t intentional. She turned quickly, and I got in the way.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, and he makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s secretly hoping she dragged me behind the restaurant and left my body for the rats to eat. “Maybe she’s really good at cover ups. Does she have any history in politics?”

  My assistant, ladies and gentlemen. A man who apparently finds amusement out of me enduring physical pain. I flip him the bird.

  “I know you’re currently dreaming up all sorts of fantasies about Birdie kicking my ass, but it was an accident,” I emphasize. “It’s purely coincidental that she was pissed at me before said accident occurred.”

  He bursts into laughter. “Oh my God. You got snowed. That girl cleaned your clock with major intent. Premeditated all the way.”

  “Very funny.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “Do you need to head out now so you can add your take to the conspiracy theory Wikipedia page?”

  He laughs some more and pops open his can of Red Bull, taking a sip between hearty chuckles.

  When his hyena-like shrieking drags on, I roll my eyes. “You’re a little too entertained by this.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure this is the first time in the history of forever that the Andrew Watson tried to take a beautiful woman out to lunch, and instead of convincing her to come back to his house and fuck, he ended up in the ER.”

  For some reason, his words make me cringe. “Don’t be a dick, Blake.”

  “Like you should talk.” His lips crest into a knowing smirk. “You and I both know the only reason you wanted to meet with Birdie Harris is because you want to fuck Birdie Harris.”

  I ignore his valid point and choose to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge instead.

  “Good God, man, Liza and Amy and Damien are going to have a shit fit tomorrow when they get a load of your face,” he says through a sigh. “Not to mention the fact that you were making ER visits and shit without any kind of security. You could’ve caused a fucking riot if the paparazzi would’ve gotten wind of your location.”

  Frankly, I couldn’t give two shits what my team thinks about any of it, but I’m supposed to see them tomorrow?

  I tilt my head to the side. “Wait…what’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Are you serious?” He nearly spits his drink out of his mouth. “You have two Grass Roots-related photo shoots tomorrow. In fact, I should start calling the makeup team now to let them know they’re going to have their work cut out for them, hiding those god-awful bruises on your face.”

  “I have two photo shoots tomorrow?”

  “Oh my God, you’re hopeless, I swear.”

  I quirk a brow. “Or maybe, my assistant sucks ass at his job?”

  “Maybe if you’d check your freaking emails and your damn calendar, you’d see that your assistant is on top of shit.”

  “You know I hate going through emails. You should plan for that.”

  He sighs. “You will be the sole reason why I’ll end up kicking the bucket at an early age.”

  I take a long drink of water and watch as Blake busies himself with going through my mail. If I were smart, I’d haul ass out of my kitchen before he can start asking me if I want to attend this charity event or that party, but a coupon for a flower delivery catches my eye, and I get an idea.

  A fucking fantastic idea.

  I snag the coupon off the table and hold it up in the air. “I need you to send a bouquet of flowers.”

  Birdie

  Interrupt a taco-binge once, I’m not happy. But interrupt a taco-binge twice? We cannot be friends.

  I have never been happier than when I step inside my Nashville house, slip off my boots, and head into the kitchen to find a gorgeous display of tacos and chips and queso and my wonderful assistant Samantha making margaritas.

  I toss my purse and keys and phone onto the counter, and a dreamy s
igh escapes my lips. “I love you. I can’t live without you. Marry me.”

  “I had a feeling this would make your day better,” she says through a laugh and slides a fresh margarita my way.

  I don’t hesitate to put the salt-covered rim to my lips and take a big sip. “Ah, yes, I’m pretty sure this is what heaven tastes like.”

  Sam grins and grabs two plates from the cabinet. “Belinda Carlisle was right, huh? Heaven is a place on earth?”

  I nod overzealously, and she gestures for me to sit down at the island. “Let’s eat, then. I can only imagine tacos will make it even better.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. In a matter of seconds, my ass is planted in one of the barstools and my plate is filled with a Mexican feast.

