Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 8

  “Where are we going?” I ask, putting a defiant hand to my hip and holding my ground.

  “To lunch.” He winks and gestures me toward the fancy-schmancy sports car sitting in my driveway. “And since you’ve only penciled me in for forty-five minutes, we better get a move on it.”

  I sigh and hitch my purse up onto my shoulder, following his lead toward the shiny black car. Of course he drives something like this. I have no idea what the brand is or what it’s called, but I can tell it’s fast and draws eyes wherever he goes.

  Anything to get attention.

  He opens my door and helps me inside before mockingly jogging around the hood while tapping his watch. I roll my eyes as he slips into the driver’s seat.

  “Here,” he says, after reaching behind the seat. A brown paper bag lands in my lap as he starts up the engine. It rumbles and roars with an addictive purr.

  I peer into the bag and scrunch up my nose when I see what looks to be brown hair. “What is this?”

  “A disguise.” His explanation is matter-of-fact as he pulls out of the driveway, but I rarely believe sociopaths on the first go.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Birdie, I never joke,” he deadpans.

  I exhale so hard a snot bubble forms at the opening of one nostril. Luckily, for the sake of my dignity, he’s facing the other way. “Right.”

  Smug enjoyment coloring his cheeks pink, he taps a finger on the steering wheel and elucidates. “I want to introduce you to the best tacos in town, and well, this town knows me a little too well.”

  “Oh, right.” I roll my eyes. Autographs and selfies. He likes to give them away like fucking hot cakes. You get a selfie! And you get a selfie! He’s like the Oprah of Hollywood douchebags.

  He takes a right out of my street and heads out onto the main road, and I mentally hope that the rest of our drive—the rest of our lunch—goes just like this. No talking. No Andrew saying something that will most likely tick me off. Just total, blessed silence.

  “They know you too, you know.”

  My hope-balloon-of-silence is popped, and I turn my wrinkled brow his direction. “Excuse me?”

  “Birdie Harris is already a name,” he answers, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as he takes a left turn at a light. “And Birdie Harris acting in Howie King’s next big movie makes you beautiful bait for all the paparazzi piranhas.”

  Sure, Nashville knows me.

  LA, though? The country music scene doesn’t fully translate out here.

  My look says yeah, right, and he doesn’t miss it.

  “Trust me on this. You’re not going to be able to go anywhere in this town without complications.”

  My first instinct is to deny anything that comes out of his mouth, but I’m not sure I can in this instance without being obtuse. My manager Neil has already started taking the steps to ramp up my security. Interviews, background checks, he’s all in on his safety search. Soon, I’ll probably have two big, burly men following me around like Billie’s Franco and Mel.

  Instead of arguing, I keep my mouth shut, and by some miracle, he does too.

  The two of us stay that way for a few beautiful minutes until Andrew turns into a parking lot, a big neon sign scrolling against the adjacent brick building. It reads Buenos Tacos in bright orange and yellow letters, and in this moment, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.

  “I hope you brought your appetite,” Andrew says, sliding into a parking space and pulling another brown paper bag from behind his seat. He unrolls the top and nods to my bag. “Suit up.”

  There’s a big, huge part of me that wants to reject the whole disguise thing, but I figure it’s best if I just go with it. It’s only one lunch. One forty-five-minute lunch at which tacos will be served.

  I’m a woman. After a lifetime of pap smears and uncomfortably sexist encounters with all kinds of assholes, I can do anything for forty-five minutes, even if that includes wearing whatever he’s stuffed inside this bag for me.

  I reach inside and pull out three items, one after another. A brunette wig, red-rimmed eyeglasses, and an LA Dodgers baseball cap.

  I put everything on, don’t even bother examining how ridiculous I probably look in the visor mirror above my head, and get out of the passenger seat.

  Andrew meets me at the front of the car in a freaking blond mullet that is straight out of the movie Joe Dirt and a pair of aviators.

  Lord Almighty. I can’t not laugh.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says smartly. “I should always be sporting a mullet.”

