Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(71)

Goddammit. I’m just like Granny.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to push this painful weight of stress off my shoulders, but when I shut my eyes tight or open my mouth to let it all out, nothing happens. All those emotions that were boiling beneath the surface have disappeared, and the knot in my chest is so constricting it makes breathing feel like a chore.

“Birdie?” The sound of Andrew’s voice and two knocks to my trailer door startle me, but I stay rooted to my spot with my back to the door and my eyes fixated on the wrinkles in the carpet beneath my feet.

Maybe he’ll just go away…

When I don’t answer, the door slides open, and the sound of footsteps makes its way up the two steps and into my trailer.

Shit.

“Birdie? Are you okay?” he asks, and the door clicks shut.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, and I hate how shaky and unsteady my voice sounds. I swallow hard against the stupid emotion that all of a sudden wants to show up to my pity party, and I make no move to turn around. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Two strong arms find their way around my shoulders and pull me back, tight against his firm chest. “We all have bad days,” he whispers into my ear. “Don’t let what Howie said get to you.”

I don’t respond, the surprising kindness in his voice only making it harder to keep the tears at bay.

“You’re drawn tight like a damn bow, sweetheart,” he continues, his voice smooth like honey, and I have to shut my eyes tight to keep the emotion behind my lids. “Keeping this all bottled up inside will only make it worse. You need to let it out. Just cry, scream, whatever you need to do, just let it out.”

A part of me wants to fight against him, push him away and tell him I’m fine. But his words are the equivalent of Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball, breaking straight through my emotional dam.

Tears slip from my lids and my shoulders shake, and Andrew turns me around and hugs me tight to his chest. A part of me wants to resist this, resist him, but I simply can’t because he’s right. I just need to let it out.

So, I do. With my head resting on his shoulder, I let myself fall into his embrace while my tears soak into the old leather jacket that’s part of his Cal costume.

And Andrew just stands there, holding me, letting me cry it out.

He doesn’t say or do anything else but that.

“I don’t know why I kept screwing it all up,” I eventually whisper once I’ve cried the knot in my throat away.

He leans back to look down at me, and his grayish-blue eyes show no judgment or scrutiny, just warmth and tenderness.

“Birdie, we all fuck up sometimes,” he says. “It’s impossible to be perfect with this kind of production schedule. Hell, Serena wanted to wring my neck the other day when I couldn’t keep a straight face during a scene with Johnny.”

His words urge an amused smile to quirk up the corners of my mouth. “It’s because of his beard, isn’t it?”

“Christ, I didn’t think it was possible, but that thing keeps getting worse.”

“You’re kind of evil the way you’re always ragging on Johnny’s beard.” A giggle jumps from my throat, and he grins down at me.

“Yeah, but you can’t deny I only speak the truth about that monstrosity.” He gently taps my nose with his index finger. “You feel a little better?”

I nod and blow out a shaky breath. “Getting there.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“No, not really.” I shake my head. “But food is the last thing on my mind.”

“You’ve gotta eat, sweetheart.”

I step away from his hold and snag my script off the vanity in my trailer, holding it up in the air. “No, I need to practice my damn lines, so I don’t fuck everything up tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says with a nod and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s get out of these costumes, grab some takeout, and we can practice lines together back at the hotel.”

“Back at the hotel?” I quirk a brow. “As in, me and you, alone in a hotel room?”

“Don’t be so stubborn about it,” he answers through a teasing smirk. “It’s not like I’m asking you to put on my underwear again. We’re just going to eat some dinner and roll through the scene a few times so you’re more comfortable in the morning.”

I roll my eyes on an annoyed sigh. “Oh my God, enough about your stupid underwear.”

“Speaking of my underwear, do you still have them, or are you planning to keep them?” he asks, playfulness evident in his voice. “Oh, wait, let me guess. You’re probably wearing them right now.”

I flip him the middle finger, and his quiet chuckle fills my ears.

“All right, enough about my awesome underwear and back to the important stuff like food and helping you run through your lines back at the hotel,” he steps forward and takes the script from my hands, rolls it up, and slides into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve been in your shoes before, sweetheart. And trust me, a good meal and running through the scene with your costar will ensure that you don’t have a repeat on set tomorrow morning.”

I sigh. I wish he weren’t right. But he is right.

I need to eat. And I certainly could use a little help working past whatever mental block made today’s filming go sour.