Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(37)

“This movie means a lot to me,” he continues, and his smile turns cheeky. “So, if you fuck it up, I’m going to be pissed. No pressure, though.”

Serena, our producer, laughs and shakes her head. “Nice, Howie.”

He just keeps on grinning. “Shall we get started?”

“I think getting started sounds like a grand idea, How,” Andrew chimes in, and my eyes move toward the other end of the table, where the devil himself sits. “I mean, I didn’t wake up at five in the fucking morning to listen to you ramble.”

“God forbid we interrupt your beauty sleep schedule. My apologies,” Howie taunts back, and Andrew smirks.

“Apology accepted.”

I roll my eyes. My short chat with Johnny in combination with my damn nerves had me blissfully unaware of Andrew’s presence in this room, but now, it’s impossible to miss him. He sits in his seat all kicked-back, relaxed, and cool. His dark hair is slightly disheveled in an appealing “sex hair” kind of way, his teeth are still as white as ever when he flashes them in the form of a megawatt smile at Howie, and his eyes are bright and mischievous.

I would say he looks really fucking good, but I’ve sworn in a new policy in my Mental Health Company handbook that prohibits the use of positive adjectives about him.

Ever since he texted me a week ago about a flower delivery, he’s been sending me random messages every damn day. Pictures of the stupid flowers I didn’t send, letting me know they’re still alive—even though I couldn’t care less. Selfies of his big stupid face, showing me that the bruising is almost gone or asking me if I like his new haircut. And one time, he even sent me a message about being stuck in traffic, to which I responded, I don’t care.

To which he answered, But you’re my emergency contact, Birdie. And this IS an emergency, a traffic emergency.

He’s become a sharp, annoying, piercing thorn in my side.

And Grass Roots’s filming schedule consists of two straight months of shooting in LA and Memphis. Which means two straight months of seeing Andrew Watson just about every single day, so not only can he send me annoying texts, he’ll be able to tell me annoying things in person.

Heavens to Betsy, I hope I can manage to survive. I imagine Birdie’s Mental Health Company policy is going to see many an addendum in that time. If not, it’ll only be because I’ve completely forgotten about this coping mechanism and moved on to another.

“Before we begin the script read-through, I’d like to update everyone on a few things,” Howie continues, but then pauses when someone on the crew grabs his attention from the other side of the room. “Shit. Sorry. Give me ten minutes, guys. I’ll be right back.”

Without hesitation or response from the group, he’s up and out of his chair, leaving the long table and the room.

I decide to use my time wisely and read through my script for what has to be the one-thousandth time, but before I can even get to page two, my phone vibrates on the table, and I turn it screen-side up to find a text message notification.



Andrew: There’s no need to be tense, sweetheart.



Ugh. Here we go…

I consider ignoring him, but I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t take to it well. I imagine Satan himself is where the phrasing “demon texting” comes from anyway.



Me: I’m not tense.



Obviously, I am tense, but I don’t want to give this bastard anything to work off of. I feel like he gets some kind of sick thrill out of seeing me at emotional extremes, so I keep it simple.



Andrew: Your hands are shaking.



I lift my eyes from the screen of my phone to find him grinning at me, and I flash a glare his way before typing out a response.



Me: My blood sugar is probably low. I didn’t have time to eat breakfast.



Andrew: Oh, okay. I guess the doughnut I saw you eating twenty minutes ago was just a snack, then? ;)



Me: Geez Louise. What are you running for, DA? Is your platform Food Reform?



Andrew: I’d make a hell of a DA, but no. I’m not running. And I only noticed the doughnut because you were the one eating it.



Okay, what’s that supposed to mean? He doesn’t give me time to question it before moving on.



Andrew: The script read-through is just that…a read-through. There isn’t any pressure right now.



I look up at him again, and he shrugs his shoulder.



Andrew: You’d have to be illiterate to fuck up the read-through.



Me: Good to know.



Okay…so, maybe working with him isn’t going to be so bad? Maybe he’s going to drop the whole asshole routine and be nice?

When another message vibrates my phone, I look down at the screen.



Andrew: But later today, when we’re shooting the first scene, that’s a whole different story. There will be pressure, and you can fuck that up.



All hope I had for him not being a narcissistic ass flies straight out the damn window.



Me: Has anyone ever told you that you’re a self-serving, egotistical, shitbag, jerkface asshole?



Andrew: I can’t say I’ve ever heard those exact words.