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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My Review
Absolutely hilarity, as usual from the super duo of Max Monroe.
This
one focuses on Birdie, a country music star making her film debut with
Hollywood's bad boy. Luca? No, not that one, this is the other one:
Andrew. Friends with Luca, serial playboy, full of snark and attitude.
Birdie can absolutely hold her own with him, and yet, she's finding it
difficult to resist his charms. Their on screen chemistry is taken off
screen, and that's when the fireworks really start!
This has
several prior characters, including her sister Billie and her husband
Luca and his sister Rocky and others make appearances. The three women
have a friendship filled with love and support and humor.
Just what was needed to escape from the current reality of life.
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.
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.
Connect with Max Monroe
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