  I wish I could say he looked stupid in a mullet, but his insane good looks have superpowers. They can even make a freaking mullet look hot.

  I sure as shit am not going to tell him that, but there’s no stopping my brain from thinking it. Physically, he is genetically superior to every man I’ve ever met.

  Outwardly, though, I roll my eyes. He doesn’t need any ego padding.

  He grins—almost as though he can read my innermost thoughts—and reaches out a hand for mine. I’m startled by the gesture, but I’m also annoyed with him enough to think quickly on my feet and avoid getting swept up in it. I slip both of my hands into the pockets of my cutoff jean shorts and head to the entrance doors.

  There is no freaking way I’m holding hands with this guy. Considering I’ll be filming sex scenes with him, it might seem like a pointless avoidance. But it’s not. Hand-holding with a hot-guy enemy can only be described as a gateway drug. You take one little sample, and suddenly, you’re lying back against his headboard with your legs pulled open by a spreader bar.

  Just say no, kids.

  I ignore my pesky subconscious’s after school special and shield my sensitive eyes as we step through the doors of Buenos Tacos and out of the sun. A hostess wearing a vibrant, color-block-style dress greets us with a big, full-teeth smile.

  I’m not sure if she takes the task of front-of-house friendliness really seriously or if she thinks Andrew’s mullet is ridiculous, but neither of us bothers to ask. It doesn’t take her long to seat us at a table for two, and not even a minute later, a giant bowl of chips and salsa is placed between us.

  Okay, okay, I guess this lunch meeting isn’t so bad…

  I dig out a perfectly hot tortilla chip from the bottom of the basket and dip it into the salsa with unconcealed excitement. It tastes perfectly of tomato and subtle spice, and there’s a small chance I may have just moaned. I glance up to find Andrew grinning at me from across the table. It’s a brutal and unwelcome reminder that this lunch will include him. Ugh.

  “Would you like some suggestions on what’s good?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “Nope.” I make a show of pulling my phone out of my purse, setting a timer for forty-five minutes, and placing it screen up on the table.

  He follows the action avidly, and when the minutes start ticking down for both of us to see, he laughs.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t start that timer from the moment I knocked on your door.”

  “I should’ve,” I grumble, and his smirk deepens.

  It’s a pettiness oversight on my part, but the truth is, I’m hungry, and I freaking love tacos. Like, I would marry them and have their taco babies kind of love. So, I’ll just have to comfort myself with the concept of tolerating the company of Andrew Watson in the name of my food husband.

  I munch on some more chips and take my sweet, sweet time browsing the menu. Holding the flimsy plastic high up in the air and directly in front of my face, I study it like they’re going to test me on it later before allowing me to man some sort of Taco-Space rocket—something the government should really look into funding, by the way. Of course, I already know what I want—tacos, tacos, tacos—but I’m buying a little more time where I don’t have to make conversation with the man on the other side of the table.

  I’m only granted a few blessed minutes of quiet before I have to give our waiter my order and hand over
my privacy shield, but even a small moment of peace is better than nothing.

  And then, it’s just Andrew and me, sitting across from each other in a restaurant that has all of four other patrons. Given the quality of the salsa, empty tables don’t make much sense, but I don’t have it in me to analyze the intricacies of the flaws in their business model.

  Well, hell. I have one of two options here. I can either make this really awful lunch even more painfully awkward or just give in and try to make conversation. Or maybe there’s a third option…a combination of the two.

  After a deep, cleansing breath, I take a sip of my water and bite the bullet. “So, why exactly did you want this meeting?”

  He carefully swoops a salsa-carrying chip into his mouth, grins, and chews quickly to clear his mouth of the food obstruction before speaking. “Because I want to get to know you better.”

  “I have enough friends.”

  “You don’t think you have room for one more?” he asks, and I swear I can hear the slightest hint of amusement in his voice.

  “Is that a serious question?”

  “Of course, Birdie. I’m a serious guy.”

