Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(51)

“Cut!”

Cut? Cut what?

A groan escapes his lips and steals my full attention, and my fingers slip out of his hair and dig into the taut skin of his shoulders, urging him to press himself closer to me.

Fuck. What is this? Why does this feel so damn good?

“Cut!” I hear that word again. “Cut!” And again.

Until it finally registers inside my brain.

The scene. Cut the freaking scene.

I blink open my eyes, and I find stunned blue eyes staring back into mine.

“Fantastic job, you two. Fantastic job,” Howie exclaims in the background, but I’m too busy trying to reacquaint myself with reality.

I am Birdie Harris.

I am on a bed in the middle of a set for a film.

And my body is wrapped around Andrew Watson like second-freaking-skin!

Holy shit.

Instantly, I disentangle my legs from around his hips and remove my hands from his shoulders, and Andrew gently slides his body off of mine.

It takes me all of two seconds to get off the bed and head toward Samantha, who is standing there with my robe, her wide eyes practically consuming her whole face.

“You okay?” she whispers toward me as I shrug on the robe.

All I can do is nod.

Truthfully, I don’t know what I am right now.

But when Howie announces that we can call it a day, I’m thankful I can quickly escape into the privacy of my trailer.

What in the hell just happened back there?

Pretty sure you just enjoyed—like, really enjoyed—a dry-hump session with Andrew fuckface Watson in front of an audience…

Oh, for the love of everything. I should’ve known a sex drought that’s lasted this long would only come back to bite me in the ass.





Birdie



I like to party, and by party, I mean I like days off that revolve around me napping my ass off.

I don’t think I fully understood the word exhaustion until I decided to take an acting job in Hollywood while finishing recording an album. I’m generally a stickler for sticking with routines that work, especially when it comes to my music, but I’ve had to switch up my usual recording routine and adapt.

Which basically means I’m fitting in recording sessions whenever and wherever I can. I don’t have the luxury of recording my album in my favorite Nashville studio. And I certainly don’t have the luxury of time. Ever since I started shooting for Grass Roots, every minute of my schedule has been filled, from the moment I wake up until the moment my head hits my pillow.

I’m either on set, in my rental practicing my lines with an acting coach by the name of Carrie, recording for my album or the Grass Roots soundtrack in a studio about ten miles from my rented house, or fulfilling some sort of press obligation for the movie or my album or both.

This has to be the busiest I’ve ever been in my whole life.

Which is why when I step out of the shower and find a text message from my manager, a deep, heavy sigh escapes my lungs.



Neil: I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s good PR for you to go to that party. Everyone working on Grass Roots is going to be there, not to mention some very important, very influential Hollywood types that will only help make this movie a box office success.



This is the first Saturday, in what feels like months, that I have nothing planned. No professional obligations. No filming. No recording. No press interviews.

On the contrary, though, it was obviously wishful thinking on my part to believe I’d get away with a whole day of nothing.



Candy: Neil is right, Birdie. You need to make an appearance at that party. Which is why Maureen will be stopping by your place in a few hours to help you with your hair and makeup.



Once my publicist joins the group chat with my team, I know I’m shit out of luck.

I’m going to have to go to this stupid party.

But, to be honest, it’s a little shitty to call a shindig thrown by Howie King a stupid party. With only five days left of LA shoots and us nearing the halfway mark through the entirety of filming for Grass Roots, my director has decided to give everyone the day off and throw a little celebration for the cast and crew.

Of course, Howie being deep in the throes of Hollywood’s most famous, the cast and crew on Grass Roots aren’t the only people who will be there tonight. Lots of big names will be in attendance.

“Sam!” I call out from my cozy spot on the couch.

“Yeah?” she answers back from somewhere on the other side of the massive house.

I’m not sure where she is, but from the sound of her voice echoing, it seems like she’s in the guest bedroom she’s been sleeping in while helping me in LA.

Samantha might be my assistant, but she’s also become one of my best friends over the years, and I saw no point in her staying in a freaking hotel or something ridiculous like that when I took in the insanely huge rental house the studio allocated to me. There is more than enough room for the two of us inside this place. Hell, there’s room for us and a family of six.

Don’t get me wrong, the home is downright stunning. All picturesque, shiny glass views of the hills and LA and the kind of kitchen, living room, and backyard terrace and pool that Pinterest boards dream of.

“When were you going to let me know my date with The Golden Girls and vegging out on the couch wasn’t going to happen?”