Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(11)

Her scowl doesn’t soften, and my dick takes notice. Goddamn, but he loves a challenge.

“‘Dear Fool,’” she answers, her lush, pink lips still cast in a firm line.

I’m absolutely enthralled by how full they manage to look even though they’re set. I bet they’d be a sight to see wrapped around something else.

“That’s right.” I nod and grin as I recall a few of the lyrics.

I’ll leave my cut in his tires and his heart. I should have picked his best friend right from the start.

“Sucks for the bastard who inspired it, but it’s a great song.”

“Thanks, I guess,” she says, but her voice is anything but thankful. “And who are you?”

Who am I?

Ha. That’s cute.

I might have gauged the reason for her nervousness wrong, but the familiar recognition I see in everyone’s eyes when I meet them was undeniable in hers. She knows who I am, but I have to hand it to her, she’s clever when she’s angry.

A little fucking firecracker.

“Andrew Watson,” I answer, unfazed.

“Oh, okay,” she says with a sly nod. “Are you here to audition, too?”

Shit, she’s good. Flipping the script on your opponent? That’s a move right out of my own playbook. I sink my teeth into my lip to keep my cheek in check. This isn’t helping my struggle to behave myself. If anything, I’m desperate to see how well she’ll play this game if I really egg her on.

“I’m the male lead for Grass Roots. We’re supposed to do the scene together shortly.”

“Oh, gotcha.” She nods. “That’s probably why your name sounded familiar. My assistant must have mentioned your name at some point.”

Ha. It’s almost unfair how tempting she is for a guy like me. I swear to God, if Luca wouldn’t build a replica of Shawshank State Penitentiary, pay off the judge, jury, and prosecutor to wrongly convict me, and personally select the prisoners I’d do my time with, I’d already be talking my way under her dress.

“Is this your first audition?” I ask her carefully.

Defiant chin lifted ever so slightly, she meets my eyes head on and holds them. “Yep.”

Man, things would be so much easier if I were better at behaving myself. As it is, I can’t help but fuck with her a little more.

“Wow. Takes big balls to audition for a Hollywood legend like William Capo without any experience.”

She swallows hard, but her eyes narrow farther. She’s pissed. And really fucking gorgeous.

Looks like I’ve struck a nerve…

“I’m impressed you’re willing to put yourself out there like that. Good for you, I guess.”

Her high cheeks redden slightly, and I can tell that some kind of sassy comeback sits on the tip of her tongue, but Mr. Capo’s assistant calls our attention before Birdie can open her mouth to respond.

“Mr. Watson, Ms. Harris, they’re ready for you.”

“Oh…okay.” Birdie starts to fidget with her sundress again, and it’s more than obvious that my jabs are long forgotten. Her nerves are back in full effect. She’s still beautiful, but I miss the bite of her anger.

I’m not even sure it’s a conscious decision when I provoke her again.

“Fantastic.” I kick my feet down to the floor and rise to standing. Birdie looks up at me, and I smear a grin across my lips. “You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart? I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re too scared to go in there.”

Instantly, her fidgeting fingers screech to a halt, and she makes the climb to standing so gracefully it feels like slow motion. I watch every goddamn fraction of an inch intently.

Her glare is so hot, sparks crackle in the brown of her eyes like embers—and it’s directed right at me. “I was born ready.”

My cock twitches beneath my zipper, and excitement catches in my throat.

Me too, little firecracker. Me fucking too.





Birdie



Rocky was right; this guy needs a big-ass pair of boots—right to the face.

We’ve spent all of five minutes together, and already, I don’t like him.

Scratch that. I’m pretty sure I hate him.

And now, I have to go in there and show everyone in the room that Mr. Fucking Ego and I have the kind of on-screen chemistry that leads to a baby boom nine months after release day.

Holy freaking harmonicas and a violin.

My nerves sashay their way back to the front of the stage, and I have to swallow past the ball in my throat just to get enough air to stay alive. Forget getting enough oxygen to maintain brain function—I’m fucking coding right now. I hope Capo Brothers has a medical show with a crash cart on set nearby.

My eyelids start to flutter—a sure sign that I am within seconds of hitting the floor and going night-night—when Andrew stops at the door to the room, looks over his shoulder, and smirks, just one pointed eyebrow raised.

Thoughts of swiftly introducing his nut sac to my favorite cowgirl boots flood my synapses, revving up their engines and clearing the obstruction in my throat. I smile to myself. God, what a glorious moment that would be.

I probably shouldn’t be this happy about kicking someone in the crotch, but hell’s bells, the thought of using Andrew Watson’s balls as a bull’s-eye makes me giddy.