  I roll my eyes. The consideration time spent deciding to be frank with him or not is brief. Meh. Screw it. Why would I sugarcoat anything for this guy? “No, I don’t.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “But I thought we got along so well at the audition?”

  I laugh. Outright. “You have a very delusional memory. You should seek help from a medical professional.”

  “I think maybe you’re the one not remembering correctly.” His lips, ironically, turn up at the corners.

  What is with this guy? Does he enjoy annoying me or something?

  “Oh, trust me, I’m one-hundred-percent clear on what happened,” I contend. “You were an asshole. Several times, on repeat. The end.”

  “Sure.” He shrugs. “I was. And then your hands were in my hair and your tongue was in my mouth.” He winks. “I’ll give you your story and the end, but that kiss was a hell of an epilogue.”

  “I was acting,” I refute. “You know, for the audition.”

  “You were acting?” His tone is condescending as he shakes his head. “I’ve been to a lot of auditions, and I’ve had to do a lot of on-screen kisses.” He shrugs, holding a waiting chip in front of his self-idolizing mouth. “And trust me, Birdie, I know the difference between an acting kiss and a real kiss.”

  “Are you trying to say that you think I was kissing you for real?” I question.

  “No, no, I’m not trying to say anything. I’m saying it.” His expression is smug.

  Anger floods my veins, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to reenact the smack heard ’round the audition.

  Good God. This guy. This fucking asshole.

  I glance down at my phone and see I’m only twenty minutes into this stupid lunch.

  Holy hell, has time freaking slowed down?

  While I’m trying to rein in the irritation that’s threatening to burst from my lips like a geyser, our nice waiter steps up to the table and serves as the perfect distraction by dropping off our food. God bless you, waiter man.

  “Can I get either of you anything else?” he asks, and Andrew is quick to answer.

  “I think we’re all set. Thanks.”

  To my dismay, the waiter leaves our table at the obvious dismissal. If I’d have been a little quicker on the trigger, I could have made up all sorts of requests to keep him in the vicinity of our table until he was ready to retire.

  Come back, buddy! You’re my safety net! I want to call out to him but force myself not to turn into some sort of crazy person.

  Of course, the egotistical jerk sitting across from me dives into his freaking enchiladas like this lunch meeting is going hunky-dory. Like everything is just grand right here at our table. Like a nuclear war of fury and fire isn’t rumbling around inside my body.

  “You’re going to love those tacos just as much as you loved that kiss,” the cheeky prick says, scooping up another bite of his food with his fork.

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

  I try to ignore his stupid comment—to let it roll off my back, down through the tile floor, and straight to the depths of hell where it belongs—but when I glance down at my tacos, for the first time in my whole life, they don’t even look appetizing. I look longingly at the rice and beans beside them, trying to stir some kind of food-witch within, but I’m not in the mood to eat a damn thing.

  Goddamn it! He’s even ruining tacos for me!

  It’s all too much. I fear if I sit here any longer and give him more time toss shitty, condescending remarks my way, I’ll lose it. I mean, what else will he ruin for me? Desserts? Coffee? I can’t freaking risk it!

  “Wow,” I mutter on a laugh and shake my head. “I can’t believe you can continue to hammer nails from your spot inside the coffin. Is black magic a talent you’ve always had, or is it something that’s grown with your big-ass ego?”

  Andrew smiles—which makes him gorgeous, obviously—and it’s the last twisted form of torture I can take. I slam my hands down on the table, rattling the silverware and making his eyes widen, and push to standing. I immediately shove my finale down his throat before he can say another word.

  “I think I’ve had enough of this ridiculous lunch. It’s time for me to go.”

  He glances at the screen of my phone and then back at me, a small hint of concern creasing the skin between his eyes for the first time since he set foot on my porch. “But there’s still another ten minutes to go, and you haven’t even touched your food.”

  Trust me, asshole, I know.

  At any other moment in my life, abandonment of a meal would be a high crime I’d never dream of committing. But it doesn’t even matter. I’ll take the charges for taco-child neglect and deal with the consequences. It’s time to go.

