Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Max Monroe

  Exit door in my sights, at the last minute, I veer away from the ladies’ room and step out into the humid night air.

  And right there, sitting on top of a sexy black motorcycle is Andrew.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I say through an amused laugh. “Where on earth did you manage to find a motorcycle at this hour of the night?”

  He winks. “Let’s just say I know a guy.”

  I quirk a questioning brow.

  “Fine. I know Paulie from the camera department, who just so happens to have rented this bike to enjoy a cross-country trip back to LA. He was kind enough to let me borrow it for the night.”

  “Now, that makes more sense.” A giggle escapes my lips.

  “You ready to make our last night in Memphis really count?”

  His question urges the first inklings of disappointment to start rolling around inside my belly.

  “You betcha,” I say, but I also can’t stop myself from adding, “God, it’s hard to believe it’s really our last night in the city.”

  Pretty sure the thing you’re having the hardest time believing is that your secret sex rendezvous with him isn’t just a rendezvous for you, and it might be coming to an official end…

  “How long are you planning on staying in LA once you get back?” he asks, and I shrug.

  “I haven’t finalized anything yet, but I wanted to stay around until Billie has the baby,” I answer honestly. “Then I guess, after that, I’ll be heading back to Nashville.”

  “You don’t want to stay in LA?” he asks, a surprisingly playful tone in his voice. “I mean, as you know, I’m in LA. And you and I together equals a hell of a lot of fun.”

  Fun. I don’t know why that word hits me square in the chest, but it does.

  Probably because this has become more than just fun for you.

  “I could say the same thing about Nashville, you know,” I tease right back, but my voice doesn’t exactly showcase laid-back or jokey. If anything, it’s all choppy and weird.

  Andrew searches my eyes for a long moment—for what, I’m not sure—but eventually, a smile appears on his lips. “Well, my mom does say you’re my girlfriend, so I guess that means I just might have to spend some time in Nashville, then, huh?”

  I start to open my mouth and press the conversation a little further, but I honestly don’t even know what to say to that.

  I mean, when I first met him, I outright hated him.

  Then, over time, something changed, and I found myself engaging in the hottest, top secret sex rendezvous I’ve ever experienced in my whole life.

  And now…I don’t know what’s going on or what I want or why the idea of this, whatever it is, ending is freaking me out a little bit.

  Because, not only did you fuck Andrew Watson, but you went ahead and fucking fell for him, too.

  Good God, what is wrong with me?

  My head is quickly turning into a scrambled mess of what-ifs and hows and whys, and I just don’t have the energy or the strength to try to understand it all right now.

  “So, I’m guessing the motorcycle is supposed to help us sneak away from the security details Howie has standing guard all over the place?” I ask in an attempt to divert the conversation to less confusing territories. Or, at the very least, distract my mind.

  “Yep,” he says with a wink and holds up a brown paper bag. “And these disguises will ensure no one in Memphis notices the famous Birdie Harris riding around on the back of my bike.”

  “Pretty sure you mean Paulie’s bike.”

  “That’s cute, firecracker.” Andrew smirks. “Now, open up that bag so we can put on our disguises and get the show on the road.”

  I open up the bag and riffle through its contents.

  “Oh God, don’t tell me I’m supposed to wear the mullet this time…” I pause and hold up the damn blond mullet in the air.

  “Get real, sweetheart. You know I’m the one who looks hottest in a mullet.”

  “So, this red wig is for me?”

  He nods.

  “Is this your way of telling me you have a thing for redheads, Andy?”

  “This is my way of telling you I have a thing for Birdie Harrises,” he answers, and it makes my heart do weird things inside my chest.

  But I breathe past the strong sensation and slide the wig over my head.

  A mullet-wearing Andrew hands me a helmet, and I add that to the mix, carefully pulling it over my redhead disguise.

  Then two matching black leather jackets are added to our ensemble, and with a strong hand, he helps me onto the back of the bike.

  “Hold tight, firecracker,” he instructs over his shoulder, and I wrap my arms around his trim waist. “Because we’re about to have some fast fucking fun.”

  The engine rumbles to life, and Andrew slowly guides the bike out of the alleyway and through the parking lot.

  Once we hit the main road, he opens up the throttle, and a rush of excitement falls straight into my belly.

  The air turns cool against the exposed skin of my neck and hands.

  Streetlights pass by us in an almost blur.

  And the only sounds filling my ears are the rumble of the engine, the whoosh of the wind, and the soft noises of my muffled breaths inside the helmet.

  It feels like freedom and peace.

  It feels good. Just Andrew and me, without a care in the world, driving through the streets of downtown Memphis.

  I grip his waist tighter when he merges onto the highway, and I simply enjoy the way it feels to fly through the night.

  I don’t know how long we drive, but it feels like hours and no time at all.

  Eventually, though, as he switches highways and the lights of downtown Memphis shimmer like a beacon ahead of us, he hops off an exit ramp and pulls into a gas station.

  “Gotta fill up, sweetheart,” he says as he cuts the engine in front of a pump and pops down the kickstand. He slides his helmet off his head and flashes a smirk in my direction. “Otherwise, Paulie will be pissed at me.”

