Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(96)

“Someone took pictures of us last night,” I whisper, and he furrows his brow.

“What? Last night?”

I pull up the article again and hold it up for him on my cell.

He takes the phone out of my hand and starts scrolling through the article. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Pretty sure this isn’t a joke,” I comment. “Well, actually, I’m the joke. I’m the woman who has fallen into your player trap.”

“My player trap?” Andrew glances up to meet my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that my publicist is freaking out about the consequences of this.”

“Why would she be freaking out about this?”

He really doesn’t get it.

I guess I can’t blame him; I wasn’t exactly understanding it all myself.

A shocked laugh jumps from my lungs, and I point to the stupid article on my phone. “Because I’m the new gossip laughingstock, Andrew. Another notch on your bedpost. Your next jilted lover. Soon-to-be writing breakup songs about you like Taylor freaking Swift!” I exclaim, each word getting me more amped up by the second. “Good God, this is exactly why I wanted to keep this a secret!” I toss my hands up in the air, and I begin to pace the hotel room.

Way to go, Birdie! Looks like the sex cat is officially out of the bag.

What in the hell am I going to do now?

I know I’m fixated on very selfish, career-motivated things right now, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent the last several years working my ass off to get where I have. I’ve played in what feels like every single bar and venue and stadium across the country. I’ve maintained a schedule that’s so busy, free time is basically nonexistent.

I’ve made a lot of sacrifices to get here.

And now, my publicist is telling me that because of this, because of those goddamn photos, everything I’ve worked so hard for, everything I’ve strived for, is now going to play second fiddle to being Andrew Watson’s latest conquest.





Andrew



Everything is fucked, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

Birdie is quite literally freaking the fuck out over an article her sister sent her this morning. And when she had a quick phone call with her publicist, it only made shit worse.

Apparently, her entire team is convinced that her being connected to me in the press is only bad news for her career. And their negative commentary does nothing to help calm her down. If anything, it only works her up more.

“Maybe I’m a little dense here, sweetheart, but it’s just one stupid article. I don’t think it’s anything to get too worked up over. I’m sure we can find a way to fix this.”

She turns on her heel and looks at me in outright shock.

“It might be one article right now, but by the end of the day, it will be one of a thousand articles and social media posts and pretty much any media-related thing you can think of,” she retorts. “Don’t you get it? You’re Andrew Watson. The entire world is obsessed with your sex life.”

“And you’re Birdie Harris,” I add. “Pretty sure the whole world is obsessed with you too.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She barks out a laugh. “I’m clearly the woman in this scenario. You’re the man. And how it’s going to go down is that now, everything I ever do is going to be related to you and our little sex rendezvous that occurred while we were filming Grass Roots.”

“Our little sex rendezvous?” I question. “Is that all this was to you?”

“I’m pretty sure we both know that’s all this was to you,” she retorts, and I hate how deep those words slice into my chest. But the truth is, it hurts that even after everything we’ve shared together, she still thinks that little of me. That she is still judging me on my reputation.

“Sounds like you have it all worked out, then, huh?” I run a hand through my hair. “I mean, I’m the Hollywood player and you’re the woman who got stuck in my trap, and now everything is ruined for you.”

“That’s not what I meant—” she starts to respond, but I cut her off.

“It’s fine, Birdie. I get it. I know the score. I’m the guy who serves the purpose of fun. I’m not the guy you get into a relationship with. I’m just the guy you fuck around with for a little bit.”

She frowns. “Andrew.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it.”

“Wait…” She pauses, and her teeth worry into her bottom lip. “That’s not what I mean. I just… God, Andrew, I feel like everything is crashing down on me right now. My team’s phones are ringing off the hook because everyone wants a comment from me about those pictures, and I have a hundred notifications on my phone, and I just don’t know what to make of it all.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what you want from me?”

My question takes her back a step. “What do you mean?”

“How did you think this was going to go?” I question. “I mean, it’s very apparent that you don’t want to be tied to me at all in the media. So, when filming ended, did you just plan on saying goodbye? On ending shit between us?”