Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(64)

“Very funny, smartass,” he retorts. “I might get some enjoyment out of riling you up, but—”

“Wait…just some enjoyment?”

“Fine. A lot of enjoyment, but I think we can both agree I’m not an evil bastard. Right? Can we please agree on that?”

For some strange reason, his words make me feel a little bad about my joking dig. It seems really important to him that I recognize he’s not complete scum.

“You’re right,” I respond and offer an apologetic smile. “While my little Satan jab was pretty funny, I realize now that it was also a little uncalled-for. Sorry about that.” I stare down at the clothes on the bed and run my fingers hesitantly over the T-shirt. “And you should know, I really appreciate everything you did for me last night,” I add, willing my eyes to look up into his steady gaze. “So, thank you for preventing what most likely could’ve been an absolute catastrophe.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, accepting my apology without hesitation. “And by the way, you have some phone calls and messages to return.”

“Phone calls?”

He nods and pulls my cell phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and hands it over to me. “I’ve already talked to your assistant Samantha twice. Once last night, and then again this morning. She’s a ballbuster, that one. Told me she’d straight-up murder me if anything happened to you.” He smirks. “And I’m pretty sure your sister Billie has called you a few times, but after dealing with your assistant, I wasn’t sure I’d survive your sister.”

I stare down at the phone in my hands, noting all the missed calls and message notifications on the locked screen.

“Anyway, you get dressed. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

As Andrew walks out of his bedroom, I check the time and realize it’s already five past noon.

Shit! I was supposed to meet Billie and Rocky for lunch, and I’m already late!

And along with the missed calls, inside my text inbox sit four messages asking me where in the hell I am.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Quickly, I type out a text to both of them.



Me: Hey, so, I’m running a little behind. Go ahead and order lunch, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.



Instead of waiting for them to respond, I jump out of the bed and run around like a maniac trying to get myself together. This is the last place I should be coming from heading into a lunch with the two of them.

Good God. What a mess.





Andrew



Birdie in my boxer briefs is a sight I’d pay a lot of money to see.

I leave her in my bedroom to get dressed and head into the kitchen.

Honestly, that whole interaction didn’t go as I’d expected.

In fact, for as rocky as it was when the conversation started, it almost seemed like we were getting along by the end.

Maybe I’d made an impression by stepping up to the plate last night. It also probably helped that she managed to sleep like a rock for a good eight hours.

Which is more than I can say for myself. I’ve been up since seven, already managed some breakfast, a workout, and a shower, and spent a good part of my morning talking to Howie about his conversation with his nephew.

Apparently, shit went down this morning when he woke up a sleeping Larry with a bucket of ice-cold water and proceeded to ream his ass about the brownie stunt he pulled last night.

This isn’t the first time his nephew has caused trouble while staying with How.

And, personally, until my best friend wakes the fuck up and kicks Larry out of his house, it won’t be the last either.

But Howie has a big heart, and his sister Susan, Larry’s mom, has proved over the years that her drug addiction is more important than being a good example for her son. That’s why Larry is living with Howie in the first place. And, unfortunately, even though Larry is now twenty-three and could certainly get a job and start living on his own, that’s probably why he’ll keep on living with his far-too-kind uncle.

It’s kind of infuriating, but it’s not my business.

If Howie wants to keep letting his nephew mooch off him, then that’s his decision. I just wish he’d open his eyes and realize the guilt that’s perpetuating this situation is doing Larry more harm than good.

My phone pings with a message, and I snag it from the kitchen island to find a text from Howie.



Howie: How’s Birdie doing this morning?



Me: Just a little hungover, I think, but otherwise, she’s good.



Howie: Fuck. I feel terrible this happened at my goddamn house.



Me: She seemed surprisingly understanding about the whole situation. Even told me it was ridiculous that I was tempted to press charges on your bastard nephew.



Howie: There’s a part of me that wishes you would.



Me: No shit? That’s a shock to hear coming from you.



Howie: Yeah, well, I think I’m growing a little worn-out on all the bullshit.



Me: You sure as shit have lasted longer than I would’ve.



Howie: I think it’s time for a change of pace for Larry. LA isn’t good for him. I’m too busy to stay on his ass constantly. And he’s twenty-fucking-three years old. It’s not my job anymore to clean up his messes.