  “So…” she says, her pretty green eyes filled with curiosity, and I quirk a brow.

  I don’t know what she’s leading into, but I hedge my bets on the most innocuous of the possibilities. “These tacos are delicious?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I already know that. What I don’t know are all the details from your lunch with Andrew Watson yesterday. Although, I did see a very interesting article on TMZ regarding a recent ER visit…”

  Ugh. That.

  A couple hours after Benji the Uber driver dropped me off at my rental, Rocky texted me. So, you’re giving Andrew Watson moral support? she asked with a link to the article in question.

  According to TMZ’s reporting, Andrew Watson had obtained a serious injury of unknown origin, and I was there as moral support.

  If my eyes didn’t have limitations, I imagine I would have rolled them straight to the back of my head at that one.

  But, for as annoying as made up tales of comradery are, the real story would be ten times as scandalous.

  Good God, I can only imagine the headlines there would have been about me and the big fat phony fuckface then.

  As it was, all they had to focus on were a couple of blurry photos someone had snapped while I was walking with Andrew into the ER—still in our disguises that obviously did a sucky job at disguising, mind you—and a dialogue of their own making—Could a love match be brewing between the Grass Roots costars? We can only hope!

  A love match? With me and that douchebag? God help me.

  Since Rocky was like a little annoying dog nipping at my heels, I was quick to update her on the whole sordid tale, but with my crazy schedule today, I haven’t had time to bring my assistant up to speed.

  I sigh. “It was a clusterfuck.”

  “I’d say,” she comments around a mouthful of chicken soft taco. “You ended up at the ER, taking an Uber home, and on TMZ. Sounds to me like a total shitshow, honey.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I snort. “Candy already read me the riot act for not giving her a heads-up on the situation before it hit the gossip sites.”

  My publicist was pissed I hadn’t let her know about my little ER visit with Mr. Ego. I can’t really blame her, though. It’s her job to be ahead of the curve on shit like that so she can put the right spin on it. Although, she seemed a little too okay with the fact that gossip sites were already jumping to ridiculous romance conclusions.

  “What exactly happened?” Samantha asks. “How do you end up at the hospital after a short lunch? Were you guys doing some sort of food X Games? Or did you try to poison him?”

  “I kind of…sort of…broke his nose.”

  The instant the words leave my lips, a mouthful of margarita leaves hers, spraying onto the hardwood floor of my kitchen.

  “Birdie!” she shouts, half coughing and half laughing into her hand. “What the hell!”

  “It was an accident!” I exclaim. “I was trying to leave the restaurant because he was being such a pompous prick and, well, one thing led to another, and somehow my elbow ended up introducing herself to his face.”

  “You broke Andrew Watson’s nose?!”

  I cringe and sigh again. “Like I said, it was an accident.”

  She stares at me for a long moment before bursting into laughter again.

  “It’s not that funny,” I grouse, but she just keeps on laughing.

  “Oh, trust me, it’s funny. You broke the nose of one of Hollywood’s biggest stars during a freaking taco lunch.”

  “A taco lunch I didn’t even get to eat,” I stipulate. “I can handle him being an asshole and a trip to the emergency room, but missing out on my tacos?” I shake my head. “It was a nightmare.”

  Her giggle is so potent that it makes my lips curve up at the corners. “Hence the desperation for tacos tonight.”

  I nod.

  “How on earth are you going to manage to work on a movie with him?” she asks. “I mean, you’re going to have to be with him, like, every damn day, Birdie. What happens on day twenty-five if day one is bone fracture?”

  “I have no idea.” A deep and heavy sigh escapes my lungs, and Samantha shakes her head, a crazy sparkle in her eyes making it seem like they’re winking at me.

  I purse my lips and point my margarita glass at her aggressively. “You’re getting way too much amusement out of this.”

