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

  “Where are we going?”

  “To sleep, sweetheart.”

  “Hallelujah!” she exclaims, but then she stops. “Ugh. Wait…how far do we have to go to get there?”

  “We need to get to my car first.”

  “That’s too far.” She groans and then meets my gaze, a puppy-dog look apparent in her eyes. “Carry me…please?”

  With that look and those big brown eyes, I couldn’t say no if I wanted to. The two-letter word isn’t even in my vocabulary. I’m officially Jim Carrey, the Yes Man.

  Gently, I slide my arms beneath her legs and lift her up so her head and the side of her body rest against my chest and her legs dangle over my arms.

  And she doesn’t hesitate to make herself comfortable, cuddling into me like I’m not the man she not-so-discreetly spent the whole damn night avoiding.

  What a turn this night has taken.

  Andrew

  Once a woman who was always trying her damnedest to avoid me, Birdie is now rummaging through my kitchen like she owns the joint.

  “Andy,” she says, her hands busy prying open cabinet doors and rifling through their contents with urgent fingers. “Where’s all the snacks?”

  My original plan was to take her to her house.

  But the plan was quickly changed when an almost-sleeping Birdie sat up like she’d been jolted back to life, rolled down her window, and started alternating between shouting demands about going to Taco Bell and belting out Dolly Parton lyrics as loud as she could into the quiet streets of LA. And since driving to her rental would’ve taken twice the amount of time than to my house, I decided to just bring her back here and save us both a meet-and-greet with the LAPD.

  I still don’t know if it was the right decision, but hell, it’s too late to go back now.

  “Andy!” she exclaims and glances over her shoulder at me when I don’t respond. “The snacks, Andy! The snacks!”

  Apparently, I’m now Andy. The nickname started about five minutes away from my house and appears to have stuck.

  “What kind of snacks are you looking for, sweetheart?”

  “I want a Cheesy Gordita Crunch.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Birdie, I don’t have Taco Bell hidden in my cabinets.”

  “You suck. Desmond Doss from Hacksaw Ridge would definitely have Taco Bell in the cabinets. And you call your penis a soldier. Pfft.” She groans and throws more cabinet doors open while I ponder the idea that this isn’t the first time she’s referred to my penis as a military man. I get the feeling I’m missing something, and quite frankly, tonight might be the very best time to get it out of her. But I’ll have to time it just right—when she’s lucid enough to tell the truth, but half-cocked enough not to care.

  “What about Doritos? Or pizza?” she questions, still playing the role of pantry scavenger. “Oh yes, pizza would be fantastic!”

  “You want pizza?”

  She turns around and puts her hands together like she’s praying. “Please, sir. Please, please, please, feed me pizza.”

  Christ. I head over to the freezer and luckily find a frozen pizza hidden behind some premade meals of grilled chicken and veggies. I pull it out and hold it up in the air. “Will this hit the spot?”

  “Yes!” She does an awkward tap-dance across the kitchen floor in her bare feet and ends it off with jazz hands. “Andy, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

  “Okay, I’ll make the pizza, but you need to promise me something.”

  “Anything. I’ll promise any-fucking-thing right now.”

  Jesus. If only she were making that promise stone-cold sober with my cock inside her.

  All dirty thoughts of sex with Birdie aside, I point to the still-full glass of water I poured for her sitting on the kitchen island. “Finish that glass of water.”

  “I already did.”

  I shake my head. “You had two sips, Birdie. You need to drink the whole thing.”

  She puts a hand to her defiant hip. “Why?”

  Because you inadvertently ate a pot brownie tonight after consuming champagne, and Lord knows, your body needs some fucking hydration…

  In the name of avoiding her currently giddy high from going straight to paranoia, I can’t tell her that right now. So, I offer a half-truth. “Because it’s the only way you’re getting pizza.”

