You've Got Male (Chick Flick Club Book 2)
Page 1
YOU’VE GOT MALE
CHICK FLICK CLUB #2
LILA MONROE
LILA MONROE BOOKS
CONTENTS
Copyright
You’ve Got Male
Also by Lila:
Prologue
1. Zoey
2. Zoey
3. Zoey
4. Zoey
5. Cam
6. Zoey
7. Zoey
8. Zoey
9. Cam
10. Zoey
11. Zoey
12. Zoey
13. Cam
14. Zoey
15. Zoey
16. Zoey
17. Cam
18. Zoey
19. Zoey
20. Zoey
21. Cam
22. Zoey
23. Zoey
24. Zoey
Frisky Business
Frisky Business
Best Man
1. Becca
Lucky in Love Series
Also by Lila:
About the Author
Copyright 2018 by Lila Monroe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
You’ve Got Male
Chick Flick Club: Book Two
All’s fair in love, war, and breakfast waffles…
Zoey Rafferty dreams of becoming the food truck queen of San Francisco. She’s building an empire whipping up delicious brunch treats - until the (annoyingly handsome) Breakfast Bandit starts stealing all her customers with his devious tactics and smoldering charm.
Cam Newsom never backs down from a fight. As far as he’s concerned, let the best chef win. And so what if Zoey looks sexy as hell when she’s all riled up? He wants a woman he can connect with - not have whipped cream spray fights in the middle of the street. A woman like his mysterious online pen-pal, WaffleGirl, who shares his ambition, and burns up his screen with her flirty quips.
Soon, their competition is heating up the kitchen - and the bedroom. But when the famous foodie TV show Truck Stop rolls into town looking for a new reality star, all bets are off, as Zoey and Cam compete for the prize. But will their rivalry blow both their chances?
And what happens when they find it’s not just their food on the line - but their hearts, too?
Find out in this sexy new twist on ‘You’ve Got Mail’, from USA Today bestselling author, Lila Monroe!
The Chick Flick Club Series:
1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business
Also by Lila:
The Chick Flick Club Series:
1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business
Cupids Series (2019):
Cupids Anonymous
What’s Your Sign?
The Romeo Effect
The Break-Up Artist
Billionaire Bachelors Series:
1. Very Irresistible Playboy
2. Hot Daddy
3. Wild Card
4. Man Candy
5. Mr Casanova
6. Best Man
The Billionaire Bargain series
The Billionaire Game series
Billionaire with a Twist series
Rugged Billionaire
Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)
The Lucky in Love Series:
1. Get Lucky
2. Bet Me
3. Lovestruck
4. Mr Right Now
5. Perfect Match
6. Christmas with the Billionaire
***
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***
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1
Zoey
A FEW MONTHS AGO . . .
I always love Halloween. It’s the time of year to let your imagination run wild, throw off the mundane and ordinary, and become whoever you want to be . . .
Plus, any holiday that celebrates stuffing your face with candy until you pass out is pretty much golden to me.
“Boo!” Gemma yells when I open my front door.
“That’s the best you’ve got?” I laugh, taking in her costume. “Wonder Woman isn’t exactly scare-central.”
“Are you kidding? Wonder Woman is badass scary!” she argues. “Maybe you didn’t hear my invisible plane land on the roof three floors up. But behold, my lariat of truth.” She pats her hip where said lariat is draped.
I grin at the guy behind her. “Hey, Zach. Didn’t anyone tell you this is a costume party?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Zach smirks, looking down at his hipster outfit—crisp, plaid shirt and skinny jeans over beige Toms. “I’m the guy next door.”
Gemma gives him a nudge. “He’s also a party pooper who doesn’t love Halloween the way we do, Zoey.” She leans in and stage-whispers to me, “He’s a Halloweenie.”
Zach groans. “She’s been punning all day,” he says, shooting me a desperate look. “Please, make her stop.”
“No can do!” I beam. “It’s the most spook-tastic time of the year!”
I grab my whisk, tucking it, along with my phone, into the giant, vintage, beige leather purse that I sling over my shoulder. While the bag is part of my costume, it’s a bonus that it’s functional, too. Honestly, it’s so big, I could put a commercial mixer in it.
It’s then that Gemma crosses her arms and really examines me. From my short, brown, curly wig down to my flowered polyester blouse and shapeless skirt, to my very sensible, nuns-wear-these-things brown shoes. “Uh, Zoey—what is this? You’re not going to a party at a nightclub as your grandmother, are you?”
“No. And I’ll have you know my grandmother grew up in the Studio 54 era,” I add. “That woman can boogie.”
Zach snorts.
“Then what’s with the old lady blouse?” Gemma demands. “And the pearls? And oh my God, what is with that purse? It’s so retro-ugly. I mean, I totally love it, but . . .”
