How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days: Chick Flick Club #1

by Lila Monroe

  “Aww, I think it’s cute,” I elbow him. “He believes in love.”

  “He believes in hooking up with anything in tight yoga pants,” Zach corrects me, but he’s smiling all the same.

  “Grub’s up!” Zoey calls, and we all crowd around to collect our waffles and hash.

  “Is this a new recipe?” I ask, biting into the delicious carbs.

  “Yes! I added cinnamon,” Zoey explains. “I figured I’d lean into the pumpkin spice trend, ride it all the way to the bank.”

  “Smart. And delicious!”

  Zach leans in, and steals a bite. “Get your own treat!” I protest, laughing.

  “Already did,” he says, his hands sliding around my waist. I groan as the cheesy line, but I’m smiling all the same.

  Because we work. Zach, me, our mismatched group of friends … it feels like everything’s fallen into place, and as I look around, I almost can’t believe how good it feels. If this was a movie, the credits would be rolling right now.

  But it’s not. Because for Zach and me, this is only just the beginning.

  * * *

  The End.

  (Almost …)

  Zoey

  “All’s fair in love and food trucks.”

  “What?” my assistant chef looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the line.”

  “War, food service, same difference,” I reply. It’s a Sunday morning, and we’re gearing up for another crazy day. I only just parked the truck at my regular spot down by the basketball courts, and already there’s a line forming outside. “All I’m saying is, get ready for battle, because these guys are hungry.”

  “Whatever.” Nikki rolls her eyes, deadpan as ever. “As long as they tip.”

  I yank up the window, and just like that, we’re in business. “Two waffle cones, extra bacon, extra syrup,” I yell back to Nikki, as the first orders roll in. “And four strawberry pancake roll-ups.”

  “Uh huh,” she replies, which is about as animated as she gets.

  I don’t mind. When the brunch crowds are crazy like this, I get in the zone. Slice, grill, spread, schmear. My Little Red Wagon has been in business for two years now, and I’ve managed to win a reputation for some of the most inventive—and delicious!—brunch foods around.

  I know, a food truck isn’t exactly a glamorous culinary empire, but it’s always been my dream. I toiled through culinary school and internships, learning the tricks of the trade, and then as soon as I had enough cash (thanks, in part, to a generous loan from my big brother) I set up on my own. Four wheels, two burners, and a temperamental oven. Bliss.

  But today, the crowd thins out quickly. Besides my regulars, hardly anyone shows. I frown, looking outside at the empty patch of lawn. “Is there some kind of event, or something?” I ask.

  “Wouldn’t that mean more people, not less?” Nikki yawns, checking her black chipped nails.

  “I guess.” I take a look at the coolers of food already prepped, which are sitting around going to waste. “I don’t understand. We usually can’t keep up with demand!”

  “Yo, can I get some service?”

  I exhale in relief. “Go,” I push Nikki to the window, and stoke the grill, ready for action. But she turns back to me.

  “He just wants extra syrup. He says it should be free.”

  “Fifty cents.”

  “But he’s hot.”

  “How hot?’

  “Medium.” She shrugs.

  I squint through the meshed glass. He is medium-hot. And familiar.

  “Wait, I know him.” I pull out my phone, and scroll through Perfect Match, the dating app my friend Eve insisted we try. “Look, it’s him! We chatted for days, and then he totally disappeared on me.”

  “Well, he’s back. And cheap,” Nikki adds.

  I grab a small container of extra syrup, and go to the front of the truck. “Hey,” I smile down at him. “Jason, right?”

  He looks at me blankly. “Is that the syrup?”

  “I’m Zoey,” I explain. “We chatted a few weeks ago?”

  Still blank.

  “You’re the architect?” I remind him. “And had never heard of Seinfeld? And invited me to get drinks before you vanished off the face of the earth”

  Jason looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “Look, I just want my syrup, man.”

  I glare. “It’s fifty cents.”

  “But—”

  “No? Sorry. Next!”