  “Ugh,” she groans. “Fine. I’ll drink it.” She snags the water off the counter and finishes it off in five large gulps, and at least two of the gulps end up down the front of her sexy dress. “There!” she exclaims and slams the glass onto the counter, swiping a hand across her wet mouth and chin. “Now, it’s motherflipping pizza time!”

  “You got it,” I say and preheat the oven.

  Ten minutes later, the frozen pizza is baking in the oven, and I’ve managed to convince Birdie that swimming in my pool tonight is a bad idea and redirected her to the couch, where a bag of Doritos keeps her occupied.

  I’ll be honest, when this night began, I didn’t imagine it would end like this—with me babysitting Birdie. Truthfully, this is a situation I never would’ve predicted in my craziest dreams.

  Damn. What a fucking night.

  “Is the pizza almost done?” she asks, hopping up from the couch and just tossing the bag of Doritos down onto the coffee table. Half the chips fall out of the bag, but she’s too busy worrying about pizza to pay the mess any attention.

  “About fifteen more minutes.”

  “What?” she whines and throws both of her arms up into the air. “I can’t wait that long!”

  All I can do is shrug. “I can’t make the pizza cook any faster, sweetheart.”

  “You suck at making pizza.”

  A soft chuckle escapes my lips.

  But she doesn’t wait around for me to respond. Nope. Instead, she strides out of my living room and into the hallway, destination unknown.

  My first instinct is to give her some privacy, but then I quickly remember that she’s not in the right state of mind to just be wandering around my house. Hell, I feel like I’m a parent trying to keep his toddler away from electrical sockets and matches.

  I get off the couch and head toward the hallway to see what she’s up to, but I’m stopped dead in my tracks when I find Birdie standing in the middle of my hallway, taking off her clothes.

  And I mean all of her fucking clothes.

  Her dress.

  Her bra.

  Her panties.

  All of it is gone in an instant, and a gorgeous, naked goddess stands with her back to me. Her perfect supple ass and beautiful back taunt me.

  Ah fuck. This is no bueno.

  “Uh…what are you doing, sweetheart?”

  “It’s too hot in your house!” She kicks her dress toward the other end of the hall and turns to face me. “I think your A/C is broken or something.”

  Holy shit.

  Gorgeous tanned skin. Long, toned legs. Full, supple breasts. Perfectly pink nipples.

  A bare pussy.

  Fucking hell, I love naked women, and the sight of this naked woman is like all my wildest fantasies merged together and came to life, but this feels all sorts of wrong.

  She literally has no idea what she’s doing right now.

  I shut my eyes and force out a breath.

  Do not look at her. Just get her some damn clothes, and do not look at her.

  “Birdie,” I say, my eyes open again but fixed toward the floor. “How about I get you some clothes to wear?”

  “No thanks, Andy,” she says and strides toward me until she is standing directly in front of me. “Where is your bedroom?”

  “My…what?” I ask, and my eyes move back to her body of their own fucking accord.

  Yep. Still naked. So gloriously naked that I have the urge to put my fist into my mouth and clench my teeth into my skin. God help me. She is so damn beautiful, so sexy, it literally hurts to look at her.

  “Your bedroom, Andy.”

  Nope. No way. She cannot go
into your bedroom like that. That’s just asking for trouble. Abort the mission, you bastard! Find a way to distract her and get her some fucking clothes!

  “Uh…” I pause, completely unsure of what to say.

  But my silence only gives her permission to turn on her heel and walk down the hallway, peering into every room, until she reaches the end, where my bedroom is, in fact, located.

  Then she disappears…still naked and now in my bedroom.

  Well, fuck.

  I stand there, rooted to my spot, trying to get a grasp on this situation.

  Seriously. What in the hell is happening? Is this some sort of sick joke?

  Is God getting back at me for all the times I was a certified prick?

  I look up toward the ceiling and sigh, offering up some words to the Big Man upstairs. I know I’m not the picture of a saint, but I promise I’ll be better if you just convince Birdie to put on some clothes. I promise I’ll start donating to more charities and—

  “Andy! Andy! Andyyyyyy!” Birdie’s voice interrupts my prayer. “Where are you, Andy?”

