Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(35)

Firecracker: I’m not embarrassed because I didn’t send them. You’re literally the last human being on earth I’d send flowers to.



Me: But besides my assistant and the ER doc, you’re the only one who knows about my medical emergency.



Well, my assistant, my whole team, the ER doc, the ER staff, and TMZ.



Firecracker: Medical emergency? That’s hilarious. You didn’t need freaking CPR, Andrew. You broke your nose.



Me: Pretty sure you mean YOU broke my nose.



Firecracker: Oh my God! It was an accident, and you know it!



Before I can type out another response, another message from Birdie fills the chat box.



Firecracker: And it’s total bullshit that only me, your assistant, and the doctor knew about your ER visit. I saw the article about it on TMZ. Did you sell that to them yourself? Because it sure followed your narrative of having one damn foot in the grave.



So, she did see the article…



Me: You’ve been reading up on me on TMZ? That’s adorable.



Before she can respond, I fire off another message.



Me: And I’m doing okay.



Firecracker: Huh?



Me: My nose, that you broke, it’s doing okay. I’m on the mend. Just bruised. The flowers and card definitely helped. Totally made my day. I really do forgive you, by the way. Or should I say, I really do forgive you, friend? ;)



Firecracker: I’d ask you if you’re hard of hearing, but lumping you among them would be disrespectful to the deaf community.



Me: It’s all very strange and confusing, you know, you sending me flowers and then saying you didn’t send me flowers.



Firecracker: IT WASN’T ME.



Me: So, it’s just one big mystery, then? Someone, who isn’t you, sent me flowers and a very detailed apology note, asking for my forgiveness. But it’s not you, even though the note was signed with your name AND you’re the one who broke my nose?



Firecracker: You know what? You want them to be from me? They’re from me. And I officially rescind them.



A throat clearing pulls my attention from my phone, and I look up to find Howie just staring at me.

“Need something, bud?”

“Four different women just came up to our table, and you didn’t look up from your fucking phone once.” He stares at me, his eyes damn near bugging out of his head.

“No shit?” I question, completely unaware that anyone was at our table. “Was it anyone I know?”

“Dude.” An incredulous laugh jumps from his lips. “What in the hell is going on with you tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” He laughs again. “Andrew fucking Watson, the man who is known for schmoozing up as many women as goddamn possible, couldn’t be more oblivious to the hordes of women in this club who are currently trying to get his attention.”

“Hordes of women?” I toss back. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He quirks a brow toward the edge of the dance floor, and I follow his line of sight.

And to my surprise, several women stand there, eyes focused toward our table.

Well, shit, where’d they come from?

“Who in the fuck are you texting with?” he asks. “Does the chick have a magical pussy or something?”

I internally cringe a little at his use of wording to describe the actual woman behind the messages. Especially since she’s the lead female in his movie.

No doubt, Howie wouldn’t be pleased if he knew my current focus has been on the challenging little temptress otherwise known as my costar. Truthfully, he’d probably be pretty fucking pissed. Grass Roots is his baby, and there is a zero-tolerance policy for putting one of Howie’s film babies in any kind of jeopardy.

“It’s my brother,” I lie…again. “I mean, I don’t think he has a magical pussy, but what do I know? It’s been years since we’ve lived under the same roof, and we don’t do a lot of sexting.”

“Your brother is the one who has your full attention in the middle of this fucking club? You really expect me to believe that line of crap?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as the music swells to an oppressive beat. The strobe lights sweep over our booth obnoxiously.

Shit. He has a point, and I instantly start searching for a plausible reason that I’d be texting my older brother in the middle of a nightclub that is chock-full of beautiful female patrons.

“He’s worried about Kelly.” I keep the lying train moving. Choo motherfucking choo! “She’s uh…going through some shit with her job.”

I feel a little guilty for pulling my sister-in-law into my web of bullshit, but whatever. She’s a means to an end, and she’ll never have to know.

“Ah fuck. My bad, dude.” His eyes glaze over with concern. “Is she okay?”

“She’ll be fine.” I wave him off with a nonchalant hand.

Howie nods in understanding I don’t deserve, but I don’t waste any time thinking about it too much.

Instead, I rein in my desire to keep playing with the little Firecracker in my text inbox and send her one final text message.