Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(72)

“Fine,” I agree. “But we’re going to my hotel room, and I get to choose the takeout.”

He smirks. “Deal.”





Andrew



Uh oh… Someone is about to get sassy…

“Ugh! What is wrong with me? Why can’t I get this right?” Birdie tosses her script down onto the table littered with containers of half-eaten takeout.

This is our fourth run-through, and I can tell by the tight, exasperated look on her face that she’s growing more frustrated by the second. Her chest moves up and down in a rough breath, and two frustrated hands tug at her long blond locks.

“Why can’t I get this right?” she berates herself through a tense jaw.

“You’re doing good, Birdie,” I reassure her. “Don’t give up now.”

“Don’t patronize me.” She lets out a deep sigh and tosses her body down onto the hotel bed in dramatic fashion. “I’m doing awful!”

A laugh jumps from my throat at her pathetic albeit adorable display on the mattress. “C’mon, drama queen. You are doing good. You almost got through the whole scene on this last run.”

“I’m not a drama queen.” She glares at me, grabs a pillow to cover her face, and a muffled, frustrated groan into the cottony material follows.

Even though I can no longer see her pretty face, I smirk down at her. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re basically throwing a temper tantrum, sweetheart.”

“Shut up, Andy.” She groans into the pillow again. “Good God, I suck. And truthfully, even though I’m not much of a drinker, I could really use a big ole glass of wine right now to take the edge off.”

“You want some wine?” I ask, and she peeks out from beneath the pillow covering her face.

“Yes, please?”

“Okay…” I pause and smile down at her, more than ready to negotiate with the cute temper-tantrum terrorist. “If I get you some wine, will you be able to get it together and finish working through this scene?”

“Yes.” She nods, and I raise a questioning brow.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, but only if you promise to stop playing twenty-freaking-questions with me.” She tosses the pillow at my head, and I duck out of the way.

“Jesus, woman,” I mutter through a laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was trying to run lines with Tawny Rose.”

“Very funny, asshole.” She snags another pillow off the bed and tosses it even harder at me.

I dodge it, laugh again, and head over to the nightstand to pick up the hotel phone. In a matter of seconds, I have room service on the line, and I’m instructing them on Birdie’s wine needs.

“Yes, just a bottle,” I respond into the receiver.

“And what kind of wine would you like, sir?”

I look over at Birdie, who is now just staring up at the ceiling. “What kind of wine do you fancy?”

“White wine! Very sweet white wine!”

My attention back to the phone, I ask, “Do you have Moscato?”

“We sure do,” the male voice on the phone responds. “Give me about ten minutes, and I will have a fresh bottle sent up to your room.”

“Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”

Wine officially on its way, I hang up the phone and head over to the table with our takeout order from the little Italian restaurant up the street. My brilliant plan engaged, I seek out the piece of chocolate cake Birdie decided she couldn’t live without.

Fork and container in hand, I walk over to the bed and set it down beside her. “Here, grumpy. While we wait on the wine, eat your chocolate cake.”

I don’t have to tell her twice.

In no time at all, the container is in her lap, the fork is in her hand, and a big bite of chocolate cake heads for her mouth. The instant it hits her taste buds, a soft, sexy-as-hell moan escapes her lips. “Oh yes, this chocolate cake was the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Giving her that chocolate cake may be the worst idea I’ve ever had. That moan of hers is dangerously sexy, and I try like hell to ignore it, but it’s nearly impossible when she keeps moaning after each fucking bite.

Christ.

Déjà vu hits me hard, reminding me of a not-so-sober, naked Birdie in my bed.

Heaven and hell, it was like finding a giant, shiny Christmas present but not being allowed to unwrap it.

There are a lot of things I’d love to do to her to hear that moan. A lot of fucking things. But tonight is not the night for that. I came here to help her run lines, and while I downright love the idea of hearing her moan while she’s coming on my cock, I’m not the kind of bastard who would use this kind of situation to make it happen.

Three soft raps grab my attention, and I head to the door to answer it.

Once the nice man from room service slides in a small cart carrying a bottle of Moscato and two empty wineglasses, I tip him generously and see him back out.

Two hearty glasses poured, I hand one to Birdie and take a sip from the glass in my hand. I scrunch up my face once the sugar overload hits my tongue. “Fuck, that’s sweet. Do you drink this shit a lot?”

Birdie giggles. “You don’t like sweet wine?”

I shake my head and set the glass back down. “I feel like I’m drinking fucking Pixy Stix. Is there even any alcohol inside it?”