Flipping His Script: A Loathing to Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  I felt my fingers clench. Towngirl? Seriously? I'd had just about enough. I glared up at her. "Yeah, so?"

  "So, it's pretty rude of you to talk about me like I'm not even here."

  "Yeah, well, it's pretty rude of you to show up and tell me to leave when I was here first."

  "Not when you're dining with my boyfriend."

  Boyfriend – for some stupid reason, the word sounded odd coming from someone so famous. In truth, I'd never thought of movie stars as having boyfriends or girlfriends the way normal people did.

  But then again, what would I know?

  I served waffles for a living.

  I said, "Do you even like waffles?"

  She made a sound of annoyance. "What?"

  "Waffles," I repeated. "Do you even like them?"

  She looked at me like I'd just suggested eating a turd. With a toss of her famously golden hair, she said, "I don't think that's any of your business."

  Oh, but it was. "I'm just saying, that's what they serve."

  "So?"

  "So, do you really want to eat here? I mean, if you don't like waffles—"

  Felicity slammed her handbag down onto the table. "Listen, Towngirl—"

  "Hey! I have a name."

  "Not to me, you don't."

  Desperately, I looked to Flynn. If we were truly friends, wouldn’t he be jumping in to smooth things over? As I watched, he reached out and took a leisurely sip of his juice.

  Well, that answered that question.

  I gave him a stiff smile. "How's your juice?"

  He gave a half shrug. "Eh, it's all right."

  "How about your lap?"

  He looked down. "What?"

  "Your lap," I repeated. "Would it like some juice, too?"

  From beside the table, Felicity gave a little gasp. "Did you just threaten him?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. He's drinking orange juice, not coffee."

  "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

  "I mean, if I wanted to damage his privates, I'd threaten him with scalding coffee, not orange juice." I glanced down to my own cup. Empty. Damn it.

  With mad inspiration, I called out to our waitress, "Hey, Joyce! Could we get some fresh coffee over here? Extra hot."

  Felicity gave another gasp. "Oh, my God. You're crazy."

  She was right. I was. But I hadn't started out that way. Just a week ago, I'd been a perfectly sane and reasonable person.

  I turned accusing eyes to Flynn. "This is all your fault, you know."

  For someone who'd just had his privates threatened, he looked annoyingly unconcerned. "Is that so?"

  "Yes. It is." I looked back to Felicity. "You know what? You want my seat? Fine. I'm leaving."

  Across from me, Flynn said, "How?"

  I turned to glare at him. "What?"

  "We drove together, remember?"

  As if I could forget. During the whole drive, he'd said nearly nothing, even as I tried to make conversation. The ride hadn't been terribly long, only twenty minutes from his house to the restaurant. Still, it had felt a whole lot longer with Flynn silently brooding in the driver's seat.

  Now I glanced toward the nearby window. Just outside, I could see Flynn's car, parked within throwing distance. "Yeah, well, I'll wait in the parking lot. It's not like I'm hungry anyway."

  The words had barely left my mouth when Joyce appeared with our order – a strawberry waffle and extra bacon for Flynn, along with the eggs and toast for me. Balancing the tray in her hand, Joyce looked to Felicity standing at the edge of our booth. "Excuse me. Could I squeeze in there?"

  Felicity whirled toward her and snapped, "What?"

  Joyce winced. "Sorry. I, uh, need to deliver the food."

  "So go ahead," Felicity said. "I'm not stopping you."

  Oh, for God's sake. "You are, too," I said. "You're in her way."

  This was true. Unless Joyce wanted to shove Felicity aside, no food would be delivered any time soon.

  Personally, I didn't care about the food, but I did care about Joyce. She didn't need the grief any more than I did.

  When Felicity still didn't budge, I told Felicity, "Unless you want her to toss the food over you."

  Looking beyond annoyed, Felicity grudgingly stepped toward my side of the booth, effectively blocking my escape as she gave Joyce barely enough room to set down the food and ask if we needed anything else.

  Scalding coffee – that's what I needed.

  But was it delivered?

  No.

  It wasn't.

