Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(84)

Andrew only chuckles at that, and another sarcastic remark sits locked and loaded on my tongue, but when he lifts a silver dome from the plate sitting directly in front of me, my voice gets all caught up in my throat.

Oh my God. I lift a hand to my mouth as I stare down at the blueberry waffles sitting before me.

“Now, I know it’s not the same as the birthday brunches you used to share with your parents or your granny, and it most likely isn’t as delicious, but I hope it at least brings you a little joy on your special day.”

He remembered.

“This is…” I pause, looking up into his soft blue eyes. “Just…thank you,” I whisper, my throat clogging a little with emotion. “This means a lot to me.”

Blueberry waffles might seem like a silly little thing to anyone else, but to me, this gesture might be one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.

He leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “You’re welcome.”

When I feel his lips against my forehead, a tear begins to slip down my cheek, and I swipe it away on a laugh. “All right, I take back my earlier sarcasm about your swoon factor.”

“You saying I have the swoon factor, firecracker?” he asks, a confident quirk of his brow punctuating his question.

“Sometimes, yes,” I respond. “But that doesn’t mean you need to go getting all cocky about it.”

His smile turns wicked. “Oh, sweet, beautiful Birdie, if I didn’t have to head out of here soon, I’d be more than up for the challenge of showing you just how cocky I can get.”

I roll my eyes but laugh at the same time. “You’re a horny lunatic.”

He chuckles and leans forward to press another kiss to my lips. “A horny lunatic who needs to head out of here soon.”

And then he’s off to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

While the running sink and the sounds of Andrew brushing his teeth fill the otherwise quiet of his hotel room, I find my phone on the nightstand and snap a picture of my blueberry waffles before officially diving into them.

Knowing I haven’t posted anything on Instagram in a while, and constantly getting shit from Candy about that very fact, I decide to pull up the app and upload the photo of my waffles with the caption: Happy birthday to me. As you can see, twenty-eight is looking fantastic already. #foodporn #wafflegasm #mywaffleishappy

“Having a photo shoot with your waffles?” Andrew’s teasing voice fills my ears, and I look up to find him leaning against the bathroom door, still brushing his already sparkling white teeth.

“Just posting a little something to Instagram.” I shrug. “Speaking of which, how is Mr. Hollywood’s Hottest Heartthrob’s IG looking these days? Still lots of shirtless photos consuming his profile?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, why don’t you do a little intel and check it out.” He grins around his toothbrush before turning on his heel and heading back into the bathroom to finish his dental hygiene routine.

It doesn’t take long for curiosity to get the best of me.

With the official Instagram page of Andrew Watson pulled up on my phone, I scroll his latest posts, more than ready to find the typical photos of him showing off his hot bod.

But to my utter surprise, there are zero pictures of his abs or biceps or even his firm ass in a pair of running shorts.

What the hell?

I tap the most recent picture that was posted two days ago. And instantly, I know when and where he took this because I was there.

It’s a photo of two plates of trail mix. My version, which included just M&M’s. And then, his version, which included only raisins and peanuts. The caption: One of these is perfection, and the other is trail mix sacrilege.

The next photo, posted a week ago, is a picture of a coffee cup that reads Memphis Brew. And I know by the freaking bird he had the barista draw on it instead of my name, it’s the coffee he brought me on set when I didn’t have time to take a break. The caption: I don’t know, guys, but a recent taste test by a very discerning coffee connoisseur might’ve proved that Memphis Brew is better than Alfred’s. Don’t @ me. I’m just the messenger.

Alfred’s was the coffee he brought me all those weeks ago. The one I threw in the trash.

The next post is a picture of his feet. And, to be honest, for a man, Andrew has really nice feet. The caption on the photo? Tell me you guys agree… If your second toe is longer than your big toe, it’s actually a sign of intelligence. I have someone here who’s trying to tell me it doesn’t mean any such thing, which, obviously, is utter blasphemy.

I’m the someone who was teasing him relentlessly about his toes.

When I click on a video a few posts down, I’m surprised to find it’s actually a short clip of me onstage, in the middle of shooting at the Copper Door. The caption? If you think Birdie Harris’s music is hyped, this video is here to prove you wrong. PS: The soundtrack for this movie is going to be INSANE. #GrassRoots

Color me speechless.

All this time, he’s been posting our little inside jokes on his Instagram but still taking into consideration that I want to keep this, whatever this is, on the down low.

“You like what you’re finding?”

I look up from the screen of my phone to find him standing beside me, a smile kissing his lips.

“What happened to all the shirtless, hot bod, thirst trap style photos?”