  “I guess I’ll run in and use the ladies’ room, then.” I hold out my hand, and he helps me off the bike. But when I attempt to take off my helmet, the damn wig gets tangled in the visor and comes off with it too. “Shit.”

  Carefully, I try to untangle it from the visor, but the stupid wig just turns into more of a mess.

  “Having a little trouble, firecracker?” he asks, smirking down at me.

  “Uh…ya think?” I hold up the helmet and wig with one hand and put the other defiant hand to my hip.

  Once he puts the pump in the tank and starts to fill up, he takes the helmet from my hands. “Well, shit, Birdie. How in the hell did you manage this?”

  “I don’t freaking know!” I toss both of my hands in the air. “I think you should’ve gotten me a shorter wig or something. The damn thing got all tangled from the wind.”

  He flashes a knowing, playful grin in my direction. “You’re blaming this on me now?”

  “Well, if the shoe fits, buddy…” I pause, and his grin turns downright sinful.

  My helmet and wig set down on the bike, he reaches out with two strong arms and pulls me tight to his chest. “Goddamn, you’re a sassy little thing, aren’t you?” he whispers against my mouth. “You have no idea how fucking crazy it makes me.”

  His lips to mine, he presses a slow, deep, insanely addictive kiss to my mouth, and my knees feel like buckling.

  Christ. This man can kiss.

  “Prepare yourself, firecracker,” he whispers against my pliant mouth. “The instant we get back to the hotel, I’m going to have my wicked way with you.”

  Oh, yes please.

  Andrew

  Like that Roy Orbison song, I drove all night.

  But only, it was better.

  I wasn’t alone on that bike, driving through downtown Memphis and cruising on the highways surrounding the city. With her hands wrapped around my waist, her chest pressed against my back, and her thighs straddlin
g my hips, Birdie was right there with me.

  When the clock struck three and the feel of her tight little body wrapped around me had driven me to the brink of madness, I parked the bike outside of our hotel, tossed her over my shoulder, and carried her to her room.

  I couldn’t bother with worrying about who saw us.

  I just…had to get inside her.

  Thankfully, she felt the same way.

  The instant the door shut behind us, she attacked me with hot kisses and greedy hands removing both of our clothes.

  We tumbled to the bed, and I didn’t waste any time sliding my cock inside her.

  Fuck. She feels so good.

  She moans, and I push myself deeper, savoring the vision of her gorgeous naked body beneath me.

  “More,” she whispers through a whimper, and I have no problem obliging her demands.

  In and out, in and out, I pick up a delicious rhythm, and her perfect pussy tightens around me, the pleasure already beginning to take hold of her.

  Goddamn. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of her.

  When I look down at her, searching the depths of dark brown, it becomes glaringly clear that I’ll never get enough of this woman.

  And that realization makes me feel crazed with need.

  Moving up onto my knees, I grip her thighs in both hands and thrust hard, going as deep as I can go.

  She responds in fervor, a guttural moan bursting from her lips.

  “More. More. More,” she begs, and then reaches up with both of her hands to pull my mouth back down to hers.

  Her kisses are greedy and erratic and only make me feel more addicted to her.

  Like she is the only one who can give me what I need, what I want.

  Like she’s everything I’ll ever need, filling all the voids and missing parts in my life.

  Like she’s it for me.

  Because she is.

  That realization makes me feel both terrified and on top of the fucking world.

  And it urges me to slow down, to savor this moment with her.

  To press soft kisses on every inch of her body.

  To taste her skin.

  To feast on her breasts and her pussy.

  To stare deep into her eyes when I slide back inside her.

  To memorize the way her eyes look when she’s reaching her climax and the way her lips part and her fingers grasp at my skin like the pleasure is too much to bear.

  Once the pleasure washes through us and our breaths slow down, I pull her into my arms and keep her perfect body pressed against mine.

  “I’m so sleepy,” she whispers, and I smirk down at her. “What time is it?”

  “Almost five.”

  “Holy moly.” A raspy giggle leaves her lips. “I should be pissed at you for keeping me up so late.”

  “You being pissed at me isn’t anything new, sweetheart.”

  “You sure about that?” She looks up at me. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t been mad at you lately.”

  “That’s true,” I agree, and a gentle smile plays at the corners of my lips. “What do you make of that?”

  “I think…” She pauses and yawns again. “It’s a combination of several things.”

  I raise a questioning brow. “And what would those things be?”

  “Well, for one, you’ve stopped being such a dick to me,” she teases. “And you give me lots of orgasms.”

  “Which might be my favorite thing in the world to do.” I flash a little wink in her direction. “And what else has kept angry Birdie at bay?”

  “The fact that you do sweet things for me.” Her brown eyes turn tender. “Like being there for me when I’m having a hard time or remembering the significance of blueberry waffles or throwing an outrageous surprise party for me,” she rambles off a few of my happiest memories over the past several weeks. “Things like that. Those are the things that make it impossible for me to be pissed at you.” She yawns again, and her eyes grow heavy.

  “You need to sleep,” I whisper and press a soft kiss to her forehead.

