You've Got Male (Chick Flick Club Book 2)

by Lila Monroe

  I hear the staccato rhythm from inside and wince. There’s no amount of ghoul juice in the world to make me dance to this. “OK,” I agree. I turn to say goodbye to Guy, but find he’s already talking to a group of guys across the patio.

  Oh.

  I guess we weren’t a match in culinary heaven, after all.

  I shrug and follow my friends out. “You OK?” Eve asks, noticing my disappointed expression.

  “Yeah . . . just . . .” I look over my shoulder. “There was a guy . . .”

  “A guy?” Gemma stops walking so fast, I bump into her.

  “Ouch!”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Gemma demands. “You let us just cock-block you!” She cranes her neck to see. “Where is he?”

  “It’s fine!” I protest. “It probably wouldn’t have been anything, anyway.”

  Everyone knows, you don’t mix French cordon bleu cooking with burgers and fries.

  “Was he nice, though?” Eve demands, craning her neck, too.

  I laugh. “I don’t know. We exchanged like two words!”

  “But he was hot?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe . . .”

  “Then go get his number!” Gemma orders me. She gives me a shove back towards the patio.

  “Gemma, no . . .”

  “I’m serious,” she says. “Or invite him. There’s room in Zach’s Jeep. We’ll squeeze.”

  “He could be an axe murderer,” I point out.

  “So, we’ll defend you.” Gemma beams. “Come on, Zo. When was the last time you even wanted a guy’s number?”

  She’s right, but still, I hold back. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes!”

  They both shove me to the patio, and I gulp and head back out there. Butterflies are suddenly whirling in my stomach as I wonder if I’m about to make a fool of myself. A brief flirtation is one thing, but when it comes to actually asking guys out on a date?

  This has serious crash-and-burn written all over it.

  Sure enough, when I get back outside, Guy is talking to one of the sexy handmaids. I’m about to turn on my heel and flee when he sees me. He gives a wave, then saunters over. “Hey.” His smile is encouraging. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “I . . . um . . .”

  For some reason, my mind is blank.

  Way to be charming, Zoey!

  Guy looks at me expectantly, but for some reason, I can’t even form words, let alone a coherent, witty sentence.

  Oh, fuck it.

  I reach up and grab the front of his shirt, and then pull him down for a kiss. He freezes a moment in surprise, and I realize I’ve totally lost the plot here. Kissing total strangers? He could have me arrested!

  But then Guy’s hands move around my waist, and he pulls me closer, and—mmmmm—he’s kissing me back.

  Hot, and slow, and steamy.

  I sink into the kiss, loving the taste of him, and the feel of his body against me. Halloween candy’s got nothing on this high. When he finally comes up for air, I’m reeling.

  “Well, hi there . . .” he says, giving me a rascal grin. He adjusts my wig, fingertips grazing my cheeks—which are definitely burning up now.

  What did I just do?

  I gulp.

  “Bye!” I blurt, backing away.

  His smile slips. “Wait, you can’t leave now—”

  “Sorry. Have a great night!” I yell, before turning and racing away. My heart is pounding, and maybe I’m acting like a crazy lady here with the kiss-and-run routine, but what would happen if I stayed?

  Yes, he might turn out to be the most amazing guy, with a sense of humor, great abs, and the ability to lavish multiple orgasms on whichever lady is lucky enough to share his bed.

  Or . . . ?

  He’s just another disappointment, in a long, long line of disappointing guys. Men who get your hopes up with flirty quips and steamy kisses, only to blow off your plans, and fumble around five miles from your clitoris, and leave you broken-hearted and stress-eating your weight in frozen coconut pound cake, wondering where it all went wrong.

  Maybe I should have taken the risk, but tonight, I don’t want to balance that particular tight-rope. And besides, at least this way, I can keep the fantasy alive.

  But that kiss? That was bananas.

  And “bananas” is good.

  2

  Zoey

  PRESENT DAY

  The oven timer is sounding, but me and my sexy Guy ignore it as we make out, pressed up against the stainless-steel prep counter. His hands slide over my body, and his tongue does wicked things to my—

  BEEP! BEEP!

