Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(25)
I sure as shit am not going to tell him that, but there’s no stopping my brain from thinking it. Physically, he is genetically superior to every man I’ve ever met.
Outwardly, though, I roll my eyes. He doesn’t need any ego padding.
He grins—almost as though he can read my innermost thoughts—and reaches out a hand for mine. I’m startled by the gesture, but I’m also annoyed with him enough to think quickly on my feet and avoid getting swept up in it. I slip both of my hands into the pockets of my cutoff jean shorts and head to the entrance doors.
There is no freaking way I’m holding hands with this guy. Considering I’ll be filming sex scenes with him, it might seem like a pointless avoidance. But it’s not. Hand-holding with a hot-guy enemy can only be described as a gateway drug. You take one little sample, and suddenly, you’re lying back against his headboard with your legs pulled open by a spreader bar.
Just say no, kids.
I ignore my pesky subconscious’s after school special and shield my sensitive eyes as we step through the doors of Buenos Tacos and out of the sun. A hostess wearing a vibrant, color-block-style dress greets us with a big, full-teeth smile.
I’m not sure if she takes the task of front-of-house friendliness really seriously or if she thinks Andrew’s mullet is ridiculous, but neither of us bothers to ask. It doesn’t take her long to seat us at a table for two, and not even a minute later, a giant bowl of chips and salsa is placed between us.
Okay, okay, I guess this lunch meeting isn’t so bad…
I dig out a perfectly hot tortilla chip from the bottom of the basket and dip it into the salsa with unconcealed excitement. It tastes perfectly of tomato and subtle spice, and there’s a small chance I may have just moaned. I glance up to find Andrew grinning at me from across the table. It’s a brutal and unwelcome reminder that this lunch will include him. Ugh.
“Would you like some suggestions on what’s good?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Nope.” I make a show of pulling my phone out of my purse, setting a timer for forty-five minutes, and placing it screen up on the table.
He follows the action avidly, and when the minutes start ticking down for both of us to see, he laughs.
“I’m surprised you didn’t start that timer from the moment I knocked on your door.”
“I should’ve,” I grumble, and his smirk deepens.
It’s a pettiness oversight on my part, but the truth is, I’m hungry, and I freaking love tacos. Like, I would marry them and have their taco babies kind of love. So, I’ll just have to comfort myself with the concept of tolerating the company of Andrew Watson in the name of my food husband.
I munch on some more chips and take my sweet, sweet time browsing the menu. Holding the flimsy plastic high up in the air and directly in front of my face, I study it like they’re going to test me on it later before allowing me to man some sort of Taco-Space rocket—something the government should really look into funding, by the way. Of course, I already know what I want—tacos, tacos, tacos—but I’m buying a little more time where I don’t have to make conversation with the man on the other side of the table.
I’m only granted a few blessed minutes of quiet before I have to give our waiter my order and hand over my privacy shield, but even a small moment of peace is better than nothing.
And then, it’s just Andrew and me, sitting across from each other in a restaurant that has all of four other patrons. Given the quality of the salsa, empty tables don’t make much sense, but I don’t have it in me to analyze the intricacies of the flaws in their business model.
Well, hell. I have one of two options here. I can either make this really awful lunch even more painfully awkward or just give in and try to make conversation. Or maybe there’s a third option…a combination of the two.
After a deep, cleansing breath, I take a sip of my water and bite the bullet. “So, why exactly did you want this meeting?”
He carefully swoops a salsa-carrying chip into his mouth, grins, and chews quickly to clear his mouth of the food obstruction before speaking. “Because I want to get to know you better.”
“I have enough friends.”
“You don’t think you have room for one more?” he asks, and I swear I can hear the slightest hint of amusement in his voice.
“Is that a serious question?”
“Of course, Birdie. I’m a serious guy.”
I roll my eyes. The consideration time spent deciding to be frank with him or not is brief. Meh. Screw it. Why would I sugarcoat anything for this guy? “No, I don’t.”
He tilts his head to the side. “But I thought we got along so well at the audition?”
I laugh. Outright. “You have a very delusional memory. You should seek help from a medical professional.”
“I think maybe you’re the one not remembering correctly.” His lips, ironically, turn up at the corners.
What is with this guy? Does he enjoy annoying me or something?
“Oh, trust me, I’m one-hundred-percent clear on what happened,” I contend. “You were an asshole. Several times, on repeat. The end.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “I was. And then your hands were in my hair and your tongue was in my mouth.” He winks. “I’ll give you your story and the end, but that kiss was a hell of an epilogue.”