Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(58)

Ignoring me completely, she glances up and down the hallway, and before I know it, she’s kicking off her shoes, dropping her purse to the floor, and starting to kneel on the marble floor.

“Birdie?”

“I’ll just sleep right here.”

Fucking hell.

“No,” I say, reaching out to pull her back to her feet. “You can’t sleep on the floor, sweetheart. Come on,” I say once I pick up her shoes and purse, my hand a gentle guide on her elbow. “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“To sleep, sweetheart.”

“Hallelujah!” she exclaims, but then she stops. “Ugh. Wait…how far do we have to go to get there?”

“We need to get to my car first.”

“That’s too far.” She groans and then meets my gaze, a puppy-dog look apparent in her eyes. “Carry me…please?”

With that look and those big brown eyes, I couldn’t say no if I wanted to. The two-letter word isn’t even in my vocabulary. I’m officially Jim Carrey, the Yes Man.

Gently, I slide my arms beneath her legs and lift her up so her head and the side of her body rest against my chest and her legs dangle over my arms.

And she doesn’t hesitate to make herself comfortable, cuddling into me like I’m not the man she not-so-discreetly spent the whole damn night avoiding.

What a turn this night has taken.





Andrew



Once a woman who was always trying her damnedest to avoid me, Birdie is now rummaging through my kitchen like she owns the joint.

“Andy,” she says, her hands busy prying open cabinet doors and rifling through their contents with urgent fingers. “Where’s all the snacks?”

My original plan was to take her to her house.

But the plan was quickly changed when an almost-sleeping Birdie sat up like she’d been jolted back to life, rolled down her window, and started alternating between shouting demands about going to Taco Bell and belting out Dolly Parton lyrics as loud as she could into the quiet streets of LA. And since driving to her rental would’ve taken twice the amount of time than to my house, I decided to just bring her back here and save us both a meet-and-greet with the LAPD.

I still don’t know if it was the right decision, but hell, it’s too late to go back now.

“Andy!” she exclaims and glances over her shoulder at me when I don’t respond. “The snacks, Andy! The snacks!”

Apparently, I’m now Andy. The nickname started about five minutes away from my house and appears to have stuck.

“What kind of snacks are you looking for, sweetheart?”

“I want a Cheesy Gordita Crunch.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “Birdie, I don’t have Taco Bell hidden in my cabinets.”

“You suck. Desmond Doss from Hacksaw Ridge would definitely have Taco Bell in the cabinets. And you call your penis a soldier. Pfft.” She groans and throws more cabinet doors open while I ponder the idea that this isn’t the first time she’s referred to my penis as a military man. I get the feeling I’m missing something, and quite frankly, tonight might be the very best time to get it out of her. But I’ll have to time it just right—when she’s lucid enough to tell the truth, but half-cocked enough not to care.

“What about Doritos? Or pizza?” she questions, still playing the role of pantry scavenger. “Oh yes, pizza would be fantastic!”

“You want pizza?”

She turns around and puts her hands together like she’s praying. “Please, sir. Please, please, please, feed me pizza.”

Christ. I head over to the freezer and luckily find a frozen pizza hidden behind some premade meals of grilled chicken and veggies. I pull it out and hold it up in the air. “Will this hit the spot?”

“Yes!” She does an awkward tap-dance across the kitchen floor in her bare feet and ends it off with jazz hands. “Andy, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

“Okay, I’ll make the pizza, but you need to promise me something.”

“Anything. I’ll promise any-fucking-thing right now.”

Jesus. If only she were making that promise stone-cold sober with my cock inside her.

All dirty thoughts of sex with Birdie aside, I point to the still-full glass of water I poured for her sitting on the kitchen island. “Finish that glass of water.”

“I already did.”

I shake my head. “You had two sips, Birdie. You need to drink the whole thing.”

She puts a hand to her defiant hip. “Why?”

Because you inadvertently ate a pot brownie tonight after consuming champagne, and Lord knows, your body needs some fucking hydration…

In the name of avoiding her currently giddy high from going straight to paranoia, I can’t tell her that right now. So, I offer a half-truth. “Because it’s the only way you’re getting pizza.”

“Ugh,” she groans. “Fine. I’ll drink it.” She snags the water off the counter and finishes it off in five large gulps, and at least two of the gulps end up down the front of her sexy dress. “There!” she exclaims and slams the glass onto the counter, swiping a hand across her wet mouth and chin. “Now, it’s motherflipping pizza time!”