Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(33)

My publicist was pissed I hadn’t let her know about my little ER visit with Mr. Ego. I can’t really blame her, though. It’s her job to be ahead of the curve on shit like that so she can put the right spin on it. Although, she seemed a little too okay with the fact that gossip sites were already jumping to ridiculous romance conclusions.

“What exactly happened?” Samantha asks. “How do you end up at the hospital after a short lunch? Were you guys doing some sort of food X Games? Or did you try to poison him?”

“I kind of…sort of…broke his nose.”

The instant the words leave my lips, a mouthful of margarita leaves hers, spraying onto the hardwood floor of my kitchen.

“Birdie!” she shouts, half coughing and half laughing into her hand. “What the hell!”

“It was an accident!” I exclaim. “I was trying to leave the restaurant because he was being such a pompous prick and, well, one thing led to another, and somehow my elbow ended up introducing herself to his face.”

“You broke Andrew Watson’s nose?!”

I cringe and sigh again. “Like I said, it was an accident.”

She stares at me for a long moment before bursting into laughter again.

“It’s not that funny,” I grouse, but she just keeps on laughing.

“Oh, trust me, it’s funny. You broke the nose of one of Hollywood’s biggest stars during a freaking taco lunch.”

“A taco lunch I didn’t even get to eat,” I stipulate. “I can handle him being an asshole and a trip to the emergency room, but missing out on my tacos?” I shake my head. “It was a nightmare.”

Her giggle is so potent that it makes my lips curve up at the corners. “Hence the desperation for tacos tonight.”

I nod.

“How on earth are you going to manage to work on a movie with him?” she asks. “I mean, you’re going to have to be with him, like, every damn day, Birdie. What happens on day twenty-five if day one is bone fracture?”

“I have no idea.” A deep and heavy sigh escapes my lungs, and Samantha shakes her head, a crazy sparkle in her eyes making it seem like they’re winking at me.

I purse my lips and point my margarita glass at her aggressively. “You’re getting way too much amusement out of this.”

“I can’t help it.” She swirls a chip in salsa to prepare it to be eaten. While she works on the perfect chip to dip ratio, her expression turns scary. Mischievous almost. “I feel like this is the beginning of a very hot and heavy love story.”

“What?” I almost shout. “Are you crazy?”

“It’s the perfect opening for a rom-com, Bird.”

I roll my eyes. My assistant thinks she’s some kind of wizard at predicting relationships and shit. I can’t deny she’s right a decent amount of the time, but in this case, she is so far off base it’s not even funny. I’d try to legally marry this margarita in my hand before I’d get into a relationship with that guy.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble on a sigh. “Don’t be insane. I’m going to be lucky if I finish this movie without a prison sentence.”

Samantha grins at me, her eyes all but dealing the cards in a game of Bullshit, and I gulp down the rest of my drink while pointedly scratching the side of my face with my middle finger.

“Very classy, Birdie.” She snorts and hops out of her seat to pour us another round of margaritas.

“I know, right? I’m all about the class.” I shove another bite of taco into my mouth while Sam gets us refills from the pitcher near the kitchen sink.

My phone vibrates on the counter beside her, and she glances down at the screen.

“You have a message.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs and slides my phone over to me. “It says Unknown.”

“Unknown? Great. A psychopathic stalker would be an excellent way to wrap up this day.” I scrunch up my nose and open up my messages.



Unknown: Wow, Birdie. You really didn’t have to do this. Thank you so much.



What the hell?

Two pictures chime in after the text, and I open them up.

One is a picture of an outlandish bouquet of flowers. I’m talking ridiculously huge, with every possible flower you can imagine.

And the next is of the note attached to the floral monstrosity.

It reads: Andrew, I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. I am incredibly sorry that I broke your nose, and I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you’ll forgive me. And please accept these flowers as a kind gesture that signifies my desire to be friends. Sincerely, Birdie



“What in the ever-loving hell is this shit?”



Unknown: And I accept your apology. You are forgiven, sweetheart.



“What?” Samantha asks, setting down a fresh margarita in front of me. “Who is it from?”

“It’s from Satan himself. Belinda has obviously left the building.” I look up to meet her eyes. “You didn’t happen to send Andrew Watson flowers from me, did you?”

“Flowers? To him?” She barks out a laugh. “Uh, no, I did not.”

I turn the screen of my phone toward her so she can see his messages. “Well, someone freaking did. Even wrote an apology note and everything.”