Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(97)

“I don’t know what I planned,” she says, her voice slightly above a whisper. “I mean, I figured we would spend time together in LA, but I wasn’t sure how it would work when I was back in Nashville…”

Right now, in this moment, it all hits me so hard I actually have to focus on pulling air into my lungs.

I’m in love with this woman, but she’s completely uncertain about me.

That realization makes me feel like absolute shit.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get Birdie to see me as more than the Hollywood jerk with the infamous reputation. I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to let go of the things she’s heard about my past.

I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to love a guy like me.

And you have too much fucking pride to stand around and wait to find out.

“You know what, sweetheart?” I toss out, the question entirely rhetorical. “I’m going to make this really easy on you. You don’t have to waste your time trying to figure shit out. And you certainly don’t need to deal with the bullshit of being tied to someone like me in the media.”

“What are you saying right now?”

“I’m saying you don’t have worry about any of it,” I retort, my chest growing tighter by the second. “I’ll have my team put out a statement that the photos were from filming. And then you can be done with it all. No stress. No issues with your career. No, as you said before, playing second fiddle to my reputation.”

“Done with it all?” she asks, her voice rising in frustration. “Are you breaking up with me right now?”

“Sweetheart, I can’t break up with someone who doesn’t even know what she wants from me. If anything, you’re the one doing the breaking in this situation.”

Birdie stares at me, her eyes wide and her cheeks red, but she doesn’t make any move to correct me or challenge me or tell me anything that leads me to believe she actually wants to be with me.

I make it really easy on her by tossing on my clothes, grabbing my shit, and leaving her hotel room.

Fuck if that wasn’t the most painful thing you’ve ever done, you prideful bastard.





Birdie



I feel like the world has ended, but I don’t understand why.

The instant Andrew walks out of my hotel room and the door slams shut behind him, my knees buckle, and I end up sitting on the fucking floor.

My God, what just happened?

You just let fear get into your head and ruin every-fucking-thing.

I roll my eyes at myself, but at the same damn time, tears come out of nowhere and start dripping down my cheeks.

Stress and sadness and emotions I don’t even understand sit like a rock inside my chest, and all I can do is focus on inhaling and exhaling deep, staggering breaths in and out of my lungs.

I don’t know how long I stay like that, on the floor, basically sobbing into my hands, but when I hear my phone ringing from where Andrew left it on the bed, I scramble to sit up and grab for it.

Maybe it’s him?

Maybe he wants to come back and talk this out?

But when Incoming Call Billie flashes across the screen, that rock in my chest only grows heavier.

I don’t want to answer it, but I know I need to. My sister has been trying to reach me for the past several hours, and I’ve been completely MIA.

Swiping a hand down my cheeks, brushing away the tears, I try to answer with the calmest voice possible. “Hey, sis,” I greet, but I don’t miss the way my voice wavers.

“Birdie,” she responds, her tone already concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound like you’re about to freaking cry. You’re not fine. What’s going on?”

I swallow hard against the onset of new tears. “Nothing.”

“Birdie. Seriously. What is going on?”

“God, I don’t know, Billie.” A shaky sigh consumes my lungs, and it causes a domino effect, opening the dam of tears again and allowing the stupid fuckers to flow down my cheeks in steady waves. “Everything is fucked.”

“If you’re freaking out about that article, you need to take a breath and realize it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not just the article,” I whisper.

“Then what is it?” she questions. “Did something happen with Andrew?”

Just the mention of his name makes my chest ache. “I just feel like everything is crashing down on me.”

“I get that you’re upset right now, but you’re going to have to be a little more specific for me to actually understand what you’re talking about.”

An unsteady exhale jumps from my throat. “Here’s the thing. I don’t understand what’s going on, so I don’t even know what to tell you.”

“I think the beginning is a good place to start,” she coaxes gently. “How about, why don’t you tell me how the paparazzi managed to snap photos of you and Andrew kissing and laughing and hugging and doing all sorts of cutesy shit on a night that I know has nothing to do with the movie? A night that I know with certainty was after you guys wrapped up filming.”

I make no move to answer.

“Okay, fine. I’ll make this simple. Answer me this—have you guys been hooking up in Memphis?”