Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(18)
“That’s more like it,” I say with a victorious smile and stand up from my seat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to fit in a workout. Feel free to see yourselves out.”
“But we haven’t gone over—” Liza starts to say, but I quickly cut her off.
“Surely, we need something to discuss for next week.”
“God, you’re impossible.” Liza sighs. “Tell me you’ve at least read the scripts I sent you.”
“I have, and out of ten damn scripts, there’s only one that’s a possibility,” I answer swiftly. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you got a little pickier with the scripts you choose to send me?”
She ignores my question completely. “Which one did you like?”
“I’ll tell you next week,” I deflect, and then I head out of the kitchen, down the hall, and far away from the Hollywood peanut gallery in my kitchen.
But just before I step into the workout room at the back of the house, a lingering shred of Blake’s voice carries down the hall. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Amy, but I have a feeling you’re going to have your publicist work cut out for you with this movie.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time Andrew has gotten involved with a costar,” she responds without hesitation.
Me getting involved with Birdie Harris? Fuck, I wouldn’t have any complaints about that.
Luca might, but shit, I’ve dealt with him before. Just the thought of her tight little body and hot-as-hell attitude wrapped around me while we fuck is enough to make me feel like risking Luca’s wrath wouldn’t be so bad. All he said was to be nice. And it goes without saying that my cock is the utmost gentleman—always putting a woman’s pleasure before his own.
I smirk to myself and head inside the large room, hopping on the treadmill first to warm up my muscles.
A few minutes into my warm-up, I snag my cell phone out of the cupholder of the treadmill, ignore the numerous missed calls and text notifications and emails, and shoot off a quick message to the one person who can help give me the lay of Birdie land.
Obviously, I’ll need to keep my motives to myself, but that’s easy enough.
Me: You owe me dinner, fucker. Free this weekend?
His response chimes in a minute later.
Luca: I don’t owe you shit, but I can probably swing dinner Saturday.
Per-fucking-fection.
Me: Meet me at Tao around 8.
I switch up the speed on the treadmill, moving out of warm-up mode to a full-on run, and sprint like Birdie Harris is a couple miles away, waiting with her ass in the air at the other end.
Birdie
If Vegas were going to make a show about our lives, they’d call it Cirque du So-Hey-This-Is-Hollywood.
One good thing about moving to LA temporarily while filming Grass Roots is that Billie and I have finally managed to carve out some sisterly time. After years of busy schedules and quick visits, it feels like a gift to be around to spend this most special period in her life together.
She’s pregnant! With my little niece or nephew! And she’s engaged to one of our biggest childhood crushes.
When we were little girls, giggling about guys and life and babies one day, I don’t think either one of us had this in mind.
My sister peruses the racks of dresses, and I glance over my shoulder and toward the front doors of Grace, the cute boutique bridal shop on Melrose, and spot her two burly security men manning the entrance.
Cameras flash outside the large glass windows as paparazzi try their best to get a shot of my sister trying on a dress in the closed shop, but remarkably, Billie seems unfazed, browsing through the racks of dresses and occasionally answering the bridal shop staff’s questions about what type of dress she’s looking for—something beautiful but classic, with lace and a mermaid fit to show off her little booty—with little to no regard for the circus outside.
Even at nearly six months along into her pregnancy, my sister only has an adorable little belly to prove she’s carrying a baby inside her. She’s so svelte, in fact, my spidey sense tells me that every woman she comes into contact with is plotting her murder.
Most women loathe the idea of trying on any clothing while pregnant, but Billie already has a wedding date set—seven months after the baby is born—and the strict wedding timeline she’s all but chiseled into stone is all related to her budding career as a Hollywood producer. She’s worked her ass off, and nothing is going to make her lose any ground.
That means today is wedding dress day—pregnant belly, rioting hormones, and indigestion or not.
I just hope she’s not being too hard on herself. I have to believe Luca would step in and tell her to take a breath if she were, but I also know he thinks she’s got a ladder long enough to hang the moon and the stars. What she wants, he moves mountains to give her.
I smile when a woman named Colleen with three bridal gowns hung over her arm practically trips herself while helping Billie into a dressing room but doesn’t even pause. Billie is the star today, and everyone in Grace is committed to making sure she knows it.
“Here goes nothing.” My sister flashes an excited grin in my direction before she closes the curtain.
Thrown into sudden silence, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be the woman on the other side of the curtain—if I’ll ever have a man who buys me flowers for no reason, sneaks cute pictures of me just to store them in his phone, or brings me coffee in the morning without being asked.