TAMING HOLLYWOOD'S BADDEST BO- Max Monroe Page 0,91
like RBF, but on purpose.”
“We going to roll through the whole alphabet before you stop talking in acronyms?”
Her scowl—wait, I mean her ABF—grows firmer. “Active Bitch Face.”
“Say what?”
“I’m not scowling, you bastard. I am purposely giving you active bitch face.”
“I’m guessing that’s bad?” I ask and bite my tongue when I’m tempted to tell her that, despite that scowl or bitchy face or what-the-fuck-ever expression she decides to give me, she never looks anything short of beautiful in my eyes.
“Yes,” she spits. “It’s awful. Just like my day from two o’clock on.”
I laugh. “Noted. You didn’t like dealing with the movers.”
“Correction,” she retorts. “I hated it.”
I step closer to her, closing the distance between us. She backs up into the kitchen island, but I’m right there, standing before her. I place my hands on the countertop, one on either side of her tiny hips, and will her to meet my gaze. She does. “Do you hate me, princess?” I ask.
“I don’t like you,” she whispers.
I smirk down at her. “But you don’t hate me?”
“I’m trying to hate you. Any day now, it’ll be my reality.”
I glance down at her mouth, and I can’t stop myself from reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
I don’t miss the way she shuts her eyes at my touch.
I don’t miss the way she takes a deep inhale and exhale as my fingers brush across her cheek and behind her ear.
And I certainly don’t miss the way her lips part and a stilted breath escapes her lungs.
“Do you want to know something?” I ask, my voice soft.
“What?”
“I don’t hate you,” I say and lean closer to her, my lips near her ear. “I could never hate you. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep at night.”
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, Billie’s big green eyes stare up into mine, and fuck, I want to lean down and press my lips to hers, but I steel myself not to follow through.
Even though I want her so fucking badly, I know I hurt her.
I know I have a hell of a lot of work to do to get back in her good graces.
And I know that if I do something crazy like kiss her, it will just confuse her, overwhelm her, push her further away.
Patience is a virtue, and I’ll be damned if I’m anything but patient when it comes to her.
Her eyes blink once, twice, three times, and as if she’s snapped right out of a trance, those big eyes of hers narrow, and her lips turn into a firm line again.
“Well…” She pauses and clears her throat. “I try not to think about you at all, but it’s very hard to achieve when you’re pretty much around all the freaking time.”
I smirk and step away, giving her the space she’s telling herself she needs, and proceed to pull the takeout boxes out of the bags.
“How about some tacos?”
She nods and heads toward the fridge. Visibly comfortable in my new home, she snags a can of Diet Coke and proceeds to look through each takeout box before she finds what she’s looking for—one taco, one enchilada, refried beans, and chips and queso.
Not even a minute later, her purse is over her shoulder and her car keys are in hand.
“You’re not going to eat?”
“Oh, I’m going to eat,” she says and picks up the can of cola and box of food. “I’m just not going to eat it here. With you.”
“Okay.” I bite my lip to fight my laughter. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And just like that, without another word, Billie is out of the kitchen and through the front door.
Not a goodbye. Not a see ya later. Not even a middle finger tossed in my direction.
Which I guess is a good thing?
Fuck if I know…
Patience, Luca. Just stay patient.
Billie
Goddammit, Cindy Lou Who, why’d you have to make this so hard? Loathing someone and being grateful for them at the same time is one serious mindfuck.
“How goes it in Hollywood?” Birdie asks, her voice echoing from the speakers of my car.
“Meh. It’s all right.”
All right? Pfft. More like, really fucking sad.
There are hundreds of places to eat lunch—craft services room, a café on Melrose, pretty much anywhere but my car. Yet here I am, eating lunch by myself, inside my Honda Civic, on purpose.
“Well, that sounds lame,” my sister retorts on a snort. “There has