Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(99)

Billie: Maybe you should also call Andrew. You know, just so he knows you made it back okay.



Me: Shut up, Billie.



Her response? The middle-finger emoji followed by, I love you, even though you’re a total lunatic. I swear you’re just like Granny.

I roll my eyes and toss my phone down onto the bed and try to mentally prepare myself to pack my bags and get ready for my flight, but I find myself staring at my stupid phone.

Should I try to call him? Or text him? Or go to his hotel room?

I don’t know what I should do.

All I know is that I don’t like what happened. I hate what happened, actually.

My phone chimes with a text message, and I hurriedly pick it up off the bed.



Candy: Good news. I just got a call from Andrew’s publicist, and she’s putting out a statement on his behalf that tells the public you two are not romantically involved and the photos were taken during filming. Obviously, you’re still going to deal with a few weeks of backlash about this, but it should settle down sooner rather than later.



My heart falls into my damn feet.

Always a man of his word, Andrew appears to have just made it painfully clear—he’s done with it. Done with me.

Fuck, if only it didn’t feel like a dagger in my heart.





Andrew



Pregnant women are kind of fucking scary.

“What the fuck, Andrew?” Blake’s voice scratches against my eardrums. “Why are you still in bed?”

“Go away.” I groan into my pillow and make no move to open my eyes.

“Go away?” he shouts. “You have three radio interviews and two online live videos to get through today, and they start in exactly five minutes!”

“I’m not doing shit today,” I mutter, my voice muffled against pillowy cotton.

“And what am I supposed to tell all the people who expect an interview with you? That you’re being a real pompous asshole and refusing to get out of bed and don’t give a shit about wasting their time?”

“Tell them whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care.”

“I truly hate my job right now,” he says, more to himself than to me.

Yeah, you and me both, buddy.

When I can feel my assistant staring holes into my skull while he paces my bedroom, I turn onto my back and open my eyes.

“You look like shit,” Blake states and stops at the foot of my bed. “You appear to be living out of your fucking bedroom. And you’ve been back in LA for exactly one week, and you’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass.”

A harsh laugh pops from my throat. “You know, I could say the same about you.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you’re being fucking impossible, and apparently, trying to set your damn career on fire.”

“What can I say?” I shrug and sit up, resting my back against the pillows and headboard of my bed. “I guess I’m getting tired of Hollywood bullshit.”

“You and I both know that’s not what’s going on here.” It’s his turn to laugh. “You’ve been a fucking dumpster fire ever since the press started hounding you about your romantic involvement with Birdie Harris.”

I cringe. Just hearing her name feels like a sucker punch to the gut.

“And since you refuse to tell me anything about what really went down, all I can do is speculate,” he responds and runs an irritated hand through his hair. “Though, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Figure out what, exactly?”

“That you’re a pathetic mess of a man who’s trying to avoid the fact that he’s nursing a broken heart.”

When I don’t respond, he shakes his head on another sigh. “You know, you’d make my job a lot easier if you just told me the truth about what happened between you and Birdie. But since I’m well aware you have the relationship emotional intelligence of a teenage boy, I’m going to make this easy on you.”

“So, you’re finally going to leave me alone?”

“Yeah, something like that.” I don’t like the secret smirk that consumes his face, but when he tells me he’s going to clear my schedule for the rest of the week, I don’t question any of it.

“Sounds perfect,” I mutter and slide back down into bed. “And if you don’t mind, let the rest of the team know I don’t want to be bothered, too.”

Blake doesn’t say another word. Instead, he walks out of my bedroom, shuts the door behind himself, and officially leaves me the hell alone.

Fucking finally.




About an hour later, when I’m certain that Blake has left my house and no other visitors elect to come into my bedroom and bug the ever-loving shit out of me, I decide to get out of bed and head downstairs.

But the instant I step foot in my kitchen, I find Luca and a very pregnant Billie sitting casually at my kitchen table. He’s drinking a cup of coffee, and it appears she’s made herself at home and fixed a bowl of cereal.

“What the hell?” I question and glance between the two of them.

“Well, good morning, honey,” Luca responds, an annoyingly happy smile playing at his lips.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my brow furrowing. “How are you here? Did you guys make a career change into home invasions?”