Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy
Max Monroe
Hate the Player is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel with two of the fiercest enemies-to-lovers we’ve ever seen. At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend, a hilarious, stand-alone romantic comedy from our best-selling Billionaire Collection.
Basically, this means Hate the Player will conclude at around 90%.
You wouldn’t think this would be something we’d have to warn you about ahead of time, but Monroe’s mom got really mad at us a couple of books ago, and now we feel obliged to let everyone—aka Monroe’s mom—know.
DID YOU HEAR THAT, MOM? THIS BOOK IS GOING TO END AT AROUND 90% BECAUSE THERE’S AN EXCERPT AT THE END.
Anyway, now that we have that out of the way, it’s time to let the awesome reading experience begin! Wooo-hoooo! Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
PS: Due to the hilarious nature of this book’s content, reading while otherwise occupied is not recommended. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.
For the lady in Monroe’s HIIT workout video who said “If ain’t deep, I don’t want it.”
Amen, sister.
And, this isn’t really a dedication, but it needs to be said: Google, we swear we are not robots. So, please, for the love of everything, stop forcing us to look at pictures of tiny stoplights.
Birdie
“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s dick, because no other women ever do.”
Cackles erupt from my sister Billie, who’s busy rubbing her six-months-pregnant belly with one hand and squeezing a packet of mayonnaise onto her sandwich with the other. Raquel waggles an eyebrow, seemingly satisfied with half of her audience’s reception to her cute little play on words.
I—the other half—roll my eyes and fork a piece of lettuce from my grilled chicken salad over closer to a crouton so I can scoop them up together.
Three months ago, I met the Raquel Weaver—otherwise known as one of Hollywood’s most famous starlets. Sure, she’s taken a permanent leave from her position of A-list actress and traded it in for a much simpler life that revolves around her husband Harrison and their nine-month-old baby girl Ellie in New York, but that doesn’t mean I was any less star-struck. My sister Billie and I grew up watching her and her brother Luca on our favorite show—Home Sweet Home—and the reality that those people—people who seemed to live an unattainable life at the time—ended up being our family takes a little bit of time to sink in.
Maybe that fandom is the reason her first, seemingly gentle warning about Andrew Watson sounded like so much less of a big deal. I was too busy trying to grasp that shared meals with huge stars were really happening in my life.
But sharing a meal with Raquel doesn’t seem so otherworldly anymore. Now, she’s just an extended arm of my family.
As for her warnings? They no longer have anything gentle about them.
“Wow,” I remark. “So, we’re at that stage of February, huh? Poems about penises at lunch?”
Raquel, better known as Rocky to her nearest and dearest, nods and smiles fervently, and I have to laugh.
I look around the kitschy, retro-chic diner named Frankie’s and take in the ambiance out front. People casually dine with friends and family, sunny yellow walls, pint-sized pink booths, and orange barstools punch up the restaurant’s already cheerful vibes, and a bell rings every time the chef shouts, “Order up!”
We, on the other hand, are in a nondescript black vinyl booth in the back corner, far away from the other patrons, right next to where they stack the spare chairs. I’m pretty sure it’s where the waitresses normally eat when they’re on a break.
“Our lives are so weird,” I say, and Billie quirks a brow as she takes a big bite of her grilled chicken sandwich.
“What makes you say that?” Rocky asks.
“Well…” I pause and glance toward two stools right inside the entrance of the kitchen, spotting Franco and Mel—two of Billie’s security—and laugh. “For one, we need security to eat lunch.”
It’s true. Whenever I visit LA now, anywhere Billie goes, Franco and Mel go too.
Rocky grins and shrugs. “Seems normal to me.”
It would, I suppose. Since she started acting at six years old, her life has pretty much always been this way. But for Billie and me, security teams and paparazzi are a far cry from the way we grew up in West Virginia.
“You don’t need security when you’re in Nashville?” she asks, clearly skeptical about my “down-to-earth” claims, given my career in country music.
“No, not really.” I shrug and pop a French fry into my mouth to wash down the taste of salad. I suggested we get a plate “for the table,” and the two of them were kind enough to pretend not to see right through me. “Everyone there knows me, and they’re used to me being around. The only time I ever need security is if I have a show or when I’m on tour…or hanging out with my famous baby sister in LA.”
Billie rolls her eyes at my white lie. I mean, I don’t think I need security in Nashville, but lately, my manager Neil has been on my ass about changing that. After a tiny incident at the mall about a month ago that required police intervention, he’s probably right, but I’m not completely ready to accept the fact that my success in country music has reached that kind of level. I’m just a girl from West Virginia who can sing.