Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(28)

“I am,” she responds, and I quirk a brow in her direction. When she glances up at me and sees the confused expression on my face, she adds, “It’s not hard to find most of Andrew Watson’s info on Google.”

A shocked laugh escapes my throat. “You’re using Google instead of asking me?”

“I just figured it would be easier.” She shrugs. “Our conversations almost never end well.”

“Ah, I see.” I grin. “You’re afraid you might resort to violence again.”

“Oh my God!” she exclaims on a heavy sigh. “I did not mean to elbow you in the nose! It was an accident. You know it was an accident.”

“Whatever you say, Birdie.” I do know it was an accident, but I can’t keep myself from teasing her. Even though I know it has the power to unleash the very unpredictable little beast of fury inside her, I can’t seem to stop doing it.

Obviously, you’re fucking insane.

She ignores me completely and goes back to my form. But the silence only stretches out for about a minute before Google can no longer provide her answers.

“What’s your address?”

I tell her.

“Medical insurance?”

I instruct her to grab the card from my wallet.

“Phone number?”

I waggle my brows. “You trying to get my digits, Birdie?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes. “The form wants your digits.”

I rattle off my number.

“Emergency contact?”

I almost tell her to put Blake down, but then I get an idea.

A grand fucking idea.

“Birdie Harris.”

“What?” Her wide eyes meet mine. “I’m not your emergency contact.”

“But you’re the one who brought me here.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make me your freaking emergency contact.”

“Just put yourself down, Birdie. It’s no big deal.” I roll out my best acting chops and feign another groan, shutting my eyes tight and lying back on the bed with the ice pack held firmly to my face. “Ow, shit.”

I hear her huff a few times, but when I peek out of one eye, I see her pen scrolling across the paper and the name Birdie Harris being written. And then, below that, she adds my brand-new emergency contact’s phone number.

Fucking perfect. I love when an idea comes to fruition.

A few moments later, the door to my room slides open, and a man in a white coat and scrubs steps inside. “Andrew Watson?” he asks, his gray eyebrows rising up on his forehead.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Collins,” he introduces himself and shakes my hand. “So, how exactly did this injury happen?”

I tilt my head toward Birdie and solemnly shake my head. “She got mad at me.”

“Oh my God!” she chimes in hysterically. “It was an accident, Doctor. I didn’t know he was behind me, and my elbow accidentally hit him in the face.”

“Really hard,” I add. “Blood was basically pouring out everywhere.”

Birdie sighs. “It wasn’t that much blood.”

“It sure felt like a lot of blood…”

Dr. Collins follows our back-and-forth banter with confused eyes. “So…this happened because she elbowed you in the face?” he asks.

“Accidentally elbowed,” Birdie clarifies again, I glance at her hands as she moves them behind her back, subconsciously preparing to be cuffed. “Just an accident. Not intentional.”

Her panic is palpable, and I start to feel a little bad.

“It was an accident,” I confirm, and Birdie’s shoulders visibly settle from their previous spot up around her ears.

The doctor looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with us. I can’t blame him. We’re a weird mix of foreplay and conflict. I’ve been around us for at least two hours total, and I still haven’t figured out our dynamic. Professionalism wins out, though, and somehow, he keeps his composure and starts to assess my injury. With the ice pack removed, he prods and pokes at my nose with his fingers.

“How bad is it, Doc?” I ask. “Am I going to need surgery?”

I don’t miss the way Birdie’s face morphs into shock when I mention the word surgery.

“Oh my God, he’s not going to need surgery, is he?” she asks, another rambling apology already apparent in her voice. Give her one more minute of silence, and she’ll be full steam ahead with more adorable apologies.

But the doctor is quick to dismiss her fears. “No surgery. X-rays showed it was a fairly clean break that only needs some minor interventions.”

Birdie’s sigh of relief is so loud it could be heard outside the hospital.

“But I am going to have to set the break, Mr. Watson,” Dr. Collins instructs. “Would you like some pain medicine before we do it?” His nurse Lucille steps into the room with a vial and a needle, and I start to feel light-headed. In many ways, I’m a tough guy, but I have to admit, needles have blurred the edges of my consciousness a time or two.

I shake my head. “Nah, Doc. I’m good.”

“You sure?” he questions. “Most people like a little something to take the edge off.”

“Don’t need it. I’ll be fine,” I assert, pointedly leaving out the fact that I’m a needle wussie.