Flipping His Script: A Loathing to Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  Anna

  I was hiding in the walk-in freezer when Betsy barged in, looking flushed and excited. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "You'll never guess who's out there."

  I didn't need to guess.

  I knew. I'd seen him walk in. And then, I'd made a quick break for the freezer, where I'd hoped to be spared the sight or sound of him. And vice-versa.

  "Well?" Betsy said. "Aren't you gonna guess who it is?"

  I tried look suitably clueless. "I, um…who?"

  She smiled like it was Christmas morning. "Flynn Archer."

  "Oh?" I tried to smile back. "Wow."

  "Not just wow," she said. "Double wow. He said you're friends. How come you never told me?"

  The answer to that was easy.

  We weren't.

  But I didn't say it. Flynn was Betsy's favorite actor, and I hated the thought of crushing her excitement.

  She had three kids, no husband, and two crappy jobs. If anyone needed a fantasy, it was her. Still, it would've been so much nicer if only she'd picked a different actor to drool over.

  During the ten depressing months that I'd been working here, I'd had to listen to Betsy night after night, talking about how much she loved not only Flynn, but also the series of movies that had made him famous.

  Generous to a fault, Betsy also loved Flynn's co-star, Felicity Saint Cloud, who was indisputably one of the most beautiful women in the world.

  Together, Flynn and Felicity comprised one of the most famous couples on the planet, and not just in the movies. Rumor had it, they were like two minutes away from announcing their engagement.

  I was glad for them, truly I was – Flynn in particular.

  But every time I heard his name or saw his face, even on a stupid movie poster, my stomach clenched with the certain knowledge that he'd probably just love to give me a good lopping if our paths ever crossed.

  Sword meet neck.

  His sword.

  My neck.

  Yikes.

  Luckily for me, he confined his lopping to the movies, which meant that my neck was probably safe. Still, I was under no illusion that I'd be spared his lingering wrath.

  When I shivered in the freezer, it wasn't because of the cold.

  Still, I gave Betsy what I hoped was a smile. "Well, I guess it's your lucky day, huh? You get to wait on a bigtime movie star." I tried to laugh. "I hope he's a good tipper."

  She leaned forward. "Oh, he is. Get this, he already gave me a huge tip, just for seating him."

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. That was strange.

  Nice but definitely strange.

  Still, I summoned up another smile. "Well, who knows, maybe he'll tip you again."

  But already, Betsy was shaking her head. "Actually, it won't be me waiting on him."

  My stomach lurched. "What?"

  She was beaming now. "Yeah, it'll be you."

  I felt the blood drain from my face. "Me?"

  Betsy gave an enthusiastic nod. "Oh yeah. He asked for you personally, you know, because you're friends and all." With a little laugh, she reached out and gave me a mock push to my shoulders. "I still can't believe you didn't tell me."

  And I didn't believe this night could've gotten any worse.

  Just an hour ago, a collision with a customer had sent a tray of dirty dishes crashing to the floor – except for a single cup of stale coffee, which had bounced off my torso on its way down, leaving not only a giant damp patch, but also a huge stain in its wake.

  I frowned down at the stain. Well, it's not like my uniform could've gotten any uglier.

  In the freezer, Betsy was still talking. "But later on, you'll tell me the whole story, right? You know, of how you ended up friends?"

  No. I wouldn’t.

  I wouldn’t be telling anyone.

  Cripes, I didn’t even want to think about it. But that wasn't my biggest problem now. Now, all I wanted was a way out.

  I simply couldn’t wait on him.

  And in truth, I was kind of surprised that he wanted me to.

  I tried to think. Obviously, he wasn't here by chance, which meant that he'd surely catch me sooner or later. And until that happened, I'd be a nervous wreck, watching over my shoulder and jumping at every sound.

  As if I needed something else to worry about.

  Damn it. I had to face facts. I couldn’t avoid him forever. So instead, I decided I'd simply march out there and get it over with – the ass-chewing I so richly deserved, in Flynn's mind, anyway.

