Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(53)

Nearly every day, in fact.

The mere idea of spending a few weeks in a tropical location has never looked as good as it does right now. Instantly, I make a mental note to get Samantha on the task of scouting out locations for where we can go. Surely, I’m going to need something good to look forward to, something positive to help get me through these next several weeks.




Howie King lives up to his namesake. Between his sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills, the insane spread of food that waits for guests in the dining room that is bigger than most people’s homes, and the fact that there’re valets and servers and security and a freaking famous DJ serenading people with music by the pool, he proves he literally lives life like a king.

Hell, when my driver dropped me off, Howie’s butler Louis opened my door.

His freaking butler, people.

The only butler I know was Mr. Belvedere, and that was a damn TV show.

Good Lord, I don’t even want to think about the price tag of his LA pad or how many staff Howie has on his payroll or how much this party costs. Pretty sure my head would explode if I saw the numbers.

Welcome to Hollywood, baby.

I snag a glass of champagne off a tray being held by a friendly server dressed in a tuxedo and take a sip to quell my discomfort.

I don’t know why I always feel a little out of place in situations like this, but I do.

You’d think the years I’ve spent in the music industry would help me adjust to the life of the rich and famous, but on the inside, I still feel like that fourteen-year-old West Virginia girl who grew up off a dirt country road in her granny’s small ranch with the rusted-out tin roof.

Billie and I don’t come from wealthy roots.

Hell, we don’t even come from middle-class roots.

We were what most people would call dirt poor.

I realize that now, but when I was a kid, I didn’t really know the difference. I knew we didn’t have a lot of money, but our granny always made the best of things. Obviously, I’ve adjusted to enjoying some of the more materialistic things in life, but I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get to the point where I’m living like this, with butlers and shit. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s just not me, and I highly doubt any amount of money or success or fame will change that.

I weave my way through the party, and the black stilettos Samantha all but forced me to wear—along with a fancy, formfitting black dress—are already making my damn feet hurt.

I don’t hesitate to pull out my phone and let her know.



Me: You may as well rent a wheelchair now because these stupid stilettos you made me wear are going to make sure my feet don’t work tomorrow.



Her response comes in seconds later.



Samantha: Those stilettos are hot. Just like the dress. Not to mention, the hair and makeup Maureen added to the look. You’re banging, honey. Own that shit.



Me: I’m not going to look so “banging” when I fall flat on my face because my feet go numb.



Samantha: Beauty is pain, honey. So, suck it up and just try to enjoy yourself. And, hey, if you want to bring home some hot Hollywood sex-on-a-stick, don’t worry about me. I’ll make sure I stay in my room all night.



Me: Hot Hollywood sex-on-a-stick? Do me a favor, unsubscribe from Cosmo and BuzzFeed.



Samantha: Get real, Birdie. You know they have the best quizzes.



Me: Oh yeah, because we all need to know what breed of dog is our spirit animal.



Samantha: My loyal Labrador spirit is what makes me such a good assistant. And, quick question. Why are you texting with me when you are at a party in Beverly Hills where handsome, sexy men are undoubtedly walking around the room? Not to throw anything in your face, but you and I both know it’s been a LONG while since you’ve gotten down and dirty…



Me: Not to throw anything in my face? Pretty sure you just did.



I hit send and look up from the screen of my phone, in search of the so-called handsome, sexy men. And, of course, one of the first people I spot is Andrew freaking Watson.

He stands in the middle of a group of five or so women, his signature heartthrob smirk plastered on his dumb face. Instantly, I’m aggravated.

Irritated with him. Exasperated with the women who are visibly enjoying his company.

Just…annoyed.

Yes, he’s handsome.

Yes, he’s sexy.

But he’s more than proven he’s an ass.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down to find another long-ass message from Samantha.



Samantha: Meh. Whatever. Right now, I’m trying to decide if it’s good or bad thing that I’m not going to be with you in Memphis. Will my not being there ensure that you’ll have some late-night fun? Or will it make it easier for you to become a flipping hermit?



Since I have so many things happening back home and Memphis is only a few hours from Nashville, it was decided that Samantha won’t be on location with me and would head home instead.



Me: You act like I’m going to be in Memphis without shit to do. I’d like to remind you that I’ll be working. A lot.



Samantha: I have an idea…How about you stop texting me and go have some damn fun, Birdie? Be young and stupid for once. Have a few drinks. Flirt with hot guys. Hell, maybe find a hot piece of ass, bring him home, fuck his brains out, and send him on his way. The world is your oyster tonight, honey. ENJOY YOURSELF. You work too hard. Sometimes, you need to let loose and just live in the moment.