I hate him.
I want him.
He’s a jerk.
A player.
Addicting.
Trouble.
Hate the Player, a slow burn and
hilarious romantic comedy from New York
Times bestselling author Max Monroe is available now!
“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s *ahem* because no other women ever do.”
That’s quite the way to start a conversation at a casual lunch, huh? Grilled chicken, French fries, and pelvic-fatigue, oh my!
And that’s not even the worst of it.
My friend Raquel didn’t pull any punches when she warned me about my brand-new co-star and his notoriously player-esque ways. Apparently, my most important mission on my first role in a feature film is to stay immune to his charms.
Are you kidding me? Production costs on this movie are in the hundreds of thousands a day, and staying away from a panty-whispering, vajayjay-charmer is supposed to be at the top of my list? Pfft. Puh-lease.
It doesn’t matter that he’s annoyingly attractive, uber rich, crazy famous, and lusted after by ninety percent of the female population; Andrew Watson is trouble with a capital T—especially for a woman like me.
As a preventative measure, I’ve decided to go ahead and hate him.
Don’t worry, you guys, I’m completely in control. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do something stupid like fall in love with him.
I can hate the player but still secretly love his addictive game.
I’m sure of it.
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Excerpt
Birdie
True to my name, I’m about to take fucking
flight. At least, I would if I could.
In this moment, it really would have been helpful if
my trainer hadn’t successfully eliminated all the extra flappy meat on my upper
arms. Surely, if I got them going fast enough, the wind beneath those bat wings
could have carried me up and through the ceiling of this place.
C’mon, you big baby, I coach myself. You can do this.
One cavernous breath into my lungs and then another and another, and eventually, just before
my vision turns tunneled, I will my feet to move away from the door.
Gleaming
marble floors, golden statues, and a freaking fountain in the center, the lobby
of Capo Brothers Studios is everything I should have expected and more.
If everything
is bigger in Texas, then everything is most certainly richer in LA.
I check in
with security quickly, my voice only a little croaky thanks to the frog in my
throat, and head for the elevator bank at the far side of the lobby.
I’m to head to
the fifteenth floor, I’m told, and then go straight down the hall to the glass
doors on the left at the end. There, I’ll find William Capo’s office—the head
honcho and only surviving brother of Capo Brothers.
My cowgirl
boots are noisy on the marble floors when I do as instructed. The sound you
make when you walk is such a small detail—one I don’t normally think about—but
the echo of their clack today makes my heart feel like it’s knocking into my
rib cage and each step across the ornate floor is merely a sound effect.
Fifteen floors
eclipse quickly—clearly, they’ve spared no expense on their elevator—and the
hallway that leads to William’s office seems strangely one-directional. Like
once I go down it—once I take this step—there will be no going back. Which is
probably why, after forcing myself to go the distance to the end, I pause at
the open door, the points of my booted toes just shy of crossing the line.
“Good
morning.” A pretty assistant dressed in a white power suit greets me before
I’ve even cleared the threshold of the door, and all thoughts of escape are
dashed. Like it or not, I’ve just been shoved over the line. I will my feet to
do the same as she continues to speak. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Birdie
Harris,” I answer and have to swallow hard against the dryness threatening to
close my throat. “I have an audition.”
My nerves are
so obvious, the assistant offers a sympathetic smile.
If she were
from my childhood hometown in West Virginia, she’d most likely be thinking Bless her heart.
She taps
something across the keyboard of her iMac and places her hand to the Bluetooth
at her ear. “Mr. Capo, I have Birdie Harris here.” Immediately, she looks away
from the computer and meets my eyes. “They’ll be ready for you shortly. You can
take a seat over there.” She points behind me, back through the door and across
the hall to what I’m assuming is a fancy-schmancy waiting room of some sort. I
haven’t encountered a place in the building that doesn’t have some sort of
gilded or marble inlay, so I highly doubt I’m going to step through that door
and into a room styled by the set designer for Saw. Though, I can’t say some sort of torture device wouldn’t be
completely misplaced right now. I’m already doing a pretty good job of mentally
waterboarding myself with worry.
I offer a
little nod, keeping my twisted, sicko thoughts to myself. I doubt they’re
interested in hiring a woman on the brink of a hysterical episode.
The secretary
quirks a brow, and I realize, though I’ve nodded my affirmation of
understanding, I’ve yet to move.
Good God, Birdie! Go sit down.
Annoyed with
myself, I turn on my boots and march across the hall so violently, it’s like
there’s an invisible person helping me along with a heavy hand at the nape of
my neck.
When I cross
into the room, a man is sitting on a swanky leather sofa with his booted feet
up on the coffee table. He glances up briefly before returning his eyes to the
phone in his lap. Embarrassed, I smooth my clomps instantly.
You’re a gazelle, Birdie, not a herd of
buffalo, I coach. Move like it.
With his
attention occupied, I survey him more closely as I move to take a seat across
from him. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his jawline would
make steel beams look weak. Seriously. Confronted with an earthquake, I would
seek shelter right under the eave of his jaw.
I’d love to
get another peek at his eyes just to study the color, but fearing the eye
contact that would require, I’m careful not to make any overt noises that might
draw his attention again.
When he
smirks, a devilish proposition-like smile at the screen of his phone, I don’t
have to wonder anymore.
