Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(49)

Or at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself the instant I had to remove the robe that was covering my body and step on set.

Frankly, all thoughts of empowerment and confidence went straight out the damn building the instant the cool air hit my exposed skin.

But it’s going to be okay. I can do this. I can film a sex scene.

And it’s not like I’m filming a sex scene for a freaking porno; it’s for a Hollywood film, and the damn thing even fades to black before it gets too frisky.

Yes. Yes. You can do this.

“Okay, Birdie.” Howie directs me toward the sprawling bed on set and gently instructs me with his words on where he would like me to begin for the first few lovemaking action shots.

A little to the left. A little to the right. An elongated neck. A slight curve to my spine.

My nerves make it impossible for me to do any of it smoothly, but Howie stays patient and continues to guide me with encouragement and lack of judgment.

He gets it. I can see in his eyes that he gets it. And he’s doing everything in his power to make me comfortable.

“That’s perfect, Birdie,” he says and offers a kind smile. But when he glances over his shoulder to look for my costar, it seems the man of the hour is nowhere to be found. “Where the fuck is Andrew?” Howie questions and turns on his heel to stride out of the shot and toward his director’s chair. “He should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’m not sure,” Serena responds with a shrug. “He knew we were starting at two o’clock sharp.”

“I’m here! I’m here!” Mr. Hollywood himself comes striding toward us with a big ole grin etched across his lips. “My apologies for my tardiness.”

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Howie snaps, irritation evident in his voice.

“Like I said, I apologize. Now, who is ready to get started?” Andrew just flashes our director his annoyingly perfect movie-star smile and proceeds to shrug off his white robe and hand it over to a PA.

I wish I could say I was focused on the scene. Or what our director is telling his camera guys. Or even the damn ceiling at this point.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t say what lies beneath Andrew’s robe has managed to snag my full attention.

From his stupid head all the way to his feet, long, lean but muscular lines define his tall body. His biceps are thick and meaty in all the right places. His chest is broad and toned with the perfect smattering of hair across his pecs. His rigid abdomen flows right into a V muscle of epic proportions that simply steals your focus and encourages your eyes to move down, down, down until you’re faced with the thing Samantha was talking about.

And beneath that ridiculous nude merkin—murkin? merking?—is the kind of bulge that can’t be hidden.

Holy size thirteen mermaid soldier penis. I have to resist the urge to salute.

He’s not even hard, but he doesn’t need to be. That lump makes it more than apparent that Andrew Watson is packing some major heat. Seriously. The man should have to apply for a concealed carry license or something to be able to lug that thing around. That penis should be included in the Second Amendment, and politicians everywhere should be trying to get some control over it.

Sheesh. Couldn’t God have given him a beer gut or a small penis?

At least something that goes against the grain of his never-ending perfect looks.

For heaven’s sake, no one should look that good, period. End of story.

The merkin-bulge moves toward me, and I instantly snap my eyes away from it and look toward our director. No way in hell am I going to let Andrew catch me peeking at his goods. I’d never hear the freaking end of it, and I’m already on the brink of insanity as it is.

Thankfully, Howie is focused on moving filming right along. He instructs Andrew on where he wants him on the bed—with me—and once he’s in position, my mind does this weird thing where I’m hearing what they’re saying and I’m even following my director’s instructions, but I almost feel like I’m not really inside my body.

I’m, like, outside of my body, but still in control of my body.

It’s so freaking weird, but it’s somehow working.

I’m completely numb to the current nearly naked situation that I and my asshole costar are in, yet I’m managing to follow Howie’s instructions through each shot that he wants to get on film.

Cal running his fingers up Arizona’s side.

Arizona throwing her head back onto the pillows and shutting her eyes when Cal’s lips are near her belly.

Arizona’s hands slipping into Cal’s hair when he leans in to kiss her and her toes curling into the silky bedsheets.

Shot by shot by shot, I am somehow executing everything Howie needs out of my performance.

It feels very calculated and technical, the opposite of sexy, and frankly, I’m grateful it’s all going so smoothly.

And it almost seems too easy.

“Great job, guys. I’m loving all these shots we’re getting,” Howie encourages. “Now, I want to switch it up a little and get some footage of the two of you just going with it. Show us that on-screen chemistry we all love seeing between you so much.”

Until it’s not easy, that is.

Just going with it? What the hell does that mean?

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask and sit up on my elbows. “What do you mean by just go with it?”