Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(14)

I stare down at her, my eyes strong with confidence. “You knew I was an asshole when you met me, baby. I don’t know why you think that’s all of a sudden gonna change.”

“God!” she shouts at the top of her lungs. “I hate you!”

“Nah, you don’t hate me.” A soft chuckle from deep in my chest makes the air shake between us. “You’re angry with me, but you don’t hate me,” I say, and even though I’m Cal right now, I can’t stop myself from going off script…just a little bit…just for fun. Just to see what Birdie does. “You want me to fuck all that anger right out of you? Prove you don’t hate me? You and I both know you’ve been craving my cock since day one.”

Okay, so I’m going off script a lot. In the scene, Cal doesn’t say anything about fucking or his cock, but in my opinion, now that I have my potential costar standing in front of me, he should.

Birdie discreetly glances down at the script, but when she realizes I’ve veered, she lifts her gaze to mine and narrows her eyes. “You fucking wish,” she says, both improvising and passive-aggressively telling me, Andrew Watson, that I’m an asshole.

I grin. “I think we both know you’re picking this fight because you’re frustrated, and you want me and my big cock to solve it.”

“Screw you,” she spits. We’re both ignoring the script at this point, but my God, it feels right.

Damn, maybe Howie was right. Birdie Harris is a real-life Arizona Lee.

“You don’t know shit, Cal!” she shouts again, trying to bring us back to the script by combining the lines and her own words. I don’t miss the way her breasts rise and fall with each deep intake of air. And I certainly don’t miss the way her nipples harden beneath the thin material of her frilly dress. God, if I could just have a taste. “You know what?” she challenges. “I’m done. You and this fucking tour can kiss my ass!”

Her emotion is so palpable, her voice shakes. Goddamn.

“You’re not done, darlin’.”

“Oh yes, I am,” she asserts, turning to leave.

I grab her by the wrist and spin her back so hard, her body slams into mine. “No,” I say again, “you’re not.”

Without thought, her warm breath heavily mingling with my own, I pull her tight to my chest with an arm around her back and bring my lips to hers.

Before I make contact—before I can even anticipate the blow—Birdie reaches out with her right hand and slaps me clear across the face. The sound of her palm hitting my skin echoes inside William Capo’s office, and I swear I hear someone in the room gasp.

My cheek stings like a son of a bitch.

That was definitely not in the script.

My gut reaction is simple—what the fuck is wrong with her?

But my dick? He’s a total masochist. Sweet Jesus, I should not be so turned on right now.

When Birdie’s eyes go wide, her anger waning and the realization of her way-off-script slap consuming her thoughts, something inside me refuses to let her fall out of the moment of this scene.

Stay with me, firecracker. Stay with me.

I move closer to her, my lips just inches from her mouth despite the proven danger associated with that move, and her breaths turn to pants. “You’re not done, and we’re certainly not done,” I whisper. “Hell, darlin’, we’re just getting started.”

Our close proximity forces her thoughts back to me, back to this moment. Her eyes search my face, flitting between my eyes and my lips.

But I don’t make the move because, having just been refused, Cal wouldn’t make the move. He might be a dick, but he’s a gentleman, too.

This time, he lets Arizona decide.

I dare you, my eyes say. I dare you to kiss me.

The sexual tension between these characters—in this script—has been building since Cal met Arizona in a dive bar in Memphis. At this point in their love story, it’s become so potent, so powerful, that neither she nor he can deny it.

But Birdie and I are just getting started. My God, our chemistry is off the charts.

“Give in, Ari,” I whisper. “Give in to what you want.”

Birdie does exactly what Cal needs Arizona to do; she closes the distance between them and presses her lips to his.

Fuck. Her lips are even softer than I imagined.

I take over the kiss, tangling our mouths with the kind of intensity that could move worlds. She slides her hands into my hair, and a moan rolls from her throat to my tongue.

I don’t know whether I’m Cal or me right now. I just know that kissing Birdie Harris feels really damn good.

Double fuck.

A throat clears from somewhere outside of our bubble, and I pull away from the kiss and set Birdie back a foot.

Jesus. I’ve never forgotten myself like that.

She looks at me with wide, melted eyes, her breaths coming fast and unsteady, and I’ll be damned if I can actually look away. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think she knew entirely what she was doing either.

The room stays quiet for what feels like an eternity until Willy breaks the silence with several claps of his hands.

“Nice work,” he says, voice jovial. “Very nice work.”

William Capo never says anything is nice. His go-to is criticism or silence. But never nice. Or very nice.