Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(69)

“All right, guys, quiet on set!” Howie shouts as he sits back down in his chair, and I head to my place on set, just off to the right of the stage, with my elbow resting on the bar and a beer in my hand. “My extras in the crowd, I need to see a little more movement from you! Drinking, dancing, small talk with the people beside you. Big reactions to Arizona’s news. We all good?” he asks, glancing around the set. When he likes what he sees, he nods. “All right, let’s do this!”

“Scene 3, Take 7,” a PA yells. “Action!”

I take a sip of my beer, and Birdie begins.

She looks out into the crowd, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not sure if y’all know this, but I’ve been told we have someone special here tonight.”

Her eyes seek out mine, and she flashes a secret wink my way.

“Actual country music royalty,” she continues, and her smile gets bigger as she looks back into the various faces of the crowd. “A man who’s going to make my uncle Joe mad he took a trip to Mississippi this weekend.” She laughs, and everyone in the audience starts to look around, trying to figure out who Arizona is talking about.

She strums her guitar. “Do y’all want to know who it is?”

“C’mon, Arizona, just tell us!” a man shouts from the crowd, and she laughs again.

“Everyone, I need you to give a very warm Grass Roots welcome to Cal Loggins!”

The crowd responds with wide, searching eyes, and once I’m spotted near the bar, surprised hushes morph into hoots and hollers.

“That’s right,” she adds, her chocolate eyes grinning at me. “Cal Loggins has decided to stop by our little bar tonight, and I’m hoping y’all can convince him to join me onstage.”

The audience responds in excitement and boisterous cheers.

I smirk up at her. “Getting me onstage is going to depend on what you’re wanting me to sing, darlin’!”

“Anything you want.” She strums her fingers over her guitar again and plays the first opening beats of one of Cal’s most popular songs—“Ramblin’ Wisdom.” “Or, you know, exactly what I want.”

I laugh. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“C’mon, Cal, get your ass up here and sing with me!”

As I’m walking up toward the stage to stand beside Arizona Lee, I can’t stop myself from noticing just how stunning this woman—Birdie Harris—really is.

I can’t stop myself from marveling over how at ease she is with a guitar in her hands. And I most certainly don’t miss the way her mouth looks as we start to sing one of Cal’s songs together, our voices melding into the same microphone.

Goddamn. All the Birdie Harris hype is spot-on.

There is something about her that makes you want to watch her every move, but without rush, without haste. You just want to take her all the way in. Her wide, doe-like eyes, her full, plush mouth, and every adorable little emotion that’s evident on her face and in her body language.

I’ve been in the business a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of stars—some worthy of success and fame. But most, sadly, are not. It’s all very fucking superficial, but that’s what makes Little Miss Harris so mesmerizing.

There isn’t an ounce of superficial running through her veins. She is one-hundred-percent real. And fuck if that doesn’t make her all the more addictive. No pretentious attitude. No shallow persona. Birdie Harris is raw, with every single one of her emotions sitting on her sleeve.

This gorgeous woman has star power.

She has something no one can deny.

Something I sure as fuck can’t deny.

When I spot Johnny Johnston standing beside Howie, a smile playing on his lips as he watches and listens to this beautiful woman sing, my chest tightens with an emotion that feels a lot like irritation.

Which is crazy.

You know what’s even crazier, bro? The fact that, deep down, you’re more convinced than ever to make her yours…





Birdie



I get it from my granny.

“Cal, this is crazy,” I say, staring down at my hands. “I can’t just leave Memphis and go on the road with you. What am I supposed to tell my uncle Joe? What am I supposed to tell my band?”

Two gentle fingers reach down to lift my chin until I’m staring directly into soft blue.

“Darlin’, it’s simple,” he says. “Tell them you’re going to be a star.”

I stare back at him, ready to respond, but the words, the damn words, they are nowhere to be found. Shit. Think, Birdie! Remember your lines!

Panic tightens my chest as I rummage through every nook and cranny of my mind.

And the ever-so-slight furrow in his brow tells me all I need to know—Andrew knows I’m forgetting my lines…again. Hell, everyone on set knows I’m messing up my lines again. We’ve rolled through this same scene what feels like a hundred times, and I’ve yet to get it right.

Every single time, I’ve found a way to mess it up.

I shut my eyes briefly, incredibly irritated with myself and my stupid brain that can’t seem to function today, but Andrew surprises me by going off script.

“Don’t let this opportunity slip out of your hands, Arizona,” he whispers. “Reach out and take it. Make it yours.”