Oh no. I know exactly who this man is.
Andrew Watson.
The very man
Rocky warned me about and I subsequently Instagram stalked. A laundry list of
different women dotted through his timeline, it confirmed everything Rocky told
me and then some.
All relaxed
and cool, he sits on the white leather sofa with one arm outstretched across
the back. Confidence and charm ooze from every freaking cell in his body. No
doubt, Andrew Watson is more than capable of commanding the attention of
everyone in the room, no matter the situation.
No wonder he’s one of Hollywood’s most
famous actors.
The only time I have that kind of quiet confidence is
when I’m onstage, singing my songs, lost in the music I created.
Just play it cool, Birdie.
On a deep
breath, I force the uncertainty and unease out of my shoulders and settle my
ass into the sofa across from him. He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the
other and casually adjusting the denim at his crotch.
My eyes are
immediately drawn to his bulge, and thanks to Rocky’s colorful descriptions of
his favorite appendage, a little penis-shaped soldier is burned in my brain.
After a few seconds of imagining the shape of his helmet and intensity of his
salute, I jerk my gaze away in a panic.
Jesus. As if this audition wasn’t screwing
with my head enough! Now I have Saving Ryan’s Privates, a military-themed porno my head just made up starring Staff Sergeant
Dick Richardson, complicating things even more!
I must make a
noise I don’t realize—the sound of my
saliva gurgling in my throat while I choke on it, perhaps—because Andrew
looks at me with curious eyes. I try like hell to keep my calm and act like I
haven’t just gone to mental war with the soldier in his pants, but there’s only
so much hysteria containment my mind is capable of.
“Uh…hi,” I
say, trying so dang hard not to glance back down at his crotch that I start
spewing diarrhea of the mouth about goddamn military-themed movies. “I never
saw A Few Good Men, but I hear Tom
Cruise was good in it.” When I realize what I’ve just said makes absolutely no sense to him—punctuated perfectly by
his eyebrows drawing together noticeably—the gurgling saliva turns into a
full-blown choke, and suddenly, the only way to breathe is through a hacking
cough.
Holy shit, I’m too anxious to be around
other humans right now! Also, I’m going to kill Rocky for putting this crap in my head about this guy’s penis.
“Are you
okay?” he asks, and I hold up my hand in some kind of gesture. I’m not sure of
its technical name, but its meaning is clear—please forget I exist right now.
He asks me once more, but I nod, and once the
embarrassing coughing fit passes, I meet his piercingly gray-blue eyes—seeing
their color is strikingly unavoidable now—and I offer a halfhearted smile.
“Sorry,” I
apologize. I didn’t mean to drag him into an impromptu SNL sketch where I choke on spit and say ridiculously
inappropriate, off-the-wall things. “I guess you could say I’m a little
nervous.”
His responding
smile gleams so bright, I have to wonder if he has an endorsement deal with
Crest toothpaste. His mouth would make a dental hygienist get on their hands
and knees and thank the Lord above.
“Don’t worry,
sweetheart. There’s no need to be nervous around me,” he responds, punctuating
his words with a wink.
If my mind
were a screenplay, the nerves would be exiting stage left.
Did he seriously just wink at me after
assuming that I’m nervous to be in his presence?
Surely, I’m
hearing this wrong. No one is that obsessed with themselves…right?
“Excuse me?” I
ask, and his megawatt smile is still ever-present.
“If you’d like
me to sign an autograph or take a selfie with you,” he enunciates slowly, as if
my being able to understand him clearly was the problem. “I can probably sneak
that in before I have to head in there.”
His autograph? You have got to be kidding
me. He sure is a cocky bastard—and for the first time today, I’m not even
talking about his dick.
Like the tip
of a match being swiped across the edge of a matchbook, aggravation bursts into
my veins.
“I’m here for
an audition,” I assert.
Unfazed, he
quirks a brow as if to say, my invitation
for an autograph still stands.
Attractive or
not, this guy is one of the biggest asses I’ve ever been around.
“I’m Birdie
Harris. I’m auditioning for the role of Arizona Lee.”
And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna land this acting gig just to spite this prick.
REVIEW:
There hasn't been a book yet that I haven't loved from Max Monroe. Hate the Player is about movie star Andrew and country singer/movie novice Birdie. The sparks fly from the moment they meet, but I believe she let a few too many of the warnings her friends gave her dictate what she did. She tried to fight the attraction because she believed there was nothing more to him than a player. He was intrigued from the beginning but was warned away from her by his best friend.
The slow realization of there being more beneath the surface is what I loved. She was hesitant to trust him, but she found it harder and harder to believe he was all bad, especially after the party. Andrew never let anyone get close enough to penetrate his heart, but something about Birdie made it impossible to stay away.
There were some hilarious parts, as well as, some upsetting moments. I really wanted to reach through my kindle and shake Birdie a time or two. Her sister Billie was great and I loved catching up with her. Whether he can open up enough to admit his feelings in time to save the relationship and if she can stop being stubborn and admit that she wants him (issues with her career and all) remains to be seen. If they can, they are set to be happy for the rest of their lives. If not, they risk losing their person forever.
I received an ARC in exchange for an honest, voluntary review.
About Max
Monroe
A duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.
Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.
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