Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Read online

  “Why are you here again?” I ask. “Is it just to annoy me, or is there an actual purpose to this lunch interruption?”

  “A little of both, I guess you could say.” He grins and sets a to-go cup from Alfred’s Coffee in front of me. “This is the best coffee LA has to offer.”

  “You brought me coffee?”

  He nods. “I figured you could use a little coffee to go with your M&M’s.”

  I quirk a brow, and he nods toward the bag of half-eaten trail mix by my phone.

  “I’ve noticed you’re a fan of trail mix. Well, I should say the M&M’s in trail mix,” he adds. “Truthfully, it goes against the integrity of trail mix, and everyone knows raisins and peanuts are the best part. But to each their own, I guess.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” I begin and put both of my elbows on the table. “You came over here to annoy me and school me on the proper way to eat trail mix?”

  “And bring you coffee.” He winks. “You can’t forget about that.”

  “I brought you one of everything, Birdie,” Samantha says in a rush as she plops two plates full of food onto the table before she drops it onto the floor. “A turkey sandwich, pasta, a baked potato, salad, yogurt—you name it, and it’s here.”

  She’s too busy trying not to drop shit that she doesn’t realize Andrew is standing beside the table, watching her with amusement.

  “And your coffee!” she exclaims, removing it from the crook of her arm and setting it on the table. It’s then that she notices there are now two cups of coffee sitting in front of me. With her head tilted toward the side, she glances between me and the coffees before she lifts her eyes from the table and finds Mr. Hollywood Heartthrob standing right there.

  “Oh, hello,” Samantha says and her eyes go wide for a brief moment, but then she checks her expression and forces a neutral smile to her lips. “I’m Samantha Mallory, Birdie’s assistant.” She sets the rest of her loot on the table—two bottles of water, a Twinkie, and a pack of Oreos—and holds out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. Are you with the lighting department? I haven’t really had a chance to meet any of those guys yet.”

  I bite my lip to fight my laughter. She knows who he is, but goddamn if she isn’t the best assistant in the whole wide world.

  “I’m Andrew Watson.” He smirks as he shakes her hand. “Not with the lighting department, but I can vouch that Kenny and the rest of the lighting crew are good people. And I can also tell that you are the perfect assistant for this woman right here.”

  “Oh, so you’re Birdie’s costar in the movie, right?” Sam continues to play dumb, and Andrew just nods.

  “I sure am,” he says with a big smile. “I just stopped by to bring her some coffee and say hello. And now, I shall be on my way to get ready for our next big scene together. I believe it’s Scene 33?” He feigns uncertainty. “Is that right, Birdie?”

  I just glare at him, which only makes his smile grow.

  “See you on set, sweetheart,” he says, and then, after flashing a little wink in my direction, he turns on his heel and heads out of the tent.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Samantha says and lets out a little wolf whistle as she sits down beside me. “Andrew Watson is even more attractive in person. Which is saying a lot because he is always fuckhot in magazines and shit.”

  “Too bad he’s an asshole.”

  She eyes me knowingly. “A fuckhot asshole who brought you a coffee.”

  “Yeah.” I snort and make a point to toss said coffee into the trash can behind our table and take a sip from the fresh one she just brought over. “He probably poisoned it or something.”

  “Man, you really don’t like that guy, do you?”

  I shake my head and start spreading butter on my baked potato. “I pretty much loathe him.”

  “What’s Scene 33?” she asks and takes a bite of strawberry yogurt.

  “God, don’t remind me.”

  “What? What’s wrong with that scene?”

  “It’s a sex scene, Sam. A freaking sex scene between Arizona and Cal.”

  “And that’s the next scene on the books for today?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh boy.” She bites her lip to fight her laughter.

  “Do tell why you’re one freaking breath away from laughing your ass off.”

  A snort escapes her nose. “Aren’t male actors supposed to, like, wear something called a merkin over their junk during sex scenes?”