  The saddest part is? I’m not even surprised. Dating in San Francisco is like doing the limbo: every time you think the bar couldn’t get any lower, it drops another couple of inches. These days, I don’t even hold out hope of meeting The One.

  The One Who Won’t Send Dick Pics would be more than enough.

  I’m just about to admit defeat and pack up for the day when I catch sight of someone strolling past, eating a massive waffle.

  A waffle that I didn’t make.

  Then another person comes. And another. All of them eating food in the same black wrappers.

  What the hash?

  “Cover for me?” I tell Nikki, hopping down from the back door. I track the trail of people back over the hill, annoyed. This spot has been my secret goldmine for months now. On the weekend, the park is packed with families, people playing ball, and even the local yoga studio running classes in the open air. There are a couple of other trucks doing business, but they’re making tacos, and shaved ice. Not direct competitors.

  There’s a code of honor among trucks. Thou must not muscle in on someone else’s turf.

  “Where did you get that?” I call to the next person I see with a waffle.

  He points over his shoulder. “The Brunch Bandit. Fucking awesome, man. You should hurry, before he sells out.”

  The brunch what now?

  I pick up my pace, cresting the top of the hill in time to see a black food truck parked on the edge of the lot. It’s got blazing flames painted on the sides, and a guy is just yanking the window down and packing up.

  “Hey!” I call down, but he’s too far away to hear. I break into a jog as he gets behind the wheel. “Wait up!”

  But a lifetime of waffles does not a sprinter make. I’m huffing and out of breath by the time I make it down the hill. “WAIT!” I yell, still too far to see the driver clearly. “This is MY SPOT!”

  The engine revs, and he starts to drive away.

  “Yeah, you better leave!” I yell, not caring that I’m getting weird looks. “Weekends are mine!”

  He leaves me in a cloud of dust.

  Dammit.

  I catch my breath, already pulling out my phone to see what I can find online. Because whoever the Brunch Bandit is, he’s messing with the wrong girl. I’ve got too much at stake to let him just waltz in and steal my spot.

  That bandit better be ready for pancakes at dawn, because he’s going down …

  * * *

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  Zoey meets her match in the next book in the series, YOU’VE GOT MALE - available to order now!

  MR CASANOVA

  Billionaire Bachelors #5

  Hot TV star Luke Rafferty is Hollywood’s newest bad boy… at least, according to the tabloids. He’s been steaming up the screens as Dr. Casanova for ten years, but thanks to his ex-wife, some tricky contract negotiations, and that incident with the stethoscope (don’t ask), he’s suddenly on an extended vacation - with his heartthrob career on the line.

  Enter Stella Lane.

  A Hamptons local, she’s trying to get her home renovation company off the ground; winning the job for Luke’s new beachfront retreat would be her big break. And when she just happens to overhear his agent suggesting a fake relationship to give his reputation a swoon-worthy makeover, Stella sees the perfect solution to both their problems.

  What’s a little fake smooching between friend(ly professionals)?

  Stella is determined to keep her eyes on the prize renovation and her hands OFF the hunky actor wanderin
g shirtless through her construction site. But Luke has other ideas. Midnight skinny-dipping ideas.

  If only he wasn’t so heart-stompingly, panty-twistingly handsome…

  Soon, sparks are flying, and they’re both forgetting their kisses are just for show. But can this fake relationship weather a very real tabloid storm? Or will past betrayals and the Hollywood spotlight drive them apart before their romance has even begun?

  Find out in the new hot and hilarious romantic comedy from USA Today bestselling author, Lila Monroe!

  Billionaire Bachelors Series:

  1. Very Irresistible Playboy

  2. Hot Daddy

  3. Wild Card

  4. Man Candy

  5. Mr Casanova

  6. Best Man

  1

  Stella

  I have a talent for recognizing good bones.

  When you’ve worked in construction as long as I have, you start to develop a sixth sense for how to improve even the grungiest of fixer-uppers. The hardwood floors hiding under the mangy carpet. The dated crown molding that just needs a coat of paint. The window that looks directly into the nudist neighbors’ living room, the view from which would be greatly improved by some tall, evergreen shrubbery.

