Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(23)

I laugh at that. “Well, that’s a shame, man. I was looking forward to seeing her. How is she doing, by the way?”

“She’s perfect.” The smile on his face is downright insane. Luca Weaver is in love, and it’s still hard for me to comprehend this day would ever arrive. I’ve known him since I was twenty, and back in the day, he was the last person I would picture settling down and getting married and having a fucking kid.

He was wild back then. A loose cannon. Impulsive as hell and the life of the party. Until the party was over, that is. After that, he was usually a miserable asshole.

But now, he’s grounded. Settled. Happy.

It only took living off the grid in Alaska for eight goddamn years for him to come to his senses and move back to LA. And that is all thanks to his fiancée Billie.

“Fuck, it’s strange seeing you so happy,” I answer with a cheeky grin.

Luca shrugs. “What can I say? Billie makes everything better.”

“I’m happy for you, man.” My words are genuine. “Completely creeped out, but happy for you, nonetheless.”

“Thanks. That means a lot, even coming from an asshole like you.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Me? An asshole? No way.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to your new costar. She jumped on the ‘Andrew is an asshole train’ the very first day she met you. Frankly, I’ve never heard that kind of creativity when it comes to insults. You clearly made an impression.”

I smile, and he scoffs.

“Not a good one.”

I shrug. It doesn’t matter what she said. It’s the fact that she said it—Birdie Harris was talking about me. And you have to think about someone to talk about them.

Oh, yes please, let’s stick with this topic.

“Is that right? Birdie Harris thinks I’m an asshole?”

“Understatement of the century,” he answers without hesitation. “The night of your audition, she and Billie picked over your carcass for fucking hours.”

I cringe a little. “Yeah, well, it all worked out in the end anyway. I mean, she did get the part.”

“Not with any of your help. Sounds to me like you were trying your damnedest to rile her up.”

“My first read was off, I’ll give you that,” I respond with a knowing grin. “But my second read was spot-on. She needed the riling to fight the nerves.”

He searches my eyes for a long moment, and then a soft, incredulous laugh escapes his throat. “Oh fuck. I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known.”

I quirk a brow. “What?”

“You’re such a dick,” he continues, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m here for one reason and only one reason.”

“And what’s that?”

“Because you’re a dirty bastard who wants to get into my future sister-in-law’s pants.”

Bingo, buddy.

“Me?” I raise both hands in the air and feign offense. “No way, dude. And I’m offended you would even think that’s something I would do.”

It is. Oh, it one hundred percent is.

“I’ve known you since I was an asshole twenty-year-old with a chip on my shoulder,” he replies. “You’re here on a mission to get info on Birdie. And let me be the first to let you the fuck down. You’re not getting shit from me tonight. You’re not getting shit from me ever. Stay out of her fucking pants or else.”

Or else? Pfft. Luca Weaver is too busy making googly eyes at his baby momma to find time to hide my body.

“So, what you’re saying is, I have to actually eat dinner with you and make small talk about shit I probably don’t care about?” I ask, and Luca nods his head.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, and now that I know why you conned me into coming here, you can expect to get a ton of shit from me and foot the bill.”

Too bad for him, he’s already told me all I need to know.

Birdie Harris left that audition with one thing in mind—me.

Sure, she was calling me every name in the book, but I made an impression. I’ve spurred a reaction.

And I also know that tight little body of hers responded in all sorts of delectable ways when she was kissing me during her audition. Imagine what that body of hers would do if my mouth were on her sweet-as-fuck pussy?

God, I can’t wait until our lunch date tomorrow.





Birdie



Have you ever had someone ring your doorbell and you get all excited, thinking it’s something great, only to find out they’ve ding-dong ditched instead leaving behind a seemingly innocent but actually nefarious box full of human feces? Well, if you have, that’s a perfect metaphor for Andrew Watson.

I’m not saying Andrew Watson is shit, but I’m also not not saying Andrew Watson is shit. All I know is that somehow, some-damn-way, through my assistant Samantha, he ploy-ed me into a lunch meeting. I suppose the silver lining is if for some reason I stick to acting after this movie, I’ll have real-life experience to help me land a role playing the part of a hostage.

His posture is relaxed, a sexy smile etched across his stupid handsome face, and his feet are planted shoulder width apart on the front porch of my new home-away-from-home in California. In contrast, I am an unwilling participant, reaching back to lock my door and leave behind the life I love against my will.