Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(30)

Maybe then he would’ve felt some pain.

Man, I’m really invested in flirting with assault charges these days…

I swear, I’m not normally an angry person, but something about that guy makes me feel insane. He is far-too-skilled at pushing all my buttons, and beyond that, seems to enjoy doing it.

I don’t know what kind of a sadistic prick gets pleasure out of someone else’s pain, but I hate that anyone—especially him—has that much power over me.

Fuck!

It’s not an ideal time to be teaching myself how to use an app I’m unfamiliar with, but thankfully, the user interface for this one seems pretty simple to understand. Even with a million typos from slamming my fingers across the screen, it manages to decipher what I intend and presents the address of my LA rental as an option.

Shortly after setting it as my destination, I’m told that Benjamin will be picking me up in a Ford Fusion in less than ten minutes.

I hope to God ole Benji is a fast driver because I do not want to be standing out here, in this itchy wig and baseball cap, when Andrew is finally discharged and heading to his stupid sports car.

If I could never see him again, it would be too soon.

That’s cute. In two weeks, you’re going to be seeing him all the damn time…

I choose to think about that stark reality at a later date and focus on something I can control. Like, double-checking my schedule tomorrow. According to the schedule my assistant Samantha sent over, I’ll be headed out early. Six in the morning, to be exact. And once I land in Nashville a few hours later, I’ll hit the ground running.

A meeting with Neil, my manager.

A photo shoot for a magazine.

Three radio interviews.

And an acoustic show at my label—Bandanna Records—so the bigwigs can hear a few songs from the album I’m working on.

Holy moly. I pull up my messages and shoot a quick text to Samantha.



Me: Damn, girl. I just looked at tomorrow’s schedule. Are you trying to kill me?



She responds immediately.



Samantha: I know, and I’m sorry. Neil was insistent on fitting in all of those things tomorrow. He’s worried about your time crunch. But don’t worry, I’ve at least managed to make sure you’ll get a full six hours of sleep each night. That is, if you stop eating meals or existing in any space whatsoever other than work engagements. LOL.



There is, in fact, a time crunch. With shooting for Grass Roots starting in two weeks and me trying to finish up an album before that, I’m not exactly swimming in free time. I guess I’ll get back to sleeping when I’m dead.



Me: Very funny.



Samantha: Will it make you feel any better if I tell you that when you get back from your acoustic showcase with Bandanna, tacos and margaritas will be waiting for you?



Me: Don’t toy with my emotions. Tacos and I have been flirting too much lately without making it to physical contact. I’m horny for tacos, and I’m not ashamed to say it.



Samantha: HAHA! Oh, I’m not. The order has already been placed with Los Almas, and I am going to make sure it’s in your kitchen by the time you get home tomorrow night.



Los Almas. My favorite taco joint in Nashville. God bless her.



Me: SAMMY GIRL, I LOVE YOU.



Samantha: LOL. Yeah, yeah, love you too. Oh, and by the way, how did lunch with Andrew Watson go?



I sigh.



Me: What lunch? I’ve chosen to rewrite history, and that lunch no longer exists. It’s like a time-warp, time-space-continuum thing. Very complicated, but very science-y.



Samantha: That bad???



Before I can respond to her, my phone pings with a message from Uber—Benjamin is arriving in 1 minute.



Me: Hey, I gotta go. My Uber is here.



Samantha: WHAT? Your Uber??? Where are you??? Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve sent a car to get you!!! Oh my God, if Neil finds out about this, he is going to kill me!



She isn’t wrong. Neil would have a coronary if he knew I was just prancing around LA, stopping at ERs and shit, without any kind of security.



Me: It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow night.



Samantha: You better text me when you get back to your rental!!!!



Me: Okay, Mom. I will.



A four-door white sedan pulls up beside me, and I walk around the back of the car to double-check the license plate. When that matches up, I greet the man stepping out of the driver’s door with a friendly smile.

“Benjamin?”

“That’s me.” He nods. “You must be Bernadette?”

“That’s me.”

Technically, Bernadette is my middle name.

And, trust me, I know. Birdie Bernadette Harris. Talk about a mouthful, huh?

My momma and daddy didn’t quite think that one through in my opinion.

I don’t waste any time hopping into Benjamin’s back seat, but while he’s taking his time double-checking my destination, I spot an all-too-familiar blond mullet striding out of the ER doors.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Uh…Benjamin…I’m in a little bit of a hurry…” I try to kindly tell my driver to put his damn foot on the gas and get us out of here before I’m spotted.