  “A merkin?” I question. “What is that? Some kind of penis mermaid tail?” Cheese and rice, now I’m going to be picturing a penis soldier in a seashell bra.

  She cackles. “Lord, I wish. I’m pretty sure it’s basically just a piece of cloth to sort of hide the goods, but it doesn’t really hide the goods.”

  “Oh my God,” I whine. “Why would you put this in my head right now?”

  She shrugs, and I glare. “Just eat your stupid yogurt.”

  Andrew Watson and his size thirteen penis in a merkin?

  Maybe I should’ve drunk the coffee he brought me…

  A little poison never hurt anyone, right?

  I am a confident, sexy, empowered woman who is about to roll around in a bed in front of a whole bunch of people in just a pair of nude panties and a barely-there bra, and I’m perfectly okay with this.

  Or at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself the instant I had to remove the robe that was covering my body and step on set.

  Frankly, all thoughts of empowerment and confidence went straight out the damn building the instant the cool air hit my exposed skin.

  But it’s going to be okay. I can do this. I can film a sex scene.

  And it’s not like I’m filming a sex scene for a freaking porno; it’s for a Hollywood film, and the damn thing even fades to black before it gets too frisky.

  Yes. Yes. You can do this.

  “Okay, Birdie.” Howie directs me toward the sprawling bed on set and gently instructs me with his words on where he would like me to begin for the first few lovemaking action shots.

  A little to the left. A little to the right. An elongated neck. A slight curve to my spine.

  My nerves make it impossible for me to do any of it smoothly, but Howie stays patient and continues to guide me with encouragement and lack of judgment.

  He gets it. I can see in his eyes that he gets it. And he’s doing everything in his power to make me comfortable.

  “That’s perfect, Birdie,” he says and offers a kind smile. But when he glances over his shoulder to look for my costar, it seems the man of the hour is nowhere to be found. “Where the fuck is Andrew?” Howie questions and turns on his heel to stride out of the shot and toward his director’s chair. “He should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’m not sure,” Serena responds with a shrug. “He knew we were starting at two o’clock sharp.”

  “I’m here! I’m here!” Mr. Hollywood himself comes striding toward us with a big ole grin etched across his lips. “My apologies for my tardiness.”

  “You’re fifteen minutes late,” Howie snaps, irritation evident in his voice.

  “Like I said, I apologize. Now, who is ready to get started?” Andrew just flashes our director his annoyingly perfect movie-star smile and proceeds to shrug off his white robe and hand it over to a PA.

  I wish I could say I was focused on the scene. Or what our director is telling his camera guys. Or even the damn ceiling at this point.

  But I’d be lying if I didn’t say what lies beneath Andrew’s robe has managed to snag my full attention.

  From his stupid head all the way to his feet, long, lean but muscular lines define his tall body. His biceps are thick and meaty in all the right places. His chest is broad and toned with the perfect smattering of hair across his pecs. His rigid abdomen flows right into a V muscle of epic proportions that simply steals your focus and encourages your eyes to move down, down, down until you’re faced with the thing Samantha was talking ab
out.

  And beneath that ridiculous nude merkin—murkin? merking?—is the kind of bulge that can’t be hidden.

  Holy size thirteen mermaid soldier penis. I have to resist the urge to salute.

  He’s not even hard, but he doesn’t need to be. That lump makes it more than apparent that Andrew Watson is packing some major heat. Seriously. The man should have to apply for a concealed carry license or something to be able to lug that thing around. That penis should be included in the Second Amendment, and politicians everywhere should be trying to get some control over it.

  Sheesh. Couldn’t God have given him a beer gut or a small penis?

  At least something that goes against the grain of his never-ending perfect looks.

  For heaven’s sake, no one should look that good, period. End of story.

  The merkin-bulge moves toward me, and I instantly snap my eyes away from it and look toward our director. No way in hell am I going to let Andrew catch me peeking at his goods. I’d never hear the freaking end of it, and I’m already on the brink of insanity as it is.

