Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(27)
My face feels heavier than normal, and there’s an indescribable heat under the surface of my skin. I’m pretty sure they’re both the result of blood pooling under my eyes, but I haven’t taken the time to examine myself in a mirror and be sure.
Your enjoyment out of seeing her pissed off is starting to get dangerous, bro…
Ha. Yeah. It is. But goddamn, why can’t I seem to convince myself it’s a bad idea? When someone causes you headaches and harm, you’re supposed to run the other way, not pant for more.
“Are you okay?” Birdie asks, standing up from her seat across from my ER bed and pacing the room. “God, I feel awful.”
A rambling mess of guilt, she hasn’t stopped apologizing to me since we got in my car and she drove me to the hospital. I tried to dispute the need for an emergency room visit, but Birdie was adamant. And, well, even if it makes me sick in the head, the idea of spending a little more time with her made the insurance co-pay seem worth it.
Especially with her all awkward and bumbling and apologetic.
I’m finding I’m a fan of all Birdie’s moods, especially the way they can change at any given moment. Her emotions are a Fourth of July fireworks party, all locked and loaded and ready to explode into something spectacular. Like all combustibles, they come with some risk of personal injury, but the enjoyment makes it worth it.
“Seriously, Andrew?” she asks, her eyes searching mine. She winces as they scan the evidence of her beating. “Are you okay? Are you in pain? Can I get you something?”
Personally, I’d love for her to take off her clothes and climb that hot little body into this bed with me, but I figure that’s probably not an option. No doubt, that suggestion would go over like a lead balloon. In the name of keeping this visit focused on one injury, I choose a slightly less antagonistic approach.
“You know, when I was a kid, my mom always used to do something that made everything better.” I grin behind the ice pack I’ve been instructed by a stern-faced nurse by the name of Lucille to keep on my face.
“Okay.” Birdie nods and steps up to my bedside, ready and willing to be helpful in any way she can. “What did she do?”
“She’d sing softly, her voice no more than a whisper, and then, when I’d calmed down, she’d lean forward and put her lips to whatever I’d hurt. Just a little healing kiss, she’d say. That’s all you need.”
Instantly, her eyes narrow with suspicion, and while the story is true, I can’t say I’m surprised she views it as a ploy to get in her pants. Because it definitely is. “I’m not kissing you.”
“Just right here,” I say and lift the ice pack away from my nose, touching the swollen tip with my free hand. “Just a little peck, right here.”
“Andrew, get real. I’m not kissing you.”
I almost remind her that soon she’ll have to kiss me—a lot—but decide it’s best that her head doesn’t explode in the middle of this ER room. I mean, our disguises have helped keep the paparazzi bastards off our tail, but a head explosion would surely draw attention.
Not to mention, some staff member in this hospital has probably already connected the dots together and put out a call to TMZ for a few extra bucks. That’s how shit always goes when you’re a celebrity in LA. You can’t do any-fucking-thing without someone finding out about it.
“Whatever,” I say with a shrug. “You asked me what would help, and that’s what would help. But I understand if you don’t really like helping people.” I put the ice pack back to my face and feign a pained groan. “Ah fuck.”
Her big brown eyes, previously on a high-speed course to becoming slits thanks to my jabs, go wide. “It hurts that much?”
“It’s fine,” I say but make a show of clenching my jaw. “Just a little discomfort. No big deal.”
Truthfully, it doesn’t hurt much at all. I’m not sure what phenomenon is responsible for the lack of pain-response, but I’ve had paper cuts that have caused more soreness. Still, she doesn’t need to know that. I look gory, and by God, I’m going to use it.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, but then quickly qualifies, “Anything that doesn’t involve me kissing you.”
I nod toward the clipboard holding hospital forms on the bedside table. “You could fill out all those papers for me. Lucille seemed pretty adamant that they needed to be completed before the doctor makes his way in here.”
Honestly, I tried to sweet-talk nurse Lucille into filling them out for me, but it was more than apparent she isn’t influenced by a handsome face and a kick-ass mullet.
“I’m pretty sure you should be filling out your own paperwork, Andrew.”
“Well, I would, but I’m a little busy over here with all the blood gushing from my nose…”
She huffs out an annoyed sigh but snags the clipboard off the table and sits back down in the seat she vacated to pace the room.
To my surprise, though, she doesn’t start asking me questions. Instead, she grabs her cell phone out of her purse and starts typing something in. Then she starts writing shit down on the form.
I let her continue the madness for another two minutes before I have to ask her what in the hell she’s doing.
“I thought you were going to fill out my paperwork?”