  Whether by mistake or on purpose, Joyce had neglected to bring the coffee I'd requested.

  I almost sighed. Maybe it was for the best. As much I'd come to loathe Flynn, I wasn't so far gone that I'd scald his privates on purpose – even if the prospect did sound scarily delightful.

  So instead, I remained silent, even as Flynn assured Joyce that everything looked good, and that he'd let her know if we needed anything else.

  Oh, I needed something, all right. And not just coffee either.

  An escape.

  After Joyce left, I looked to Felicity and said, "I hope you like eggs."

  She frowned. "Why?"

  "Because that's what I ordered." And with that, I scooted to the end of the booth and waited for Felicity to get out of my way.

  She didn't budge, not even an inch. She was too busy frowning down at my breakfast. "But they're scrambled."

  "So?"

  "So I like mine poached."

  Oh, for crying out loud. "So order some. I'm not stopping you. Now will you please excuse me? I need to get out."

  She was still eyeing the eggs. "What?"

  "You're in my way."

  Finally, with a loud sigh, she moved aside like six inches, giving me just enough room to get out. I'd barely squeezed past her when she moved forward and claimed the spot that I'd been occupying.

  Fine.

  I turned and stalked toward the door, feeling everyone's eyes on me, even as Felicity called out, "Hey! Waitress! I need some poached eggs over here, and make it snappy."

  Resisting the urge to look back, I pushed through the main door and kept on going. By the time I reached Flynn's car, I was practically shaking, whether from nerves or old-fashioned fatigue.

  The truth was, I'd barely slept since Flynn's surprise appearance the other night. In just a few short days, he'd managed to upend the fragile life I'd painstakingly built for myself.

  Oh sure, he'd also offered me the prospect of earning a whole bunch of money, especially when I considered the bonus.

  If by some miracle, I made it to the end, the lump sum could be a life-changer. I could help Becka with more of her tuition and pay off some of our lingering bills. Who knows, maybe I'd even return to college myself and finish my degree.

  And if Flynn didn't pay up, I'd just have to strangle him – or at least reconsider that whole coffee-in-the-lap idea.

  Outside the restaurant, his car was locked, of course. This meant I had the pleasure of standing next to his passenger's side door like a total loser while he and Felicity dined inside.

  Could I see them?

  No. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.

  At night, it was easy to see into the restaurant from outside. But during the day, the glare of the sun meant that the only thing I saw now was my own reflection as I stood stupidly beside his car.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get any more humiliating, my earlier concerns were proved annoyingly accurate when I was accosted by someone I barely knew.

  But he definitely knew me.

  Chapter 25

  Anna

  I gave a little jump as an angry male voice called out, "Hey! Anna!"

  When I whirled to look, I spotted a cook from the day shift stalking toward me from somewhere near the rear of the restaurant.

  He was a big, burly guy with lots of tattoos. I couldn't remember his name, but I did know that we hadn't been particularly friendly, mostly because I barely knew him.


  He was holding a lit cigarette and scowling as he closed the distance between us. When he reached me, he said, "Thanks a lot."

  I gave him a worried frown. Obviously, he wasn't thanking me for real, but I had no idea what I'd done to deserve his apparent wrath. Reluctantly, I asked, "For what?"

  He gave a snort of disgust. "You know what."

  I shook my head. "No. I don't, honest." I glanced toward the restaurant. "Did something happen?"

  In the back of my mind, I had visions of Felicity making all kinds of trouble for the waitresses and cooks. In truth, the idea wasn't that far-fetched. That sort of thing happened all the time when difficult customers decided to make a stink.

  I could only imagine how big of a stink a famous movie star could make given half a chance.

  But already, the guy was saying, "Hell yeah, something happened. Carla got stuck with three of your shifts."

  Oh, crap.

  Belatedly, I recalled that he was living with a waitress on the day shift. Now, I couldn't help but cringe. "She did?"

  "Yeah. And you know she's eight months pregnant."

  In truth, I didn't know. I hadn't seen her in several months. But the realization made me feel ten times worse.