  Thankfully, Howie is focused on moving filming right along. He instructs Andrew on where he wants him on the bed—with me—and once he’s in position, my mind does this weird thing where I’m hearing what they’re saying and I’m even following my director’s instructions, but I almost feel like I’m not really inside my body.

  I’m, like, outside of my body, but still in control of my body.

  It’s so freaking weird, but it’s somehow working.

  I’m completely numb to the current nearly naked situation that I and my asshole costar are in, yet I’m managing to follow Howie’s instructions through each shot that he wants to get on film.

  Cal running his fingers up Arizona’s side.

  Arizona throwing her head back onto the pillows and shutting her eyes when Cal’s lips are near her belly.

  Arizona’s hands slipping into Cal’s hair when he leans in to kiss her and her toes curling into the silky bedsheets.

  Shot by shot by shot, I am somehow executing everything Howie needs out of my performance.

  It feels very calculated and technical, the opposite of sexy, and frankly, I’m grateful it’s all going so smoothly.

  And it almost seems too easy.

  “Great job, guys. I’m loving all these shots we’re getting,” Howie encourages. “Now, I want to switch it up a little and get some footage of the two of you just going with it. Show us that on-screen chemistry we all love seeing between you so much.”

  Until it’s not easy, that is.

  Just going with it? What the hell does that mean?

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask and sit up on my elbows. “What do you mean by just go with it?”

  “I want to see Cal and Arizona get lost in the moment. Just play around with each other in bed, and let the moment take you wherever it goes until I call cut.”

  And just like that, I’m back inside my body, acutely aware of all of my senses.

  The pounding rhythm in my rib cage.

  The tightness in my lungs.

  The tingling nerves in my fingers and toes.

  And the fact that Andrew Watson and his hot movie-star bod and big ole penis bulge are intimately close to me.

  Gah.

  “Can you do that, Birdie?” Howie asks.

  I want to say hell no, but obviously, that’s not an option.

  “Of…course. Of course, I can. No problemo,” I stutter and ramble like a moron.

  I force a deep inhale of oxygen into my lungs and try to quell the trembling nerves that are apparently trying to consume my entire freaking body.

  Just relax. You’re almost done with this scene, I coach myself. You can do this.

  But my little mental pep talk doesn’t do shit.

  All racing heart and tingly stomach and numb fingers, I’m still a mess on the inside.

  Heaven help me, why can’t I go back to the whole out-of-body thing? That was working just fine before!

  “You good?” Andrew asks me, and I look over to meet his eyes.

  “All good in the hood.”

  All good in the hood? What the hell am I even saying?

  “Hey,” Andrew whispers, and his voice is surprisingly devoid of his normal sarcasm and teasing bullshit.

  “What?” I whisper back, but the word comes out a little harsher than I intend.

  He ignores it, though, and reaches out to gently touch my hand with his. “This is always nerve-racking as hell, and it’s okay to be nervous. You’d have to be a cyborg not to have some nerves right now.”

  Wait…what? Did he just say something nice?

  If my jaw is touching my freaking bare stomach, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “I know you hate taking any advice from me,” he continues with a soft smile, “but can I suggest something that will help?”

  I nod. A little too quickly, to be honest, but you try sitting around with your boobs and butt nearly visible for everyone to see and not be willing to take any scraps of hope you can get.

  “Lie back on the bed, shut your eyes, and when Howie yells action, just let me ease us both into the scene.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “Birdie, just trust me on this.”

  “Trust you?” I question and furrow my brow even further. “You want me to trust you?”

  He grins at that. “Look, I know I can be a bit of an asshole—”

  “A bit?”

  “Okay, a total asshole, but I would never use a vulnerable moment like this to screw with you.”

  “Promise?”

  He nods. “You have my word.”

  I search his eyes for a long moment, and when I don’t discern any red flags in the serene depths of his ocean-colored eyes, I acquiesce.