  I have a talent for recognizing good bones—which is how I know, as I follow Dave and Ginnifer on a walk-through of their soulless, early-2000s McMansion, that this place doesn’t have them.

  “A lady carpenter, huh?” Dave says as we make our way through the dark, narrow kitchen. He looks me up and down with a leering expression. “You don’t see that every day.”

  “I’m a general contractor, actually,” I say, pasting a smile on my face. Dave - the vaguely-pervy hedge-fund guy - might not be my ideal client, but it’s not like I don’t need the work. Business has been achingly slow this summer, and beyond a kitchen addition and a couple of quick bathroom facelifts, I have no idea how I’m going to keep my guys busy through the fall.

  “I was thinking I’d do the demo myself,” Dave tells me now, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his red khaki shorts. He’s wearing a pair of brand-new boat shoes, and his fabric belt is printed with tiny whales. He looks like he stepped off the pages of ‘Yachting Monthly’. “You know, a little DIY to keep costs down.”

  “That’s definitely one option,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheerful. If I had a dime for every client who saw one episode of Property Brothers and thinks he can dismantle a whole house in 45 minutes all by himself, I could retire early and spend my days getting hot stone massages in the South of France.

  Right on cue, Dave mimes hitting a wall with a sledgehammer. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble. How hard can it be to get in there, knock a few walls down?”

  “Well, depending on whether or not they’re load-bearing—” I start, but Dave isn’t listening.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says with a satisfied nod. “So: let’s talk about what really matters: my man cave.”

  It turns out Dave has been dreaming of this day since he was a boy. Which might be a reason his design is lifted straight from the Playboy mansion. “You walk in, and BOOM! Flat-screen. Wet-bar. Grotto Jacuzzi pool.”

  I blink. “A grotto might be difficult to excavate,” I start explaining, just as Ginnifer’s cell phone rings in her pocket.

  “Oh!” she says, frowning at the screen. “I’ve got to take this. It’s my plastic surgeon. You all just keep going without me! I’ll be back in a sec.”

  The minute she’s gone, Dave is right beside me. He slips an arm around my waist so fast it’s like the man has superhuman groping power. “Now that we’re alone. Want to, ah, take a look at the bedroom next?”

  “No thank you,” I say, trying to politely duck out from under his grabby hands. What I’d like to do is tell him exactly where he can stick his grotto, but I learned a long time ago, that if I told all my lecherous male clients exactly what I thought of them, I’d never get hired again. Usually, I have my crew run interference, but when I’m pitching on new jobs alone, there’s nobody around to keep them at bay. “We should wait for your wife to get back. She’s great!” I add brightly. “How long have you been married?”

  “Too long.” Dave replies, his hand sliding over my ass again.

  Which is, of course, the moment that my ex-fiancé walks in the front door.

  “Well hey, Stel,” Rob says, tipping his Yankees cap in my direction like it’s a ten-gallon hat and smiling that wide grin I used to think was so charming. You know, back before I caught that handsome mug face-down between some other woman’s thighs. “You’re bidding this project, too, huh? That’s cute.”

  “I sure am,” I say, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. “I’ve got some great ideas for this place.”

  “Of course you do,” Rob says with a condescending nod. “Seems like a big undertaking for you, though, huh? You sure you’re up for it?”

  Is he kidding me right now? This doofus didn’t know a table saw from a butter knife when I met him back in college. We built our contracting business together, from the ground up, but since we broke up everyone assumes he must have been the brains and the brawn behind the operation, just because he’s got a dick.

  And, frankly, it’s not even a very big one.

  Sure enough, Rob offers the hedge fund guy a firm handshake. “Rob Redmon,” he explains. “Stella used to work for me.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” I jump in, but Rob’s already got the husband’s attention with his ‘just us bros’ routine.