  My sexy makeout dissolves into nothing but the angry blaring of my alarm.

  Ugh!

  I reach out from under the covers and sleepily grope for the snooze button, wishing I had a few more minutes to let that dream run its course—Guy lifting me up onto the counter, laying me down, and stripping off his Hawaiian print shirt . . .

  But it’s too late. And I have work to do. Besides, what am I going to tell my customers? “Sorry, no sticky morning buns today, I was too busy getting turned on by the sexy dream version of a man I haven’t seen in months.”

  I don’t think so.

  I throw off the covers, determined not to go back to sleep, no matter how much I want to. Even though it’s still dark o’clock, I have a full day planned. It’s a new year, a new day, and a whole new Zoey—ready to tackle the brunch crowds and send the Bandit running scared, once and for all.

  I jump in the shower, get dressed, and then tiptoe through the apartment, trying not to wake my almost-invisible roommate. Trina works long hours in tech, and also rows crew for fun (?!), which adds up to her never being home. Aka the perfect living partner. Except for the fact she needs a full eight hours to “optimize her bio-rhythms” and throws a hissy fit every time I interrupt her sleep schedule. But today, I manage to make it to the door without rousing the beast, and head to The Daily Grind, the coffee shop around the corner from my place.

  I unlock and let myself in, then shuffle back to the kitchen where I’ll prep all my food for the day—plus some delicious goodies for the café, too. It’s the perfect arrangement, and I really lucked out finding the spot. Starting out, paying for access to a commercial kitchen was way above my pay grade, and I was trying to get everything done in my tiny apartment kitchen until Dave and Tara offered to let me use their premises—as long as I clear out and leave the place spotless before they open at seven a.m. With a batch of my famous rose-lavender tea cakes on the counter.

  Win-win.

  I flick on the lights, mentally running through today’s menu. It’s still cold out, and everyone’s trying to cut back and make up for all the over-indulging they did during the holidays, so I’m thinking simple and light. An herby omelet I can make to order on the truck, some whipped ricotta blintzes . . . maybe an oatmeal brûlée with winter berries . . . I’m running low on produce, so I make a note to head to the market, before setting out my ingredients for everything I can make ahead of time: all my sauces, veggies, and—of course—the epic amounts of bacon.

  But before I start baking: coffee. All the coffee.

  I head out into the main café and set the futuristic espresso machine to brew. Another perk of sharing space with coffee snobs. I’m just adding hazelnut AND whipped cream when I hear my cellphone ring out with a very familiar tune: the theme to TV’s Heartbreak Hospital. Which can only mean my brother is calling, aka Dr. Casanova. He left the show last year in a blaze of post-divorce acrimony, but I keep the theme on my phone just to bug him. I mean, when you’re related to a guy who regularly tops Hollywood’s Sexiest Hair lists, you have to take the teasing opportunities where you can find them.

  I fish it out of my back pocket and answer with a, “Hey Casanova.”

  “Stop calling me that! You’ve changed your ringtone, haven’t you?” Luke asks, sounding suspicious.

  I grin. “What? Of course I have,” I lie. “You’re the Vader
theme from Star Wars now.”

  “Hmmm, sure,” he grumbles. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I reply, tucking the phone between my head and shoulder so I can continue working with my hands. “I only have a minute before I need to hit the road.”

  “It’s hard out there for a trucker,” Luke teases.

  I roll my eyes. “What about you? Enjoying that beach life in the Hamptons?”

  “Nailed it,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Except that it’s fucking freezing here in January. But I’m in a recliner inside looking out at the beach. Does that count?”

  “Tomato, tomahto,” I grin. “How’s Stella?” I ask, naming the new love of his life.

  “She’s great,” he says. “We’re both great. You should come visit, Zo. Take some time off.”

  I snort. “Time off. Right. What’s that?”

  “Come on. You don’t need to be out there slinging brunch 24/7.”