This is what I get for being friends with a stylist.
“Can’t you guess?” I ask, doing a twirl. “I’m going as my idol.”
“Mrs. Doubtfire?” Zach quips.
“No!” I smack his arm. “Julia Child. You know, the chef?”
“Ahhh,” Zach says, nodding. “Makes sense. Well done.”
“Thank you, Zachary!” I say in my best high-pitched warbly Julia impression. I had Julie & Julia playing all afternoon to get in the mood—but I skipped through all the modern stuff to get back to Meryl and Stanley Tucci, of course.
It’s like the perfect love story. A woman, a nerdy-hot guy, and tons of butter. That’s true romance to me!
We head across the city to this big Halloween bash that Zach heard about, hosted at a big empty warehouse by the water. We can hear the heavy bass thumping even as we pull over to park, and there are already hundreds of people milling around outside in zany costumes. We pass a group of girls tottering along in high heels and shorts skirts (for their “sexy Handmaid’s Tale” costumes, obviously), shivering against the cold breeze.
“I don’t get it,” I say, once we’re past. “
You can pick any costume in the world, why wouldn’t you pick something snug?”
“I guess they’re looking for someone to warm them up.” Gemma waggles her eyebrows. “It’s cuffing season.”
“Umm hello?” I laugh. “Boundaries, please! I don’t want to know what you two get up to in the bedroom, thank you very much.”
“What, no!” Gemma blushes furiously. “Not handcuffs! It’s what they call fall, because everyone’s coupling up to go hibernate together,” she explains.
“Oh! OK.” I giggle. “That makes sense, too.”
“Zoey! Gemma!”
I hear Eve’s voice calling through the crowd, but I can’t see her anywhere. “Marco!” I yell.
“Polo!”
“Marco!” Gemma joins in, and we keep yelling until Eve finally reaches us, breathless.
Then we burst out laughing.
“You’re Wonder Woman, too?” Eve wails, dressed in an almost-identical costume. “I thought I was being so original!”
Gemma snorts. “You and five million other empowered, awesome women.”
“No man shall stop you!” I agree, linking my arms through theirs.
“At least, not unless he’s very cute,” Eve adds. “You think there are any hot guys here tonight?” she asks, looking hopefully around.
“He could be cute,” I nod to a man nearby. “Once you take off that rotting flesh zombie mask. Or don’t, if it does it for you.”
“Eww, no!” Eve squeals. “Zombies are so not hot.”
“I’m not so sure,” Gemma muses playfully. “Peeling skin, bad breath, decaying limbs . . . What’s not to like?”
“As long as nothing important falls off.” I wink, and Eve shudders again. But she’s got a good point—at least, as far as hot guys are concerned. I’ve been so busy with working on my food truck, I’ve had zero time to date. The only men I’ve been getting hot and heavy with are Bobby Flay and Alton Brown on the Food Network, and while they can satisfy a girl’s appetite in some respects, there’s one hunger they’re definitely not satiating.
I look around with eager eyes as we follow Zach inside, to where the whole warehouse has become a flashing, seething mass of people, all dancing and letting loose to the crazy Halloween playlist. At the bar, Zach catches up with some friends, while we scope out the scene.
“Mm-mmm.” Eve nods toward the side of the dance floor. “Really tall Batman at two o-clock.”
That he’s tall is all you can tell about the guy in the mask and the costume that has hilariously defined fake abs built right in. But tall is a good start. “Take him outside, Evie. Have a quickie in the Batmobile,” I deadpan. “Make sure you send up the bat signal up when he gives you a batgasm.”
Eve laughs. “What’s a batgasm?”
“Oh, you’ll know when you get one,” I grin, when suddenly, the Monster Mash comes on. “Come on!” I grab them. “Let’s dance!”
We hit the floor, and one dance becomes three becomes five as the DJ spins an awesome Halloween playlist. It feels great just relaxing, and I let all the stress and worry of the past few months melt away. Business has been . . . let’s just say, not so good recently. After finishing culinary school and training in the best kitchens for a couple of years, I finally struck out and made my dream a reality: The Little Red Wagon food truck, serving the most delicious—and inventive—brunch in town. Think mojito pancakes with an infused mint-rum whipped cream, and my famous waffle cones (delicious scrambles served in a special cone-shaped breakfast waffle, drenched in maple syrup). Yum!
Things were going great. I was building a regular following and had San Francisco’s brunch scene on lockdown—until the Brunch Bandit rolled into town and started stealing my thunder with his obnoxious macho truck (emblazoned with flames and equipped with bullhorns) and equally over-the-top deep-fried, triple-stacked brunch dishes.
I’ve been trying to track him down, but so far, I’ve come up empty-handed—and with an empty cash register, too. All I know is this bandit is stealing all my customers, and the town ain’t big enough for the both of us.