  I gave him an apologetic look. "So, she didn't have a choice?"

  He glowered down at me. "What do you think?"

  I bit my lip. "Gosh, I'm really sorry."

  "Sorry, my ass." He glanced toward the restaurant. "What, you thought it'd be a good joke to come in and show off?"

  "I wasn't showing off," I protested.

  "Oh yeah? Is that why you brought him?"

  He didn't say who he meant, but it was beyond easy to guess that he was talking about Flynn.

  I tried to explain. "I didn't bring him. He brought me." At the memory, I couldn't help but sigh. "I told him we should go somewhere else, but…" I hesitated. But what? After all, there was only so much I could say. Lamely, I finished by murmuring, "He just really wanted to come here, that's all."

  The guy was still glowering. "Sure he did."

  "He did," I insisted. "And about Carla, I meant what I said. I'm truly sorry." I gave him a hopeful smile. "Maybe Flynn can call Dwight and see if he'll change the schedule?"

  Dwight was the restaurant's manager. I'd never found him to be particularly reasonable, but I also knew that Flynn could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be.

  The cook gave a hard scoff. "Too late."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He already did that."

  "Sorry, what—"

  "He got you out of your shifts, right?"

  In reality, I had no idea who Flynn had talked to. But why quibble now? "Well yeah. I guess."

  "But fuck Carla, right?"

  "I never said that." I gave him a pleading look. "You want the truth? I didn't even want the time off. I didn't even realize that Flynn was doing it. If he'd asked me, which he totally didn't, I would've told him not to."

  Was I babbling? I felt I was babbling.

  In fact, I was still babbling when the guy cut me off, saying, "But instead, you brought him here for breakfast." He flicked his cigarette onto the ground. "And you wanna know what sucks ass?"

  By now, I was almost afraid to ask. "What?"

  "Carla – she's a big fan. She probably would've pissed her pants to meet him."

  Once again, I glanced toward the restaurant. Absently, I mumbled, "Trust me, she's not missing much."

  The words had barely left my mouth when I recalled that Flynn and I were supposed to be old friends. Would I really be running him down if that were the case?

  Quickly, I added, "I mean, he's a lot different in real life."

  But was he?

  The character he played on screen was a stone-cold ruthless bastard. In real life, he wasn't that much different, well, except for the accent and the sword, that is.

  Next to me, the guy was saying, "You wanna know what I think?"

  From the look on his face, I wasn't so sure. Still, I said, "What?"

  He looked past me and said, louder now, "I think he's a pussy."

  What could I say to that? Honestly, I had no idea.

  I was still trying to form a response when a familiar male voice from behind me replied on my behalf. "Yeah? You wanna say that to my face?"

  I whirled to look. And sure enough, there he was, Flynn, looking nearly as ominous as he did in the movies.

  Talk about bad timing.

  I was still looking at Flynn when the cook replied, "I did say it to your face, just now."

  With my gaze still on Flynn, I forced what I hoped was a smile. "So, are we ready to go?"

  He looked to the cook. "In a minute."

  I made a sound of frustration. "Why in a minute?"

  "Because Sammy and I aren't done talking."

  Sammy? Who was Sammy?

  The cook?

  It had to be. Even now, I was embarrassed that I couldn’t recall his name. But soon, my embarrassment faded to nothing as the whole "pussy matter" was settled beyond a doubt.

  The hard way.

  Chapter 26

  Anna

  As Flynn drove us out of town, I glared at him from the passenger's seat. "I can't believe you just did that."

  "Hey, it wasn't just me," Flynn said. "It was Sammy, too."

  "Yeah, well maybe you're both idiots."

  And this was a massive understatement.

  I'd just spent the last fifteen minutes watching, along with fifty other people, as Flynn and Sammy duked it out in the parking lot of Pinkie's Waffle Palace.

  I made a sound of irritation. "You know that was risky, right?"

  "No kidding," Flynn replied. "For a minute there, I thought he had me."

  I knew exactly what Flynn meant. There was a point, maybe ten minutes in, when Sammy had slammed Flynn up against the side of his car and went in with a lightning fast punch.

