Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(12)

It also, strangely, makes me feel like I have the strength not only to live another day, but to take on this audition without worrying about the results. I’m going to go into that room and show them what I’ve got—whatever decision they come to doesn’t matter right now.

I will my feet to move across the hall, toward the massive glass doors leading into an expansive office that overlooks downtown LA.

Two men and two women wait for us behind a table, their bodies backlit by the California sunshine.

Everyone in the room is dressed like they belong here—a modern mishmash of high-end designer suits and ties and heels—and they all look like their schedule is so detailed they have to make appointments for bathroom breaks.

Everyone but Mr. Ego and me, that is. He strolls in behind me like he has all the time in the world after waiting in the hall for me to pass. Like everyone in the room is on his schedule.

“Birdie Harris,” an older man with pepper-gray hair greets me, standing from his seat at the table with an outstretched hand. I jump forward quickly to take it. His shake is firm without being overbearing. “William Capo. It’s a pleasure. I’m a big fan.”

I have a feeling he says that to everyone, but it still feels exceedingly nice that he’d take the time to say it, regardless. As the owner of the studio, he’s a big freaking deal. His wealth makes mine look like a penny fountain. “Thank you. It’s great to finally meet you.”

After shaking his hand, I move down the line to say hello to everyone else. I’ve already had the opportunity to meet them over the past few months, and they’ve all been nothing but friendly. It feels a little different now, though. In a sense, they’re all judging me.

Howie King’s smile is bright, Serena Koontz, Billie’s boss and the producer, nods encouragingly, and Nell Franz, the casting director, has friendly eyes. But I don’t think any of them will really look like anything other than snakes in the grass to me until this whole process is over.

“Did you and Andrew have a chance to get acquainted a little bit in the lobby?” Mr. Capo asks.

“Sure did,” Andrew answers before I can. “Birdie’s a pleasure.”

My eyes narrow. I have to wrestle my tongue like a pig in the mud to keep myself from commenting on my first impression of Mr. Big Ego.

“Likewise,” I say instead. “A unique pleasure.”

Andrew Watson smiles so big his mouth could be used as an actual light source in this office, and the results are undeniable.

Ugh. It’s annoying how freaking good-looking he is. Seriously, it has to be a sin to be that big of a prick and that insanely attractive at the same time.

Moses himself should’ve chiseled it down as the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not egregiously exploit good genes. Or at the very least, ole George Washington and the rest of the Founding Fathers should’ve considered making it an amendment. The right of the people to be happy and devoid of rage shall not be violated by dealing with the egotistical and narcissistic presence of a man who is deemed far too good-looking in one’s eyes. A man like that is hereby regarded as unconstitutional—aka fucking illegal—in the eyes of the law.

Or, you know, something close to that.

When I realize everyone in the room is staring at me while I mentally rewrite the Constitution, I clear my throat. “I can’t wait to read the scene together,” I add.

“Thank you for adjusting your schedule twice now to fit in this audition, Birdie,” Howie King replies. “We really appreciate your flexibility.”

“No problem.” I wave him off with a nonchalant hand. “I’m honored to be here.”

Because I am. Nerves and near-puking aside, I’m flattered I’m even being considered for a role in a movie of this magnitude.

“Since I last talked to you, you won a Grammy,” Serena says with a kind smile. “Congratulations on all the success. It’s much deserved.”

The genuineness in her voice makes me smile. “Thank you so much.”

“And what about me?” Andrew interjects, his eyes shining with amusement. “I had to shift my schedule around to be here. Where is my thank-you?”

“The first shift we had to make was because of your schedule,” Howie remarks on a laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you having to switch around a session with your personal trainer today doesn’t count.”

“Oh, but I’m sure you’d be pissed if I stopped those training sessions and let this gorgeous body of mine go to shit.”

“I think we all know you’re too vain for that, buddy.”

“It’s not vanity, How. It’s consideration. I’m just giving the people what they want.” Andrew grins, shrugs, and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Wow. This guy. He’s something else.

Make a pile of the worst qualities of all of my ex-boyfriends, set them on fire, and “Transformer” that shit, and I’m pretty sure you’d have Andrew Watson.

Everyone sits back down, and William gestures for Andrew and me to take a seat on the leather sofa behind us.

Andrew finds his spot first, and then, a smirk in place, holds out a hand to help me into my own. Breaking his fingers seems a little too violent for the other people in the room, so I settle for imagining it, a smile of my own tipping up the corners of my mouth significantly.