But tonight, I don’t need to worry about that. All I care about is having a good time with my friends. We dance for hours, until I find that my grandma costume isn’t exactly well-ventilated. I’m pretty much boiling up in here. Maybe those sexy handmaids were on to something, after all . . .
“I’m going to get some air!” I yell to Eve.
She frowns. “I’ve got something in my hair?”
“No, I meant . . .” I pantomime getting a drink and point to the back exit, and finally, she gives a thumbs up.
I duck through the sweaty crowds and emerge out back in a patio area. It’s quieter back here, with a tiki bar set up serving drinks, and couples taking a break to make out, while lonely smokers are vaping away.
I take a deep breath. That’s better.
I find a free spot and take a look around. There’s a cute guy across the way, and I send him a smile. His eyes drift past like he doesn’t even see me.
Huh. It’s occurring to me that while Julia Child is my career idol, looking like her is not exactly going to get me much attention of the male variety. Especially when I’m surrounded by so many scantily clad naughty nurses and sexy kittens.
It’s probably just as well. I like to joke about the merits of wild one-night Tinder hookups, but the truth is, I’m over the no-strings, ghost-you-in-the-morning world of casual dating. And seeing how happy Gemma and Zach are together . . .Well, let’s just say falling in love is looking mighty fine from where I’m standing.
But you try finding the real thing in a city where nobody looks up from their phone. Plus, the fact I have to get up at the crack of dawn to bake means that this is the first late night I’ve pulled in forever. Dating is pretty much impossible when you need to be tucked in bed by eight p.m. every night.
Which means that hot vampire across the patio is out . . . And that Sid Vicious rock star . . . And—
I stop, laughing out loud at the guy who just stepped outside. Guy Fieri. Not the Guy Fieri, but a guy in a great costume, right down to the frosted-tips wig, big gold rings, and tattoo sleeves. He’s even done the two-tone facial hair. I wonder if it’s a permanent dye. If so, that’s seriously committing to a costume. Props for that.
Though this Guy fills out his Tommy Bahama shirt very nicely. He’s more lean filet mignon than Pillsbury Dough Boy. Enough that I might just be salivating. And not because he’s cooking something hot but because he is hot.
Easy there, Zoey.
“Your costume is bananas, and bananas is good,” I say, quoting the celebrity chef. Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives is one of my all-time favorite food shows, and I love how it showcases real mom-and-pop joints. “So, does that mean this is a dive?” I ask.
He grins, blue eyes sparkling. “Because it’s obviously not a diner or a drive-in.”
“Bingo.”
A Bride of Frankenstein appears behind the bar. “Bloody sangria or ghoul juice?” she asks us, looking bored.
“Umm, ghoul juice, thanks,” I tell her, parched. She delivers a cup of green liquid with a fake eyeball floating in it, and I gulp it down.
“I didn’t know Betty White was such a drinker,” Guy says, flashing me a charming grin, and right away I can tell this guy has confidence to spare.
“Not Betty.” I pull my whisk from my purse and hold it up. “Julia Child.”
“No shit,” he says, sounding surprised. He stands back to look me up and down. “I see it now. You’re into cooking?”
“Julia is my idol,” I explain. “She was a culinary superhero.”
He laughs. “Does that mean you’re not afraid of butter?”
“Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “Butter is my favorite food group. Well, tied with bacon fat, I guess.”
“A woman who loves butter and bacon fat . . . I think I love you already.” Guy winks. He looks truly ridiculous in his wig and loud shirt, but still, there’s something sexy about him.
&n
bsp; “So . . .” I give him a flirty smile. “Are you a true Tripe-D fan, or were you just looking for an excuse to wear all your Mr. T jewelry?”
“What do you think?” He smirks back. “I pity the fool who makes fun of my jewelry.”
I groan. “That was a terrible impression,” I scold him lightly. “Awful. Never do it again.”
“Yes ma’am.” He salutes, and the twinkle in his eyes gives me shivers.
The good kind.
“So, is the whisk just for show?” Guy asks, taking a gulp of his blood-red creepy sangria. “Or do you cook, too?”
“This old thing?” I brandish my trusty whisk. “I’ll have you know, she’s been responsible for many a soufflé. Chantilly cream. Even some hollandaise.”
“Really.” Guy licks his lips. His full, sexy lips. “I’m a sucker for a good Chantilly cream. Rich. Decadent and creamy. Velvety on the tongue...”
His eyes drift down to my mouth and I’m not quite sure we’re talking about food anymore.
I’m just about to introduce myself and suggest we go dance—naked, back at my place—when someone grabs me from behind.
“We’re leaving!”
It’s Gemma, with Eve in tow. “Zach’s friends just called,” Gemma says. “They’re at another party. And this DJ just started playing EDM.”