Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(6)
“Okay, you’re on speakerphone… Luca, Birdie is about to go in for the audition. Could you please give her a few tips and some encouragement, so she gets out of the dang car and goes inside?”
Luca’s familiar chuckle fills my ears. “Hey, Birdie.”
“Help me.”
He chuckles again. “A little nervous, huh?”
“I fear I might puke on your director friend.”
“That wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to him. In fact, I’ve personally witnessed him getting ralphed on at least two times.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically. “At least other people have broken him in. Does he carry some sort of insurance policy to cover the dry-cleaning bill?”
Luca chuckles, evidently enjoying this conversation about my anxiety far more than I am. “You know what, I bet he does have coverage. Probably as a rider on his homeowner’s policy.”
“Oh God. I shouldn’t have eaten that strawberry jam on my toast this morning. I bet it stains.”
“Birdie,” Luca says, amusement making his emphasis on my name shake. “Why do they think you would be perfect for the role of Arizona Lee?”
“Because I can sing?”
“Exactly,” he counsels. “Use your experiences in country music. Just play the part how you feel it. React how you would react if you were in Arizona’s shoes.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I don’t need to get lost in acting techniques and stuff like that? I should just be my genuine self.”
“You got it.”
“Just be myself,” I repeat quietly before following it up with a self-deprecating laugh. “I should be able to handle that, I guess. I do have twenty-seven years of experience.”
“Twenty-seven?” Billie questions snarkily. “Maybe twenty-four. You spent at least three years trying to be Christina Aguilera.”
“Shut up!”
“Those chaps you begged Granny for during Christina’s “Dirrty” phase got so much use they had to retire to a fifty-five-and-over community.” Luca’s laughter echoes over the line obnoxiously, but by the time I open my mouth to share a few choice obscenities with both of them, the line goes dead.
All at once, a wave of realization so fierce it could flood the entire country crashes over me.
I can’t turn back now. I can’t let my mother down, and more than that, I can’t let myself down. I’ll never forgive myself if I chicken out of this without giving it a chance, no matter the obvious obstacles—Andrew Watson, my fear, my inexperience. They’re all temporary. But regret can last forever.
On a deep breath, I get my shit together, shove my phone into my purse, and get out of the limo.
The driver tries to hop out of his seat and help me, but I wave him off with a gentle hand. “Don’t worry about it, Lewis.”
“Good luck, Miss Harris,” he says, offering a kind smile. “I’ll be waiting in the parking lot when you’re finished.”
I nod and force a brittle smile to my lips. “Thank you.”
With still-shaky hands, I smooth down the material of my lucky sundress.
Just take a deep breath. You got this.
One cowgirl boot in front of the other, I head through the entrance doors to face the music.
The Hollywood music, that is.
Andrew
“Damn, I love women,” I mutter to myself as I pull my Porsche to a stop at the edge of a pedestrian crosswalk.
With a little sway in her hips and a glimmer in her eye, the hot little brunette number who brought me to a halt shoots me a wink and a smile, and I return the favor tenfold. My smile makes promises for me—salacious, entertaining promises I wish like hell I could keep.
I shake my head to apologize for leading her on, and her pout is visible even as she clears the street and steps up onto the sidewalk on the other side.
Hell, I’m half tempted to hop out of my car and follow her, but Damien, my shark of a manager, would be pissed if I missed this meeting with Willy Capo and the rest of the bigwigs running the show for my next film project.
Not to mention, Howie King, the film’s director, is also one of my best friends and would most likely put my balls on a skewer and make fucking kabobs out of them to feed to his big-ass Dobermans if I flaked out on today’s main event—an audition for my potential costar and the big “Do we have chemistry?” test.
This is shit I’ve done a million times before, and if I’m being honest, it’s mostly a pain in the ass, but this movie is all anyone can talk about.
That part, of course, is the part that keeps me on the hook. Because I’m a huge part of this movie, and I really fucking love being something people can’t stop talking about.
“Next time, sweetheart,” I whisper to the disappearing opportunity.
Path cleared and brunette out of sight, I pull into the studio parking lot and speed to the other end where I normally park.
A black limo sits idling directly in front of the entrance, its unnecessarily pompous length meaning the trunk extends well into my parking space.
Goddammit. As much as I love Hollywood, sometimes I really fucking hate Hollywood.
Since I know this town like the back of my hand, it wouldn’t surprise me if whoever is inside that limo requires a red carpet to be rolled out before they’re willing to put their precious feet to the ground.