Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(26)

“I was acting,” I refute. “You know, for the audition.”

“You were acting?” His tone is condescending as he shakes his head. “I’ve been to a lot of auditions, and I’ve had to do a lot of on-screen kisses.” He shrugs, holding a waiting chip in front of his self-idolizing mouth. “And trust me, Birdie, I know the difference between an acting kiss and a real kiss.”

“Are you trying to say that you think I was kissing you for real?” I question.

“No, no, I’m not trying to say anything. I’m saying it.” His expression is smug.

Anger floods my veins, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to reenact the smack heard ’round the audition.

Good God. This guy. This fucking asshole.

I glance down at my phone and see I’m only twenty minutes into this stupid lunch.

Holy hell, has time freaking slowed down?

While I’m trying to rein in the irritation that’s threatening to burst from my lips like a geyser, our nice waiter steps up to the table and serves as the perfect distraction by dropping off our food. God bless you, waiter man.

“Can I get either of you anything else?” he asks, and Andrew is quick to answer.

“I think we’re all set. Thanks.”

To my dismay, the waiter leaves our table at the obvious dismissal. If I’d have been a little quicker on the trigger, I could have made up all sorts of requests to keep him in the vicinity of our table until he was ready to retire.

Come back, buddy! You’re my safety net! I want to call out to him but force myself not to turn into some sort of crazy person.

Of course, the egotistical jerk sitting across from me dives into his freaking enchiladas like this lunch meeting is going hunky-dory. Like everything is just grand right here at our table. Like a nuclear war of fury and fire isn’t rumbling around inside my body.

“You’re going to love those tacos just as much as you loved that kiss,” the cheeky prick says, scooping up another bite of his food with his fork.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

I try to ignore his stupid comment—to let it roll off my back, down through the tile floor, and straight to the depths of hell where it belongs—but when I glance down at my tacos, for the first time in my whole life, they don’t even look appetizing. I look longingly at the rice and beans beside them, trying to stir some kind of food-witch within, but I’m not in the mood to eat a damn thing.

Goddamn it! He’s even ruining tacos for me!

It’s all too much. I fear if I sit here any longer and give him more time toss shitty, condescending remarks my way, I’ll lose it. I mean, what else will he ruin for me? Desserts? Coffee? I can’t freaking risk it!

“Wow,” I mutter on a laugh and shake my head. “I can’t believe you can continue to hammer nails from your spot inside the coffin. Is black magic a talent you’ve always had, or is it something that’s grown with your big-ass ego?”

Andrew smiles—which makes him gorgeous, obviously—and it’s the last twisted form of torture I can take. I slam my hands down on the table, rattling the silverware and making his eyes widen, and push to standing. I immediately shove my finale down his throat before he can say another word.

“I think I’ve had enough of this ridiculous lunch. It’s time for me to go.”

He glances at the screen of my phone and then back at me, a small hint of concern creasing the skin between his eyes for the first time since he set foot on my porch. “But there’s still another ten minutes to go, and you haven’t even touched your food.”

Trust me, asshole, I know.

At any other moment in my life, abandonment of a meal would be a high crime I’d never dream of committing. But it doesn’t even matter. I’ll take the charges for taco-child neglect and deal with the consequences. It’s time to go.

“Consider my appetite officially gone,” I snap, scooting around my chair in a hurry. I don’t care if I have to hike back to my rental from this restaurant, I am leaving this place, right this second, so I don’t have to spend another freaking moment with this guy.

“Birdie, wait a minute—” he starts to say, standing up from his chair, but I turn my back on him, and in an angered, abrupt movement, I yank the strap of my purse off my chair.

But my getaway is halted in an instant as my elbow makes impact with something behind me, and a resounding crack echoes inside the restaurant.

“Ow, shit,” Andrew groans.

Please Lord, tell me my elbow didn’t just hit what I think it hit.

My eyes go wide, and slowly, I turn around to find Andrew holding his nose.

His bloody nose.

“Wow. So, you, like, really don’t like me,” he says through a soft, pained chuckle and grabs a napkin off the table. Blood is flowing freely, completely surrounding his mouth in a crimson goatee, and it turns the napkin’s color in a heartbeat.

My God. What have I done?

It was on accident, but still, I just elbowed Andrew Watson in the fucking face!

Oh hell.





Andrew



Hell hath no fury like an angry Birdie. And Buenos Tacos hath no blood like that from a broken nose.

Trust me, I know. Thirty minutes ago, Birdie elbowed me right in the face in the middle of their dining room, and although the ER doctor at Cedars-Sinai hasn’t made it official, I’m pretty damn sure what once was one bone is now two.