  As I left the freezer, I said a silent prayer that whatever happened, it would soon be over.

  No such luck.

  Chapter 6

  Anna

  When I reached Flynn's table, he didn't even look up. Instead, he continued to scan the menu, as if trying to decide what he wanted.

  I knew what he wanted.

  Revenge.

  Apparently, ignoring me was the first step.

  After all, Flynn wasn't blind or stupid. He obviously realized that I was standing right here, within stabbing distance. And he had asked for me, so it's not like my appearance should've been a surprise.

  I stood in growing discomfort while he continued to study the menu like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen all week.

  What a joke.

  Except I wasn't laughing. And from the set of his shoulders, neither was he.

  Finally, with mock cheer, I said the thing I always said to new customers. "Hi, I'm Anna, and I'll be your server. Can I get you something to drink while you decide?"

  Slowly, taking his sweet ol' time, he looked up. When our gazes met, his lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. "Not yet."

  An icy shiver crept up my spine. That smile – it was so cold, it made me want to run straight back into the freezer.

  To warm up.

  But that would only delay the inevitable. So instead, I gave a resigned sigh. "In case you didn't know, we're officially closed, so if you want to order, you'd better hurry."

  He relaxed back into the booth. "That's not what Betsy said."

  Great. So he and Betsy were on a first-name basis? Well, goodie for him.

  I gave him a tight smile. "Yeah, well Betsy's not your waitress, is she?" I glanced toward the kitchen. "And besides, the cook's been here for like ten hours, and he's got class in the morning."

  "So?"

  "So it would be really super nice if you could order now so he can clean the grill and go home."

  It was the kind of thing I'd never say to a normal customer, even if it was past closing time. But it was beyond obvious that Flynn wasn't here for waffles or anything else on the menu.

  If he was truly hungry, it was for human blood, mine in particular.

  But hey, I told myself, I could handle it. If he wanted to make me miserable, fine. But there was no need for him to make everyone else miserable in the process.

  In spite of my rudeness, Flynn looked annoyingly unruffled. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll make it worth his while."

  I stiffened. It was the same sort of thing my stepfather might've said, well, before he was shuffled off to prison for a whole slew of financial crimes, that is. But before then? He was always saying stuff like that.

  Mister Bigshot.

  Back when I'd been in high school, he'd owned half the town. And the other half? Well, let's just say the owners tried to stay in his good graces.

  One thing about my stepfather, he could make life living hell for the people he didn't like.

  And he hadn't liked Flynn. Or more accurately, he hadn't liked the teenager named John Archer. Yes, that had been Flynn's name, before he'd become a bigtime movie star.

  Funny, even back then, the name John had been way too generic for a guy like him – sinfully sexy and dangerous to know, especially for someone like me, who'd been desperate to keep a low profile.

  Now, as I stood awkwardly beside his table, I took in his current appearance. In spite of the passing years, he looked nearly unchanged, with that same dark wavy
hair, those same knowing eyes, and that same lean, muscular build – tight at the waist and broad in the shoulders.

  But his clothes – they were definitely different. His gray button-down shirt, some pseudo-casual thing, was obviously expensive, just like his designer jeans and Italian shoes. Even the watch on his wrist screamed money, and not just a little. I knew the brand. And unless I was mistaken, the thing had cost more than a year's rent for someone like me.

  I had to admit, for a guy from the middle of nowhere, he'd done amazingly well for himself.

  But me? Not so much.

  As I stood there in the crummy little restaurant, it wasn't lost on me that I looked like absolute crap. My dress was ugly, and my shoes were too sensible by half. Even my hair, which I'd always thought was my best feature, was coiled so tight, I might as well be wearing a baseball cap.

  In contrast, Flynn looked yummier than any waffle on the menu. Even his smile – as cold as it was – had become a billion-dollar trademark of the ruthless prince he played in the movies.

  He wasn't dressed like a medieval prince now, but he still looked princely enough to put me and my current situation to shame.