  “I can’t help it.” She swirls a chip in salsa to prepare it to be eaten. While she works on the perfect chip to dip ratio, her expression turns scary. Mischievous almost. “I feel like this is the beginning of a very hot and heavy love story.”

  “What?” I almost shout. “Are you crazy?”

  “It’s the perfect opening for a rom-com, Bird.”

  I roll my eyes. My assistant thinks she’s some kind of wizard at predicting relationships and shit. I can’t deny she’s right a decent amount of the time, but in this case, she is so far off base it’s not even funny. I’d try to legally marry this margarita in my hand before I’d get into a relationship with that guy.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble on a sigh. “Don’t be insane. I’m going to be lucky if I finish this movie without a prison sentence.”

  Samantha grins at me, her eyes all but dealing the cards in a game of Bullshit, and I gulp down the rest of my drink while pointedly scratching the side of my face with my middle finger.

  “Very classy, Birdie.” She snorts and hops out of her seat to pour us another round of margaritas.

  “I know, right? I’m all about the class.” I shove another bite of taco into my mouth while Sam gets us refills from the pitcher near the kitchen sink.

  My phone vibrates on the counter beside her, and she glances down at the screen.

  “You have a message.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs and slides my phone over to me. “It says Unknown.”

  “Unknown? Great. A psychopathic stalker would be an excellent way to wrap up this day.” I scrunch up my nose and open up my messages.

  Unknown: Wow, Birdie. You really didn’t have to do this. Thank you so much.

  What the hell?

  Two pictures chime in after the text, and I open them up.

  One is a picture of an outlandish bouquet of flowers. I’m talking ridiculously huge, with every possible flower you can imagine.

  And the next is of the note attached to the floral monstrosity.

  It reads: Andrew, I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. I am incredibly sorry that I broke your nose, and I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you’ll forgive me. And please accept these flowers as a kind gesture that signifies my desire to be friends. Sincerely, Birdie

  “What in the ever-loving hell is this shit?”

  Unknown: And I accept your apology. You are forgiven, sweetheart.

  “What?” Samantha asks, setting down a fresh margarita in front of me. “Who is it from?”

  “It’s from Satan himself. Belinda has obviously left the building.” I look up to meet her eyes. “You didn’t happen to send Andrew Watson flowers from me, did you?”

  “Flowers? To him?” She barks out a laugh. “Uh, no, I did not.”

  I turn the screen of my phone toward her so she can see his messages. “We
ll, someone freaking did. Even wrote an apology note and everything.”

  She nods toward the screen of my phone. “You didn’t send him these?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sammy,” I answer on a laugh. “I might’ve apologized to him a million times in the ER, but I certainly did not send Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson’s commanding officer flowers! Or request that we be friends.”

  Friends is the very last thing I want to be with that guy.

  “I don’t understand half of what you just said.”

  I wave her off. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to understand my military references to understand what’s really important. Twice now, this bastard has ruined tacos for me, and that means fucking war.

  Andrew

  The early bird might get the worm, but a man who sends himself flowers under the guise of them coming from a woman who just might loathe him gets to have a hell of a lot of fun.

  Once I hit send on my messages to Birdie, I set my phone back down on the table and smile. Music pounds from every speaker in the joint, but it serves as no distraction from my current thought—what will she send me back?

  A hundred possible scenarios roll through my head.

  Will she see right through my little white floral lie and get all feisty and fiery?

  Will she call me every name in the book?

  Will she be adorably confused?

  Will she not answer at all? Nah. She’ll definitely answer. And goddamn, I can’t wait to find out what she has to say.

  “Why do you look so happy?” Howie asks from across the table. The neon strobe lights from the dance floor in the center of the expansive room cast a glow over his skeptical face, and I simply shrug him off with an even bigger grin.

  “It’s a good night,” I say and take a sip of my beer.

  I convinced him to meet me at a place called Now, a new LA night spot where you can have dinner, drinks, and dance. Basically, this establishment has it all, and it also has a strict policy on who they let in—no average Joes allowed.