  Hesitantly, I walk into my bedroom to find Birdie already in my bed, her naked body cozy beneath my sheets and comforter.

  “Come on in!” she exclaims and pats the spot beside her. “Your bed feels so good!”

  Yeah, no. That might be my bed, and that might be a gorgeous-as-fuck Birdie in my bed, but I’m not getting in that bed. Not right now. Not tonight.

  “I…uh…I think I should go check on the pizza. Doesn’t pizza sound good, sweetheart?”

  “You know what this bed makes me think of, Andy?” she asks, completely ignoring my pizza distraction.

  Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait.

  “What does it make you think of, sweetheart?”

  Idiot.

  “Sex.” That one word rolls off her tongue in such a sexy way that even my cock threatens to take notice.

  Don’t even think about it, you horny bastard. Not tonight.

  “I haven’t had sex in over a year,” she says, and a little pout forms at her lips. “Isn’t that sad, Andy?”

  “That’s…uh…certainly a long time, sweetheart.”

  “I know.” That little pout of hers is still there. “Billie said she’s going to start a prayer chain for my poor pussy.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, it just keeps getting worse and worse. Frankly, it should be illegal for her to use words like pussy and sex while sporting the sexiest birthday suit I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I open my mouth to respond, but I shut it closed when I realize I have nothing appropriate to say.

  But, unfortunately, she has no issues with continuing this mindfuck of a conversation.

  “I want to have sex,” she says. “I want to have sex again soon. Not the stupid scripted sex we did on set. But, like, real, hot, wild sex.”

  Help me. Someone help me.

  “Isn’t that the best kind of sex, Andy? Rocky says your soldier penis has been all over the world slaying hearts and killing people or something. I bet he would kill my pussy too, wouldn’t he?”

  Jesus fucking Christ. The good news is, I kind of understand now where all the random military-themed comments have come from. The bad news is, my balls are so blue I can feel the ache in my throat.

  “I…uh…know how to have…fun,” I say, in so much pain I’m pretty sure I’m on the brink of death. “But you know what’s really fun? Pizza and sleep.”

  “Heh.” She just shrugs her shoulders. “I guess those are pretty fun, too.”

  I don’t know what to do with myself other than stand there like a moron, watching her fight to keep her eyes open.

  “Let’s have a pizza party in bed, Andy,” she eventually says through a yawn, then yawns again. Her full, perfect breasts still peek above the covers, and her eyes are growing heavier with each blink. “Yes. Yes, a pizza party. That’s perfect. I’m so excited.” Her voice doesn’t match her words. It’s all sleepy and tired, and before I know it, with her head pressed into the pillow, her eyelids make one final descent and stay shut.

  “Birdie?” I quietly call toward her.

  No answer.

  “Uh…Birdie?” I say her name again, moving toward her until I’m right beside the bed.

  Still no answer.

  When her chest begins to rise and fall with soft, deep breaths, I realize she’s passed the fuck out.

  A naked Birdie Harris is asleep. In my bed. Right now.

  This is something I’ve fantasized about a million fucking times, but I can assure you, it didn’t involve pot brownies and requests for pizza parties. Not to mention, her little admission of it being over a year since she’s had sex has my mind dreaming up all sorts of hot and dirty scenarios.

  Christ. I let out a deep sigh, and carefully, without touching her skin, reach down to lift the comforter up with my fingertips and cover her gorgeous breasts from view. While I’m not opposed to the idea of seeing Birdie’s glorious tits, I am opposed to seeing them without her consent.

  Once I make sure she’s all settled in, I head out of my bedroom and back into the kitchen. The pizza still has another five or so minutes to bake, so I grab my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans and shoot off a text to my brother Lance.

  Me: You working tonight?

  Lance: Yep. Why?

