Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(34)
She nods toward the screen of my phone. “You didn’t send him these?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sammy,” I answer on a laugh. “I might’ve apologized to him a million times in the ER, but I certainly did not send Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson’s commanding officer flowers! Or request that we be friends.”
Friends is the very last thing I want to be with that guy.
“I don’t understand half of what you just said.”
I wave her off. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to understand my military references to understand what’s really important. Twice now, this bastard has ruined tacos for me, and that means fucking war.
Andrew
The early bird might get the worm, but a man who sends himself flowers under the guise of them coming from a woman who just might loathe him gets to have a hell of a lot of fun.
Once I hit send on my messages to Birdie, I set my phone back down on the table and smile. Music pounds from every speaker in the joint, but it serves as no distraction from my current thought—what will she send me back?
A hundred possible scenarios roll through my head.
Will she see right through my little white floral lie and get all feisty and fiery?
Will she call me every name in the book?
Will she be adorably confused?
Will she not answer at all? Nah. She’ll definitely answer. And goddamn, I can’t wait to find out what she has to say.
“Why do you look so happy?” Howie asks from across the table. The neon strobe lights from the dance floor in the center of the expansive room cast a glow over his skeptical face, and I simply shrug him off with an even bigger grin.
“It’s a good night,” I say and take a sip of my beer.
I convinced him to meet me at a place called Now, a new LA night spot where you can have dinner, drinks, and dance. Basically, this establishment has it all, and it also has a strict policy on who they let in—no average Joes allowed.
What can I say? Sometimes it really pays to be me.
Howie scrutinizes my face, and an annoyed laugh escapes my lips.
“What?” I question. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“You’re scheming something,” he says and points an index finger in my direction. “I can fucking tell.”
I shrug, take a swig of beer, and chuckle. “I already schemed, bro.”
He quirks a brow.
“Anna Farrow,” I answer, and he’s known me long enough to understand what I’m putting down. The furrow in his brow and shake of his head prove it.
Anna Farrow is an up-and-coming actress Howie is dying to connect with. Apparently, he thinks she’d be perfect for some dramatic historical movie he just sold to Netflix. And she is how I convinced him to come out. Well, my big fat lie that she’d be here tonight is what convinced him, but no need to get into all the gory details.
“You lying bastard.” A deep sigh escapes his lungs, and he runs a hand through his short dark hair. “I should’ve known you’d pull something like this. God, you’re such an asshole.”
Is it just me, or do I hear the whole you are an asshole thing a lot?
Meh. Who cares?
“Hey, let me rephrase,” I say, trying to soften him around the edges a bit. I mean, what use would his presence be tonight if he’s going to be all pissy? “I have no actual concrete info that says she’s going to be here, but this is LA. Celebs pop up places all the time. I mean, look over there…” I point to another VIP section in the corner of the room. “I’m pretty sure that’s Carly Sanders and a Kardashian.”
Truthfully, I have no idea if that’s actually Carly Sanders—aka famous swimsuit supermodel—with a Kardashian, nor do I care, but it’s worth a shot.
“That is zero fucking help, and you know it.”
“You get to be here with me. Any time spent with me is worth it.” I waggle my brows, and he scoffs.
“Yeah, until long legs and a great set of tits catches your eye and you go MIA.”
“Long legs? Great tits? Where?” I tease, and he flips me off.
I’m just about to razz him a little further, but the screen of my phone lights up on the table with a text notification. And the name of the sender shines like a beautiful beacon—Firecracker.
Conversation with Howie already forgotten, I open up my messages without delay.
Firecracker: Uh…so…this is awkward…but I didn’t send you those flowers.
Oh, I know, sweetheart. I sent them.
Me: But it says they’re from you? It even came with this very nice, very lengthy apology note…
Firecracker: Yeah, I saw the note. You sent me the picture. But I don’t know what to tell you. They’re not from me. They’re not from my assistant. They’re not from anyone I’ve ever known.
Oh, man. I think someone is already getting mad…
Yes, please.
Me: Don’t be embarrassed about sending me flowers, Birdie. I thought it was a sweet gesture.
Her next response comes in not even a minute later, and I can’t stop myself from imagining the way her fingers probably pounded across the screen as she typed it out.