  “Okay,” I whisper and lie back on the bed so that my head is pressed into the pillow. “I’ll trust you. But I swear to God, if you’re screwing with me, I will cut your balls off.”

  A soft, discreet chuckle escapes his lips. “Understood.”

  “Everyone, quiet on set! Scene 33, Take 40!”

  “Action!” Howie yells.

  Oh God, here goes nothing…

  On one last deep, cleansing breath, I shut my eyes, and I just lie there and wait for Andrew to guide me, guide us, into this scene.

  My heart pounds against my rib cage. Nerves prickle at my exposed skin.

  And it feels like an eternity before anything happens.

  But eventually, it does.

  Lips press against my stomach, and the muscles of my belly jump slightly as a quiet squeal pops from my throat. But the lips don’t pause; they pull away.

  Instead, they kiss a gentle path up my belly, between my breasts, across my collarbone; every small press feels like a feather tickling my skin. And those lips don’t stop until they’ve created a path from my collarbone up my neck across my cheek and stay hovering over my mouth.

  One brush, two brushes, three brushes, the lips move across mine until the sensation is so tempting that I find myself opening my mouth and reaching up to return the favor.

  My lips to his, we kiss, slow and gentle at first, until the sensation builds to push the kiss further. Hands slide up my sides, and I can’t stop myself from opening my eyes and exploring the skin that’s touching mine.

  With my gaze and my touch, I take in the firm biceps and the defined belly and tempting V. I tickle my fingers across tanned, smooth skin and just let myself be mesmerized by the beauty that is this man’s body.

  Good God, his body. It’s Adonis on freaking steroids.

  Before I know it, his fingers are in my hair and his blue eyes are staring into mine, and the urge to kiss him again becomes too strong to deny.

  So, I do.

  I press my mouth to his, and I wrap my legs around his waist and pull his hips closer to mine. And I just let myself feel good.

  Because fuck, does it feels good.

  This big, strong man against me, kissing me, touching me, it f
eels so damn good.

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this, whatever the hell this even is.

  The kiss gets deeper, and my hips rock up into his and I can feel him, right there, right against me, and a little moan escapes my throat and vibrates against his mouth.

  “Cut!”

  Cut? Cut what?

  A groan escapes his lips and steals my full attention, and my fingers slip out of his hair and dig into the taut skin of his shoulders, urging him to press himself closer to me.

  Fuck. What is this? Why does this feel so damn good?

  “Cut!” I hear that word again. “Cut!” And again.

  Until it finally registers inside my brain.

  The scene. Cut the freaking scene.

  I blink open my eyes, and I find stunned blue eyes staring back into mine.

  “Fantastic job, you two. Fantastic job,” Howie exclaims in the background, but I’m too busy trying to reacquaint myself with reality.

  I am Birdie Harris.

  I am on a bed in the middle of a set for a film.

  And my body is wrapped around Andrew Watson like second-freaking-skin!

  Holy shit.

  Instantly, I disentangle my legs from around his hips and remove my hands from his shoulders, and Andrew gently slides his body off of mine.

  It takes me all of two seconds to get off the bed and head toward Samantha, who is standing there with my robe, her wide eyes practically consuming her whole face.

  “You okay?” she whispers toward me as I shrug on the robe.

  All I can do is nod.

  Truthfully, I don’t know what I am right now.

  But when Howie announces that we can call it a day, I’m thankful I can quickly escape into the privacy of my trailer.

  What in the hell just happened back there?

  Pretty sure you just enjoyed—like, really enjoyed—a dry-hump session with Andrew fuckface Watson in front of an audience…

  Oh, for the love of everything. I should’ve known a sex drought that’s lasted this long would only come back to bite me in the ass.

  Birdie

  I like to party, and by party, I mean I like days off that revolve around me napping my ass off.

  I don’t think I fully understood the word exhaustion until I decided to take an acting job in Hollywood while finishing recording an album. I’m generally a stickler for sticking with routines that work, especially when it comes to my music, but I’ve had to switch up my usual recording routine and adapt.