  “I do if I want to pay back your loan anytime soon,” I reply. I love him for his support, but can’t wait for the day when I can pay him back. Not because he needs the money—he’s done great for himself in Hollywood—but because I want to. Being successful and independent means paying all my debts. Even the family ones.

  Luke sighs. “How many times do I have to tell you that was a gift.”

  “A loan,” I say stubbornly. “Which I’m making regular payments on and will have back to you in full sometime . . . when I turn thirty-five.”

  “If you insist. But you know I’m happy to help,” Luke adds.

  “I know,” I smile. “And Lukester, I appreciate it. A lot. But I need to do this, OK? Every day that I’m not out there with my truck is an opportunity for someone else to slide in and take my spot. It’s cutthroat out there.”

  “Bacon at dawn?”

  “Something like that,” I reply, thinking of the Breakfast Bandit. I’d like to stick my whisk somewhere the sun doesn’t shine. “Anyway, I have to run. Places to go, carbs to worship.”

  “Go get ’em,” Luke says. “And remember, I’ve got a beach house waiting if you feel like a trip . . .”

  “Don’t tempt me!”

  I finish up my prep and pack up the truck, then head towards my spot for the day at Madison Park. Location is everything in the food truck trade, and I’ve managed to find the perfect weekend spot. Stationed between the kids’ playground (for hungry moms), the basketball courts (for carb-loading athletes), and the fancy new yoga studio (for the babes who brunch), I usually do a roaring trade. As long as I make it there in time to snag a spot.

  But today, I’m still waiting on my sous-chef-slash-assistant, Nikki. I idle on her corner, growing impatient. Where r u??! I text. LATE!

  Suddenly, the passenger door heaves open and Nikki throws herself into the seat. “Frak, I’m so hungover,” she groans, hiding behind a pair of massive sunglasses. Her pink hair is sticking out at all angles, and I can’t tell if her thick black eyeliner is smudged from last night or applied that way on purpose.

  “Partying hard?” I ask, throwing the gears into drive.

  Nikki shakes her head. “We were doing a live art installation sit-in, protesting gender norms in nautical trade.”

  “Nautical what now?” I blink.

  “Ships. They’re gendered female, because they’re empty vessels to be captained by the patriarchy!”

  Nikki launches into one of her impassioned rants, while I tune out and focus on beating morning traffic. The girl can make a mean hollandaise, but half the time, I feel like we’re from two different planets. But still, after months on the truck, we’ve found a cool rhythm, so once we reach the park, it doesn’t take us any time at all to set up for the day ahead.

  “. . . told him I wasn’t exclusively vagitarian,” Nikki keeps chatting. “I mean, I love sausage as much as a straight cis-girl. But that scared him off.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Well, screw him, then,” I yawn, trying to remember where I packed the blackberry compote.

  “I would have,” Nikki says seriously. “But if he’s going to be all insecure and judgy about me loving everyone and maybe someday choosing a girl to party with over him—”

  “Berries?” I interrupt.

  “Already warming, boss,” she replies.

  I exhale. “OK, then let’s rock and roll.”

  I open the window at the side of our truck and go set up the picnic tables nearby. Technically, they’re for everyone to use, but I like to jazz them up with some cute gingham tablecloths and flowers to make it feel like a little French bistro in the middle of the parking lot. I put up a chalkboard with the day’s menu and set out a big glass canister of free citron pressé, aka lemonade. The kids love to come get a free glass, and then their moms just can’t resist my double-chocolate croissants. Marketing at its finest!

  Sure enough, I haven’t even finished arranging the tables when a couple of moms with strollers stop to take a look. “Ooh, look at those pastries,” one remarks.

  “I shouldn’t,” the other one sighs. “I’m trying to go carb-free.”

  “I also have some amazing omelets,” I pipe up. “No carbs, plenty of taste . . .”

  The woman smiles. “Sounds great. Are you open for business?”

  “Absolutely.” I grab my order book from my apron pocket, noticing a young couple walking up to check out the menu.

  Each one represents a waffle closer to my culinary empire.

  Ka-ching.

  I smile at the moms. “What can I get you?”