  Me: I have a quick medical question for you. Are pot brownies dangerous?

  He responds a minute later.

  Lance: What the hell kind of question is that?

  Me: I have a friend who accidentally consumed a pot brownie, and she, well, got really fucking high and is now passed out in my bed.

  Lance: Good Lord, the situations you get yourself into. No wonder I’m Mom and Dad’s favorite.

  Me: C’mon, dude. Get serious. I made sure she drank some water and she downed like half a bag of Doritos before she passed out, but is there anything else I need to do for her? She’s going to be okay, right?

  Lance: Pretty sure you’ve had pot brownies before. Among a lot of other fucking things. Shouldn’t you know how to deal with it?

  Yeah, I was a bit wild in my early twenties, so shoot me. But that’s beside the fucking point right now.

  Me: Lance. Stop fucking around and tell me if there’s something else I should do for her.

  Lance: Was it just one brownie?

  Me: Yeah, I’m pretty sure.

  Lance: Did she consume anything else? Alcohol? Other drugs?

  Me: Just a few glasses of champagne, I think, but I can’t be sure. Definitely no other drugs, though. She’s not that kind of girl.

  Lance: She should be fine. I’d let her sleep it off and just keep an eye out that she doesn’t get a second wind and decide to go do something crazy like drive a car.

  The oven timer dings, and I shoot my brother one last text before heading back toward the oven.

  Me: Okay. Thanks, bro.

  Once I have the hot pizza out on the counter and the oven turned off, I head back into my bedroom to check on the little pot brownie consumer. Thankfully, she’s just as I left her, sound asleep in my bed and the blankets still covering all her glorious goods.

  I stand at the threshold of my bedroom door, just taking in the view that is a passed-out Birdie. I’ll be honest, when I imagined Birdie in my bed, this situation was not a part of those dirty fantasies. Her naked? Fuck yes. But high out of her mind and rambling about fucking pizza parties and wild sex? Nope.

  I think it’s safe to say she’s going to be pissed tomorrow when she finds out the shenanigans she took part in.

  Probably pissed and embarrassed and neither one of them makes me feel good.

  Now irritated with the situation Howie’s dickhead nephew put her in, I pull my cell out of my pocket again and shoot him a quick message.

  Me: I swear to God, I’m going to kill Larry. The bastard and his buddy Carl gave Birdie a pot brownie, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t tell her it was a fucking pot brownie.

  Surprisingly, h
e responds in record time for it being past three in the morning.

  Howie: What the fuck? Are you sure?

  Me: So sure that you’re probably going to have to find a way to hide Larry’s body once I kill him.

  Howie: Fuck. Is she okay?

  Me: Yeah, I brought her back to my place, and now she’s sleeping it off.

  Howie: Shit. Is there anything I can do?

  Me: Keep this between us, because I’m sure she doesn’t want anyone finding out about it, and finally kick Larry out of your fucking house.

  Howie: Damn, you’re really pissed about this, aren’t you?

  Me: Are you kidding me? If Birdie weren’t here, I’d be back at your house already.

  Howie: I’ve never seen you get this mad about anything.

  Me: Yeah, well, I guess I draw a hard line at getting someone high without their permission.

  Howie: I’ll talk to Larry.

  Me: I hope by talk to you mean you’re going to kick his fucking ass.

  Howie: Trust me, I’ll handle it.

  He better fucking handle it, or else I will.

  Anger still flooding my veins, I’m just about to type out that very message, but when the sounds of a ringing phone fill my ears, I pause and look around the room in confusion.

  Then it dawns on me. Birdie’s phone.

  Turning on my heel, I head back down the hallway and into the living room where her purse and shoes sit on my coffee table. Her ringing phone sits nestled inside, and once I pull it out, I spot Incoming Call Samantha flashing on the screen.

  Pretty sure that’s her assistant…

  In the name of privacy, I’m about to ignore the call, but I decide I probably need to let Birdie’s assistant know she’s safe.