  I'd grown up with the finer things in life, and I knew them when I saw them. Oh sure, these days I never saw them in my own closet, much less the mirror. But the truth was, I was beyond caring – most of the time, anyway.

  When I'd been growing up, all of those luxuries had come with a whole lot of strings – secret strings that were pulled way too tight. Now, those strings were gone, just like the lifestyle that went with it.

  But hey, I was free.

  That was a good thing, right?

  Still, it was hard not to wilt under Flynn's penetrating gaze. When he zoomed in on the coffee stain, I wanted to die of embarrassment.

  As heat flooded my face, I gritted out, "So? Are you gonna order or not?"

  With a self-satisfied smile, he folded the menu and set it aside. "I'll have an orange juice." He paused. "And a waffle."

  I tried not to roll my eyes. Of course he would. That was practically the only thing we served. "What kind of waffle?"

  He gave a tight shrug. "Surprise me."

  Those were dangerous words at a time like this, when I knew for a fact that cockroaches had this annoying habit of scuttling behind the restaurant's dumpster.

  One cockroach waffle coming up.

  But who was I kidding? I'd never do such a thing. Regardless of what Flynn thought, I was no monster. I was just someone who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Just like him

  Chapter 7

  Flynn – Ten Years Earlier

  I hit the brakes. What the fuck?

  It was just past eleven o'clock on a cold November night, and I was driving home – or what counted as home, anyway – from my sorry-ass job at the gas station.

  Up ahead, on the darkened country road, I could've sworn I just saw a girl dive into the roadside ditch. The ditch was big and empty, thanks to the recent dry spell. But that didn't mean it was a good place to hang out for kicks.

  It was a Tuesday night, and the wind was cutting. I knew this, because I'd just spent the last two hours freezing my ass off when the station manager decided that someone – me – needed to sweep the parking lot by hand.

  Dickhead.

  If I didn't need the money, I would've told him where he could shove the broom and the job. The lot had been clean enough already. But the guy did get off on making me do stupid shit, just because he could.

  The place doubled as a convenience store, and by now, I knew the guy's little secret – he made a habit of helping himself to the beer and wine when he thought no one was looking.

  Maybe that's why he'd sent me outside, so he could drink in peace.

  But that wasn't the thing getting under my skin now. It was the thought of some girl hiding in the ditch. I frowned. It had been a girl, right? I hadn't seen her face, but the hair – too long and too pretty – didn't belong to any guy I knew.

  And she'd been small, compared to me, anyway – probably not a kid, but not a grownup either.

  Was she okay?

  I rubbed at my eyes. Hell, was I okay?

  Or was I finally losing it?

  It had been one of those days.

  On instinct, I'd already yanked my rusty pickup off to the shoulder and cut the engine. Then, I cut the headlights, too.

  I left the truck and started walking. By the time I reached the spot where I'd seen her, I was half-convinced that I'd seen nothing worth stopping for.

  But then, I caught movement in the weeds and spotted her, hunkered down in the shadows.

  And that's when I cursed.

  I knew her. We went to the same school, but ran in different crowds – and not only because she was a junior and I was a senior.

  It was Anna Fucking Burke, whose dad owned half the town, even the gas station where I worked. I'd never seen the guy, but I knew his reputation. He was a total dick, and famously protective when it came to his precious daughter.

  If I were smart, I'd turn around and head straight back to the truck.

  But like a dumb-ass, I didn’t. I moved closer to ask, "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing," she hissed. "Go away."

  I squinted through the shadows. She wore a lacy short-sleeve shirt, cropped jeans, and little white sneakers. No coat.

  I gave her a look. "Are you fucking crazy?"

  "Yes," she whispered. "So go away."

  I didn't budge. "Where's your ride?"

  "I don't have one."

  I almost laughed. Well, this should be good. "Why not?"

  "I just don't," she said. "So forget you saw me, all right?"

  Now, I couldn’t help but scoff. Obviously, she was meeting someone, probably some guy for whatever – drugs, sex, a good time. I didn't know, and I didn't care.