  “Mmhmm. I sure do.” Birdie snuggles closer against me, and it takes all of two minutes for her breaths to slow and her body to grow lax against me.

  My heart expands in my chest as I stare down at her sleeping face and gently brush a few rogue locks away from her cheek. And in the quiet of the hotel room, my mind whispers, You’re in love with this woman.

  Because I am.

  Birdie

  Andrew sure knows how to wake a girl up.

  My eyes flutter open when I feel the softest of kisses, from the most perfect mouth, move across my lower back, just barely above the curve of my ass.

  “Mmmm.” I moan and stretch my arms as full lips continue a path up my spine and don’t stop until they reach my shoulders and neck.

  “Morning,” he whispers into my ear and rests his chin on my shoulder, his arms now wrapped around my waist and hugging me closer to his chest.

  “Mornin’,” I rasp out, my voice still groggy with sleep. “What time is it?”

  “A little after ten.”

  “It’s already ten?” I question and turn to meet his eyes. “It feels crazy early.”

  “That probably because you only slept five hours.”

  “What about you?” I question and reach up to smooth a finger across a wrinkle on his forehead. “Did you get any sleep?”

  He shrugs. “I did okay.”

  “Just okay?” I raise a brow. “How many hours is just okay?”

  “More than two, but less than four?”

  I giggle at the absurdity of that response. “So, three?”

  “Something like that.” He grins. “Hungry?”

  “I could definitely eat.”

  “How about I order us some room service, and then we can try to rearrange our flights so we’re both heading back to LA on the same plane?”

  We’re both due to fly back to LA today, but his flight leaves about four hours later than mine.

  “If that order includes pancakes and coffee, then I’d say it’s a brilliant plan.”

  “Consider it done,” he says and slides off the bed to grab the hotel phone.

  While he’s busy chatting with the hotel concierge, I get up to snag my cell from where it was discarded last night—on the floor, still in the back pocket of my jeans. But before I can climb back into bed and leisurely scroll through social media, I notice several notifications on the screen.

  Five missed texts from my group chat with Billie and Rocky.

  Eight missed calls from my publicist and Samantha.

  And a barrage of other missed calls and emails and text messages from the rest of my team.

  Holy moly, where’s the fire?

  I unlock the screen and tap the group chat with Billie and Rocky.

  Billie: Um…what are you not telling me????

  That’s the first missed message, and a link to an article sits below it.

  Rocky’s response to said article? Oh my God, Birdie!! What is going on, girlfriend???

  I don’t waste any time opening up the link, and right there, on one of the most popular gossip websites in the freaking world, is an article titled “Hollywood’s Hottest Player is Playing with Costar Fire.”

  And the first thing below the headline? A picture of Andrew and me, after my stupid red wig had gotten stuck in my helmet and was no longer on my head. We’re standing in front of a gas pump, right beside Paulie’s motorcycle, with our lips locked and our arms wrapped around each other.

  Oh my God. My hand shoots to my mouth and a knot lodges in my throat.

  With shaking fingers, I keep scrolling through the rest of the article, in which whoever wrote it rambles on and on about how Andrew and I are hooking up. How an inside source has told him that we’ve been hooking up. How I’m going to end up like all the other women who have fallen for Hollywood’s Most Notorious Player. The stupid columnist even joked about me foll
owing in Taylor Swift’s footsteps for my next album and just writing songs about my future breakup and broken heart courtesy of Mr. Andrew Watson.

  And it is all followed up with more photo proof.

  There must be twenty fucking pictures of the two of us at that damn gas station, and even though his mullet disguise is still on, whoever captured us on camera was able to zoom in close enough to make out his unsuspecting face perfectly.

  Holy fuck. This is not good.

  And it’s exactly why my whole damn team has been demon dialing me all morning.

  “Everything okay, sweetheart?” Andrew asks, and I lift my eyes away from my phone to meet his concerned gaze.

  “Not exactly.” I sigh and pull up Candy’s contact in my phone. “I need to call my publicist right now.”

  Candy answers on the first ring. “Birdie, this isn’t good.”

  “We didn’t know there were paparazzi last night,” I mutter, a half-assed explanation that she completely ignores.

  “Do you realize the consequences of being tied to a man with a reputation like Andrew?” she questions, and I don’t miss the irritation in her voice. “Normally, high-profile relationships are good publicity, but your wholesome, girl-next-door country music image laced with his decade-long playboy reputation is going to be really hard to spin.”

  “It can’t be that bad, right? I mean, surely, we can work around this.”

  She sighs heavily into the receiver. “I don’t think you’re understanding the consequences of something like this.”

  Normally, my publicist is a fairly straight shooter, but right now, it appears she’s going right for the no-bullshit bull’s-eye. In terms of consequences, I almost don’t want to hear what she really thinks about this, but I know I can’t just put my head in the sand and ignore it.

  “Spell it out for me.”

  “With the buzz around this movie and the fact that gossip columns have been trying like hell to connect the two of you as lovers, those pictures are going to go viral. By the end of the day, every major media source will cover it. Fans are going to see this plastered all over every social media platform,” she continues.