Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(31)

“Just one moment, miss,” he says and proceeds to set his phone in the holder beside the stereo. “Just need to make sure the address is in my GPS correctly.”

The blond mullet is moving toward me, and I don’t hesitate to throw my body down onto the back seat, hiding like a total coward.

Benjamin glances over his shoulder and finds us nearly eye to eye.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, and I nod.

“Uh-huh, everything is great.”

His expression turns confused when I make no move to sit back up like a normal human being. And he certainly doesn’t make any sort of move to get us on the fucking road.

C’mon, Benny! Work with me here!

“I just prefer to…uh…ride in the back seat like this…” I search for some sort of rational reason to explain why I’m folded up like a pretzel. “Otherwise, I get…car sick…yeah, that’s it. I get car sick in the back seat.”

“Oh, you should have said something,” he comments, and understanding fills his eyes. “Here, you can sit up front—”

“No!” I shout, and my voice echoes so loudly in the small car that I startle my driver. “I’m sorry. I just… I really need to get home. Like, right now. I just need to get home.”

I sound crazy. I know I sound crazy, but hell, we need to get a move on it, Benny!

And I know this might be the last time I’m allowed to use Uber, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it allows me to avoid Andrew.

Finally, my driver puts his foot on the gas and pulls out of the hospital parking lot. I peek cautiously out the back window to see if I’ve been spotted, but there’s no mullet to be found—not even the party side. It seems Andrew Watson has finally lost out on a woman.

Thank goodness.





Andrew



I sure love when a good old Aha! moment pops up at just the right time.

At a little after six, I walk into my house to find Blake rummaging through my fridge.

“What are you doing here?” I ask and toss my wallet, phone, keys, and discharge paperwork onto the kitchen island.

“I wanted to see how your little lunch meeting went.” His statement is casual—he’s too preoccupied with gorging on my groceries—but when he peeks around the fridge door, his mouth falls open. “Uh…what happened to your face?”

It’s not a surprise he notices. A broken nose that requires a slight setting by a doctor provides some gnarly bruises under your eyes. Purple, blue, black, my skin is giving its best impression of a fucking rainbow at the moment. In fact, now would be a perfect time for Skittles to offer me an endorsement.

“It’s no big deal.” I shrug. “A minor confrontation.”

“A minor confrontation? You look like the losing party in a heavyweight fight.” He nearly chokes on his saliva. “Which, of course, means I’m dying to know who the winner is.”

“Birdie Harris.”

“Hold the phone,” he says, a ridiculous smile spreading across his lips. “Birdie Harris kicked your ass?”

I laugh at that. “I wouldn’t say she kicked my ass, but her elbow made contact with my face.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope.” I shake my head and raise up one arm, showing the patient bracelet from the hospital that’s still wrapped across my wrist before tearing it off and throwing it onto the kitchen island. “Even ended up in the ER.”

“Oh, holy shit,” he mutters, shuts the door, and with a Red Bull in his hand, he leans up against the fridge like he’s posing for the cover of a magazine. “This is almost too much for my brain to process. I’ve never had to question my sexuality before, but I think I really might love her.”

I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t intentional. She turned quickly, and I got in the way.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, and he makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s secretly hoping she dragged me behind the restaurant and left my body for the rats to eat. “Maybe she’s really good at cover ups. Does she have any history in politics?”

My assistant, ladies and gentlemen. A man who apparently finds amusement out of me enduring physical pain. I flip him the bird.

“I know you’re currently dreaming up all sorts of fantasies about Birdie kicking my ass, but it was an accident,” I emphasize. “It’s purely coincidental that she was pissed at me before said accident occurred.”

He bursts into laughter. “Oh my God. You got snowed. That girl cleaned your clock with major intent. Premeditated all the way.”

“Very funny.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “Do you need to head out now so you can add your take to the conspiracy theory Wikipedia page?”

He laughs some more and pops open his can of Red Bull, taking a sip between hearty chuckles.

When his hyena-like shrieking drags on, I roll my eyes. “You’re a little too entertained by this.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure this is the first time in the history of forever that the Andrew Watson tried to take a beautiful woman out to lunch, and instead of convincing her to come back to his house and fuck, he ended up in the ER.”

For some reason, his words make me cringe. “Don’t be a dick, Blake.”