  Anna was the richest girl in town. Whoever she was meeting, she'd be slumming it, at least in daddy's eyes.

  Like the smartass I was, I couldn't resist teasing, "So, does your dad know you're out here?"

  She stiffened. "Shut up."

  I was grinning now. "So, he doesn't?"

  "Will you please just go away?"

  I'd seen Anna a few times in the halls, surrounded by friends that weren't nearly as rich as her, but still a whole lot richer than me.

  Then again, everyone was.

  Me – I was John Archer, a charity case, a foster kid, the unwanted spawn of a woman I barely remembered, except in my nightmares.

  But Anna Burke, she was living the dream. I gave her a knowing smile. "So, what are you doing? Slumming it?"

  "What?"

  I made a show of looking around. "Unless, you live in the ditch?"

  She didn't. Obviously. This stretch of road was just a quarter-mile from the river. On the river, houses were big and fancy – and off limits to the likes of me.

  Here, it was a different story. Here, there were open roads and not much else, except wooded lots and the occasional hiking trail.

  If a rich chick were going to sneak out of her riverfront home to meet someone on the sly, this was as good a place as any.

  Still, I had to scoff. One thing about rich girls, they were never as smart as they thought they were. If she'd been smarter, she would've remembered to bring a coat.

  From the shadows, Anna replied, "Yeah. I live here. In the ditch." Her voice deepened, as if mimicking an old man. "So get off my lawn."

  I laughed in spite of myself. "Doesn't look like a lawn to me."

  "Yeah, well, the gardener's been a little busy."

  As far as a joke, it wasn't half bad. And I might've laughed if not for the fact that she probably did have a gardener. And a maid. And a fucking chauffer for all I knew.

  I gave her a hard look. "What about the driver? Is he busy, too?"

  She shook her head. "What driver?"

  If she didn't get it, I wasn't about to explain. "Forget it."

  "Seriously, John..." Sh
e bit her lip. "That's your name, right?" She swallowed hard, and her voice hitched, like she just might cry. "You need to leave."

  Shit.

  I wasn't smiling anymore.

  I wasn't known for being a nice guy, but that hitch in her voice made me ask, "Hey, you need a ride somewhere?"

  "No," she whispered. "Just go away, like I said."

  She was sitting with her arms wrapped tight around her knees, like she planned to be there for a while. Or maybe she was just cold. Hell, I was getting cold, and I was wearing an old fleece-lined hoodie over my dirty gas station polo. But Anna, she had just the shirt, no sleeves, no collar either. I glanced toward her feet. She wasn't wearing any socks.

  Weird.

  Then again, maybe she planned to kick off those shoes as soon as her date – or whoever – picked her up.

  I frowned. But I hadn't seen a car – not ahead of me or behind me. And she wasn't acting like someone heading out for a good time.

  Something made me ask, "You running from someone?"

  "Yeah," she snapped. "You." Her voice rose. "Seriously, what's your problem?"

  I had so many problems, she had no idea. But a rich girl like her? She probably thought that a chipped nail was a major catastrophe.

  And yet, like a dumb-ass, I still didn't like the thought of leaving her out here alone. Rich people were different. I knew that.

  Still, something was definitely off.

  But I was no knight in shining armor. And if she wanted me to go, it wasn't like me to stick around. And yet, when I saw her shiver, I didn't like it. So, idiot that I was, I yanked off my hoodie and tossed it in her direction.

  I half expected her to swat it away or tell me that she didn't want my cheap-ass hoodie when she had a closet filled with designer stuff at home. But she didn't do either of those things.

  Instead, she grabbed the coat like a lifeline and said something I never expected. "Thanks, seriously."

  "You're welcome." That's what I was supposed to say, right?

  Softer now, she added, "I owe you, okay?"

  I gave a tight shrug. The only thing she owed me was the hoodie back, which I'd make damn sure to get tomorrow at school. And if she forgot? I'd be waiting to remind her.

  I wasn't generous. Then again, I couldn’t afford to be.

  It was my only coat.