  Flynn had ducked just in time, leaving Sammy's fist flying toward the passenger's side window instead. And he'd hit it, all right. Even now, I was half-surprised the glass hadn't shattered.

  But it wasn't the thought of broken glass that had me cringing all over again. "I think he broke his wrist."

  "Nah," Flynn said. "A sprain maybe. But a break, I'm not seeing it."

  I gave Flynn a worried look. "You won't be seeing much of anything with your eye all swollen up."

  Without easing off the gas, Flynn leaned sideways and glanced at his reflection in the rear view mirror. "Nah. It's not gonna swell."

  I rolled my eyes. "It's already swelling."

  Dumb-ass.

  "And," I said, glancing down, "you got blood on my shirt." Whose blood, I wasn't even sure. Probably, I was just lucky that it wasn't my own.

  Being a dumb-ass myself, I'd stupidly tried to break up the fight. And how? By lunging for Flynn's hand and trying to drag him away – for all the good it did.

  It was like trying to drag a dump truck – without the wheels.

  In the process, I'd gotten blood from his hand onto my hand, which eventually ended up on the pale yellow shirt that I was now wearing.

  Probably, I should've worn red.

  From the driver's seat, Flynn said, "Don't worry about it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because technically it's my shirt."

  "So?"

  "I’m just saying, it's not a big deal."

  That's what he thought. I was in Flynn's car, wearing Flynn's clothes, and traveling to Flynn's house. This couldn’t be healthy. Still, I tried to look on the bright side. At least, I was being paid. And heaven knows, I needed the money.

  It was this line of thought that made me freeze in sudden horror. "Oh, my God."

  "What?"

  "Sammy – he'll probably get fired."

  Flynn gave me a sideways glance. "You think?"

  "Actually, I know he'll get fired." Suddenly, I wanted to throw up. I didn't know the employee manual by heart, but I was pretty darn sure that fist-fightin
g with customers in the parking was – how should I put it? – a big no-no.

  When Flynn made no reply, I turned and gave him a desperate look. "You've got to call them."

  "Who?"

  "The restaurant, obviously."

  "And why would I do that?"

  "Because you started it."

  "Me?" He laughed. "The guy called me a pussy."

  "Oh, please," I said. "You obviously knew him, so it doesn't count."

  Yes, the logic was a bit shaky, but I was in no mood to be reasonable.

  Flynn's laugher faded. "Lemme tell you something. It always counts."

  I gave an irritated sigh. "I don't even know what that means."

  "Yeah, but I do. So drop it."

  Drop it? Seriously? I wanted to throttle him. "I can't drop it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Carla's eight months pregnant."

  Flynn gave me a look. "Who the hell's Carla?"

  "Sammy's girlfriend, who by the way got stuck with three of my shifts, thanks to you."

  Flynn gave a half shrug. "Hey, I didn't do the schedule."

  His casual attitude was beyond grating. "Listen, whether you believe it or not, you caused them a whole bunch of misery."

  As usual, Flynn looked entirely unrepentant. "It wasn't me who threw the first punch."

  "Yeah, but you did that little 'forwarding' thing with your hand. What was he supposed to do?"

  Flynn's gaze remained on the road. "He could've walked away."

  "Oh really? Would you’ve walked away?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I’m just saying, if he made that 'bring-it-on' motion to you, would you’ve let it go?"

  After a long moment, Flynn replied, "I might've."

  "Oh, please," I said. "You are so full of it. You would've done the exact same thing he did, and you darn well know it."

  Flynn gave a low scoff. "Not the exact same thing."

  "What?"

  "I mean, hitting the window? Rookie move."

  "What is this? Some kind of joke to you?" My voice rose. "Have you been rich for so long that you don't know what it's like to be scared of losing your job?"

  Flynn's mouth tightened. "Don't worry, he's not gonna lose it."

  "Oh yeah? How can you be sure?"

  "I just am. So drop it."

  I gave him the squinty-eye. "I have ways of finding out, you know."

  "Yeah? And what are you gonna do?"