  “Taught the lady everything she knows, huh?” Dave asks, and before I can get another word in, they’re deep in conversation about the logistics of adding a home theater system to the man cave. Even Ginnifer returns in time to make googly-eyes at Rob, practically swooning over every word.

  “How soon can you start?” she asks him breathily. “You’re obviously the most… talented man for the job.”

  Rob flashes me a smug grin. “Don’t look so down, Stella,” he says condescendingly. “You’re up against the big dogs now. Aroooo!”

  I leave them to their grotto plans, and step back out into the summer sunshine. Rob’s obnoxious yellow truck is boxing in my bicycle, but I manage to haul it over the flat-bed, and start riding back towards town.

  At least it’s a gorgeous day.

  I take a deep breath of salty sea air, riding the shore road past the trail of summer traffic. East Hampton is teeming with tourists this time of year, and I don’t blame them. We have miles of gorgeous sandy beaches and cool leafy woodland, and in town, the cobblestone streets are lined cute boutiques and restaurants. I feel my mood lift as I pedal down Main Street, swerving to avoid all the pedestrians strolling in the midday sun.

  This is why I’ve stayed in the Hamptons all these years. Sure, the place is a summertime playground for the rich and famous, but to me it’s always just been home. I’ve lived here my whole life, not counting a brief flirtation with the city back in college. I could have moved anywhere, but in the end, the call of the ocean was just too strong.

  That, and the best ice-cream on the Eastern Seaboard.

  I park my bicycle outside The Fudge Shoppe and duck into the cool, candy paradise. I definitely deserve a treat after a morning with the Groping Yachtsman, so I take my place in line, practically drooling over all the delicious flavors.

  “What’ll it be, Stella?” the owner, Bess, asks. “The usual?”

  She’s been serving me since I was about five years old, and knows my order by heart. “Yes please,” I sigh with pleasure as she scoops me out a double-double chocolate cone. “You’re an angel.”

  “An angel who charges by the scoop.” Bess grins, wiping her hands on her chocolate-smeared apron. I reach for my wallet, but she waves me away. “Not you. I still owe you for fixing those shelves.”

  “That was an easy job!” I protest, but she just gives me a look.

  “If it was so easy, why didn’t Rob do them, even though he promised a hundred times?”
<
br />   “Well, promises aren’t exactly his strong suit.”

  Like monogamy. Or foreplay.

  I’m just taking my first lick of ice-cream when a hush falls over the shop. I turn to the door, wondering what’s going on, and barely keep myself from gasping when I see the man who’s just walked in. He’s hardly the first famous person ever to wander in here. Hell, he’s probably not even the first one this week.

  Still, it’s a fair bet that he’s the hottest.

  Blonde, ruffled hair. Eyes so blue they should get a Pantone color swatch. And six foot three of broad-shouldered, tanned muscle.

  “That’s—” I glance across counter to Bess, who nods.

  “Luke Rafferty,” she mutters back. Until this past spring he played Dr. Casanova, the sexy lead surgeon on Heartbreak Hospital, a medical drama so soapy you could practically take a bath in it. I devoured all five seasons in less than a week when Rob and I split up, weeping into a family-sized bag of kettle corn and wishing for a hot doctor of my own to come give me a physical.

  “Is he shooting a movie here?” I whisper.

  Bess shakes her head. “Haven’t you been reading the tabloids?” she asks. “He’s totally gone off the deep end since the divorce. I heard he ordered a dozen prostitutes to the Chateau Marmont, then got high on bath salts in the lobby, bashed up all the furniture, and demanded they make him and all his friends grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Do they make grilled cheese sandwiches at the Chateau Marmont?” I can’t help but ask.

  “They’ll make anything you want at the Chateau Marmont,” Bess informs me, with the confidence of a person who spends her every waking moment doing her best to keep up with the Kardashians. “Now, I can’t remember if this was before or after he hit his wife’s BMW with a fake police car he stole off the set of Chicago PD, but either way: Luke Rafferty is bad news. I think he’s only here to dry out.”