TAMING HOLLYWOOD'S BADDEST BO- Max Monroe Page 0,89

She’s so pissed at me that it’s cute. Truthfully, it brings back memories of the time we spent fighting with each other before—fighting and falling.

I have to bite my lip to fight my laughter.

Me: Don’t be silly about the phone number exchange, princess. Seeing as you’re my go-to person on set, surely, we need to be able to get in touch with one another.

Billie: I’m one-hundred-percent certain I will not need to get in touch with you.

Me: One-hundred-percent certain? I’m glad you expect to be that on top of things.

Billie: Why are you texting me?

Me: Because I like you, which means, I like texting you.

Billie: Well, I don’t like you. At all.

If she really didn’t like me, if she really wanted nothing to do with me, she would’ve already put her phone back into her pocket and ignored my messages.

But she’s still standing there, phone in her hand, staring at the screen like she’s waiting for me to respond.

Call me crazy, call me delusional, but I’m taking that as a good sign.

Me: Well, no matter if you like me or not, you ARE my go-to person, and I have a few things I think need help getting solved.

Billie: Like what? Babysitting movers? Your damn laundry?

I type out a reply, hit send, and wait for her sassy response.

The smile on my lips is too powerful to hide.

Me: No, but if you would like to do my laundry, I can definitely oblige.

Billie

How quickly does underwear burn if you light it on fire? I was just minding my own business, helping our camera crew work out a few issues, and avoiding Luca Weaver like the coronavirus.

All was good.

Until my phone vibrated with a text message from the infectious devil himself.

Back and forth we went, until he offered to let me do his laundry.

As if I’d even be willing to wash his freaking socks.

Pretty sure if Serena says to do his laundry, you’ll be there with detergent, you little liar.

No, brain, I disagree. If Serena says to do his laundry, I’ll somehow manipulate Chuck the Errand Boy into doing it and make him think it’s his brilliant idea.

Boom. How ’bout them apples?

Jesus. I am now having arguments with myself. About Luca.

Pretty sure this is a new low.

I reread the last stupid text he sent me and don’t hesitate to respond, my fingers quick and my words sassy.

Me: I know you celebrities are used to the five-star treatment, like having people wipe your ass for you, but I’m no ass-wiper and I’m certainly no maid. You can do your own stupid laundry, buddy.

Ha. Suck on that.

I’m two seconds away from tossing out jazz hands and celebrating my text victory when my phone vibrates with another message.

Unknown: Suit yourself, princess. But just know, the laundry offer always stands. Indefinitely.

This fucking guy. If I had a voodoo doll of him, I’d stab so many needles into that little bastard. His eyes, his ears, his heart, his penis—nothing would be off the table.

I huff out a breath and send a sarcastic response.

Me: Oh wow, that’s so generous of you.

Unknown: Well, I’m a generous kind of guy.

Bullshit. He is a lot of things, but he is not that.

Self-involved? Yes.

A prick? Oh, hell yes.

But generous? I don’t think so, bucko.

Are you sure about that? my brain taunts. Because he’s here. Doing this movie. That you asked him to do.

I sigh at myself. Yeah, but he decided to do this movie after he wrote me off as some random girl he fucked a couple times.

Otherwise known as, he broke your heart.

Ugh. I need a lobotomy. Or a new brain.

But before I can process the pros and cons of a brain transplant, my phone vibrates in my hand with more bullshit. From him.

Unknown: By the way, this morning, I overheard some issues with the lighting crew, and it sounds like they are having some serious disagreements on budget. You might want to look into it.

What the hell?

Unknown: And Carrie in the makeup department is peeved that FedEx has failed to deliver something that’s apparently needed, but since she’s busy with makeup testing on the cast all day today, she doesn’t have time to figure out how to solve that problem.

How is he aware of these things and I’m not?

It’s like he’s undercover with the FBI and has the whole damn cast and crew wired.

I’m irritated with myself that he knows these things and I don’t.

And, irrational or not, I’m really fucking irritated that he, of all people, is texting me about them.