Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(17)

“Well, thank fuck for that,” he mumbles under his breath before turning on his shiny patent leather loafers and walking out of my bedroom.

The man has more attitude in his fucking pinkie finger than Mariah Carey, and he knows how to handle my bullshit, but apparently, this morning, he thinks I’m hard of hearing.

I have to give him a pass, though. Because, yes, I am known for bullshit.

Late arrivals. Missed meetings because I’m otherwise entertained by the company of a beautiful woman. Attempting to head out into public without security. Impulsively skipping town on a whim and going on a trip to Vegas without telling anyone.

Yeah. You name it, and I’ve probably done it.

And he handles it all like a handsome, gay version of Rumpelstiltskin—spinning my bullshit into gold every fucking day.

I slide out of bed, toss on some sweatpants and a hoodie, take a piss and brush my teeth, and head downstairs to face whatever bullshit business is waiting for me this week.

My whole team sits around the large dining table in my kitchen with coffee and doughnuts and bagels and fruit spread across the center like a buffet.

“So glad you could make it,” my agent, Liza Rose, teases with a wink. “I know walking from your bed to your kitchen can be a difficult task.”

Blake and my publicist, Amy Marco, laugh.

Damien Shultz, my manager, just barely smirks. He apparently has a healthier appreciation for money and job security than the other two.

“You’d be surprised how difficult it can be, Liza.” I grab an Alfred’s coffee and a banana from the center of the table. “So, what’s on the books for this week?” I ask and sit down beside Blake.

“Today, you’re on your own. But tomorrow, you’re going to hit the ground running,” Blake updates. “So, for the love of Liza’s paycheck, get some sleep tonight so you don’t look like shit when you wake up.”

“Me? Look like shit?” I feign confusion at the impossibility. “Have you seen my face?”

Blake rolls his eyes. “Just get some fucking sleep, okay?”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” I return with a shrug. “What does tomorrow look like?”

“Up by six for a few radio interviews in the morning. Then you’ll need to be at the studio for the first round of fittings for Grass Roots at ten. A photo shoot at two, and a dinner meeting with Gus Coolman at six to discuss the movie he’s wanting you to do next year.”

I nod and pop a piece of banana into my mouth. “And after the dinner meeting?”

“Nothing,” Blake responds, though he quickly adds, “But your Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday look pretty much the same, so you’re going to have to rein it in this week and try to look like a professional. No parties, no bar nights, no last-minute trips to Vegas.”

I sneak off to Vegas one fucking time, six months ago, go for a swim in the fountain at the Bellagio, and wake up covered in neon paint, and still, he won’t stop busting my balls about it. Geez. It’s not like I fucked a llama or something.

“Like this bastard can rein anything in,” Damien says through a laugh. “We should just be thankful he was the only one sleeping in his bed this morning.”

I shrug. He’s not exactly off base there—though it does seem he’s forgotten his sense of self-preservation. I’m a man who loves women, and I don’t think there’s a single judge in the country who wouldn’t lock me up for perjury if I tried to testify different.

“So, I take it casting for Grass Roots is finalized?” I question. “Birdie Harris has officially signed on?”

I was there for the audition about a week and a half ago, but William Capo rudely suggested I leave before they brought Birdie back in for the official business. I can’t see anyone in their right mind turning down a part like Arizona Lee, but I didn’t expect Birdie to slap me either. Who the fuck knows what she decided to do.

“Yep,” Damien confirms. A zing of excitement runs through my body. More time with the firecracker.

“By the way,” Liza inserts, “they’re looking to get the ball rolling on that movie soon. They’re going to confirm the shooting schedule in the next day or two, but from what I already know, you’ll be on location in LA first, then Memphis.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Get something lined up with her for me soon,” I state, and Blake tilts his head to the side.

“With whom?”

“Birdie Harris. I’d like to spend a little time with her, lay down a good foundation, before we start filming.”

Both Damien and Blake look at each other skeptically.

“What?” I ask, and my assistant’s skepticism turns into outright laughter.

“Lay down a good foundation?” he asks obnoxiously. “Surely, you don’t think we were born yesterday.”

“I think you work for me,” I respond. “And when I tell you I want you to do something, you should probably fucking do it.”

“Uh oh,” Blake responds, the glow of amusement still dewy on his skin. “Someone’s getting fired up…”

“Or maybe someone’s getting fired…” I challenge, but Blake is unaffected. He’s worked for me for too long.

“As if you could live without me,” he claps back. “But in the name of keeping things simple, I’ll get something set up with Miss Birdie Harris so you can, how did you put it? Lay down a good foundation?” His voice drips with sarcasm, but I don’t give a shit. At least he’s doing my bidding.