Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(32)
“Like you should talk.” His lips crest into a knowing smirk. “You and I both know the only reason you wanted to meet with Birdie Harris is because you want to fuck Birdie Harris.”
I ignore his valid point and choose to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge instead.
“Good God, man, Liza and Amy and Damien are going to have a shit fit tomorrow when they get a load of your face,” he says through a sigh. “Not to mention the fact that you were making ER visits and shit without any kind of security. You could’ve caused a fucking riot if the paparazzi would’ve gotten wind of your location.”
Frankly, I couldn’t give two shits what my team thinks about any of it, but I’m supposed to see them tomorrow?
I tilt my head to the side. “Wait…what’s happening tomorrow?”
“Are you serious?” He nearly spits his drink out of his mouth. “You have two Grass Roots-related photo shoots tomorrow. In fact, I should start calling the makeup team now to let them know they’re going to have their work cut out for them, hiding those god-awful bruises on your face.”
“I have two photo shoots tomorrow?”
“Oh my God, you’re hopeless, I swear.”
I quirk a brow. “Or maybe, my assistant sucks ass at his job?”
“Maybe if you’d check your freaking emails and your damn calendar, you’d see that your assistant is on top of shit.”
“You know I hate going through emails. You should plan for that.”
He sighs. “You will be the sole reason why I’ll end up kicking the bucket at an early age.”
I take a long drink of water and watch as Blake busies himself with going through my mail. If I were smart, I’d haul ass out of my kitchen before he can start asking me if I want to attend this charity event or that party, but a coupon for a flower delivery catches my eye, and I get an idea.
A fucking fantastic idea.
I snag the coupon off the table and hold it up in the air. “I need you to send a bouquet of flowers.”
Birdie
Interrupt a taco-binge once, I’m not happy. But interrupt a taco-binge twice? We cannot be friends.
I have never been happier than when I step inside my Nashville house, slip off my boots, and head into the kitchen to find a gorgeous display of tacos and chips and queso and my wonderful assistant Samantha making margaritas.
I toss my purse and keys and phone onto the counter, and a dreamy sigh escapes my lips. “I love you. I can’t live without you. Marry me.”
“I had a feeling this would make your day better,” she says through a laugh and slides a fresh margarita my way.
I don’t hesitate to put the salt-covered rim to my lips and take a big sip. “Ah, yes, I’m pretty sure this is what heaven tastes like.”
Sam grins and grabs two plates from the cabinet. “Belinda Carlisle was right, huh? Heaven is a place on earth?”
I nod overzealously, and she gestures for me to sit down at the island. “Let’s eat, then. I can only imagine tacos will make it even better.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. In a matter of seconds, my ass is planted in one of the barstools and my plate is filled with a Mexican feast.
“So…” she says, her pretty green eyes filled with curiosity, and I quirk a brow.
I don’t know what she’s leading into, but I hedge my bets on the most innocuous of the possibilities. “These tacos are delicious?”
She rolls her eyes. “I already know that. What I don’t know are all the details from your lunch with Andrew Watson yesterday. Although, I did see a very interesting article on TMZ regarding a recent ER visit…”
Ugh. That.
A couple hours after Benji the Uber driver dropped me off at my rental, Rocky texted me. So, you’re giving Andrew Watson moral support? she asked with a link to the article in question.
According to TMZ’s reporting, Andrew Watson had obtained a serious injury of unknown origin, and I was there as moral support.
If my eyes didn’t have limitations, I imagine I would have rolled them straight to the back of my head at that one.
But, for as annoying as made up tales of comradery are, the real story would be ten times as scandalous.
Good God, I can only imagine the headlines there would have been about me and the big fat phony fuckface then.
As it was, all they had to focus on were a couple of blurry photos someone had snapped while I was walking with Andrew into the ER—still in our disguises that obviously did a sucky job at disguising, mind you—and a dialogue of their own making—Could a love match be brewing between the Grass Roots costars? We can only hope!
A love match? With me and that douchebag? God help me.
Since Rocky was like a little annoying dog nipping at my heels, I was quick to update her on the whole sordid tale, but with my crazy schedule today, I haven’t had time to bring my assistant up to speed.
I sigh. “It was a clusterfuck.”
“I’d say,” she comments around a mouthful of chicken soft taco. “You ended up at the ER, taking an Uber home, and on TMZ. Sounds to me like a total shitshow, honey.”
“Don’t remind me.” I snort. “Candy already read me the riot act for not giving her a heads-up on the situation before it hit the gossip sites.”