  “Consider my appetite officially gone,” I snap, scooting around my chair in a hurry. I don’t care if I have to hike back to my rental from this restaurant, I am leaving this place, right this second, so I don’t have to spend another freaking moment with this guy.

  “Birdie, wait a minute—” he starts to say, standing up from his chair, but I turn my back on him, and in an angered, abrupt movement, I yank the strap of my purse off my chair.

  But my getaway is halted in an instant as my elbow makes impact with something behind me, and a resounding crack echoes inside the restaurant.

  “Ow, shit,” Andrew groans.

  Please Lord, tell me my elbow didn’t just hit what I think it hit.

  My eyes go wide, and slowly, I turn around to find Andrew holding his nose.

  His bloody nose.

  “Wow. So, you, like, really don’t like me,” he says through a soft, pained chuckle and grabs a napkin off the table. Blood is flowing freely, completely surrounding his mouth in a crimson goatee, and it turns the napkin’s color in a heartbeat.

  My God. What have I done?

  It was on accident, but still, I just elbowed Andrew Watson in the fucking face!

  Oh hell.

  Andrew

  Hell hath no fury like an angry Birdie. And Buenos Tacos hath no blood like that from a broken nose.

  Trust me, I know. Thirty minutes ago, Birdie elbowed me right in the face in the middle of their dining room, and although the ER doctor at Cedars-Sinai hasn’t made it official, I’m pretty damn sure what once was one bone is now two.

  My face feels heavier than normal, and there’s an indescribable heat under the surface of my skin. I’m pretty sure they’re both the result of blood pooling under my eyes, but I haven’t taken the time to examine myself in a mirror and be sure.

  Your enjoyment out of seeing her pissed off is starting to get dangerous, bro…

  Ha. Yeah. It is. But goddamn, why can’t I seem to convince myself it’s a bad idea? When someone causes you headaches and harm, you’re supposed to run the other way, not pant for more.

  “A
re you okay?” Birdie asks, standing up from her seat across from my ER bed and pacing the room. “God, I feel awful.”

  A rambling mess of guilt, she hasn’t stopped apologizing to me since we got in my car and she drove me to the hospital. I tried to dispute the need for an emergency room visit, but Birdie was adamant. And, well, even if it makes me sick in the head, the idea of spending a little more time with her made the insurance co-pay seem worth it.

  Especially with her all awkward and bumbling and apologetic.

  I’m finding I’m a fan of all Birdie’s moods, especially the way they can change at any given moment. Her emotions are a Fourth of July fireworks party, all locked and loaded and ready to explode into something spectacular. Like all combustibles, they come with some risk of personal injury, but the enjoyment makes it worth it.

  “Seriously, Andrew?” she asks, her eyes searching mine. She winces as they scan the evidence of her beating. “Are you okay? Are you in pain? Can I get you something?”

  Personally, I’d love for her to take off her clothes and climb that hot little body into this bed with me, but I figure that’s probably not an option. No doubt, that suggestion would go over like a lead balloon. In the name of keeping this visit focused on one injury, I choose a slightly less antagonistic approach.

  “You know, when I was a kid, my mom always used to do something that made everything better.” I grin behind the ice pack I’ve been instructed by a stern-faced nurse by the name of Lucille to keep on my face.

  “Okay.” Birdie nods and steps up to my bedside, ready and willing to be helpful in any way she can. “What did she do?”

  “She’d sing softly, her voice no more than a whisper, and then, when I’d calmed down, she’d lean forward and put her lips to whatever I’d hurt. Just a little healing kiss, she’d say. That’s all you need.”

  Instantly, her eyes narrow with suspicion, and while the story is true, I can’t say I’m surprised she views it as a ploy to get in her pants. Because it definitely is. “I’m not kissing you.”

  “Just right here,” I say and lift the ice pack away from my nose, touching the swollen tip with my free hand. “Just a little peck, right here.”