  They wind up ordering a whole spread of things to sample, and by the time they’re done, some of my regulars are clustered, waiting in line. “The rush is on,” I call to Nikki, climbing back in the truck and taking my station at the window. I take orders and assemble the dishes, she mans the tiny griddle, and between us, we’re a well-oiled brunch machine.

  The morning flies by, until that triple espresso comes back to haunt me. “Can you hold the fort while I run to the bathroom?” I ask Nikki.

  “Sure thing.”

  I pause. There’s a reason I keep her in the back of the truck. “Just remember: service with a smile.”

  She gives me a look. “Would you ask a man to smile?”

  “Fine, no smiles. Just don’t Hulk out if someone asks for ketchup to go with their brunch waffle.”

  Nikki snorts. “Putting ketchup on that culinary masterpiece is blasphemy.”

  Exactly my point. “Nikki . . .”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she sighs. “You’re the lady boss.”

  “The customer is boss,” I remind her. “Even the ones that like ketchup.”

  I give the gross public restrooms a miss, and dash across the street to use the fancy bathroom at the yoga studio instead. But I’m just on my way back when I notice a couple of guys chowing down on some massive, triple-decker waffles, wrapped in distinctive red-and-black packaging.

  And another couple, eating from takeout containers. And a group of teens gorging on waffle cones.

  Cones?!

  That’s my thing!

  By the time I make it back to the Red Wagon, our line has totally disappeared.

  “What happened?” I ask Nikki, but she just shrugs.

  “No idea. Everyone just left, they went that way,” she gestures vaguely.

  “And you didn’t ask why?”

  She shrugs.

  I race over to the nearest guy, eating a breakfast burrito almost as big as his biceps.

  “Where did you get that?” I demand.

  “The Breakfast Bandit,” he replies. “Fucking A, man. He’s set up right over there,” he nods over the hill.

  The bandit?

  I walk fast, trying to keep calm. The Bandit is new on the scene, maybe he doesn’t know the rules just yet. There’s a code of honor among the food truck crews: we don’t muscle in on each other’s territory. If Lucinda’s Southern Kitchen is serving her chicken and waffles up on Haight Street, then I’ll set up in a differe
nt part of town for the day. And if I’m serving brunch here in the park, then Manny’s EggStravaganza will go hit a neighborhood at least five blocks away.

  We have rules. We have manners. We have basic decency.

  And the bandit is throwing that all to hell.

  I crest the hill, and sure enough, there he is down by the fountain. The truck looks like it rolled out of an Axe commercial, painted black with bright red-and-orange flames licking up the sides. The worst part is there’s a huge line.

  I hurry closer. A young, skinny guy is just yanking the window down. His pants are riding low, and he’s wearing a T-shirt with girls in bikinis on the front. Charming.

  “Sorry, guys,” he announces. “We’re all sold out for the day!”

  A chorus of disappointment goes up from the crowd.

  “It’s all good, hit us up on Insta, find out where we’ll drop in the AM!”

  He’s handing out flyers of their menu when I reach him. “Is this your truck?” I demand, disbelieving. He can’t be more than nineteen, but you never know with these wunderkind YouTube chefs these days.

  The guy looks confused. “Are you city enforcement, lady? Because we filed the permits—”

  I ignore the part where he thinks I’m old enough to be a city inspector. “The truck,” I repeat, trying to keep my composure. “Are you the Brunch Bandit behind all of this?”

  “AJ!” A yell sounds from inside the truck. “Let’s move!”

  “I gotta go, lady.” The skinny kid jumps in the passenger side.

  “Hold up!” I protest. “I just want to talk to you—”

  But the engine starts. I crane my neck, but I can’t see who’s sitting behind the wheel. The truck begins to roll away.

  “Wait!” I call again, desperate, jogging to keep up. “We need to talk!”

  But the bandit picks up speed and turns onto the main street, leaving me in the dust.

  Dammit!

  I bend over and gasp for air. I am so not equipped to sprint.

  “You can follow them online,” I hear and turn my head to see a dude with a Brunch Bandit burrito standing beside me. “Too bad you didn’t make it on time. Their food is epic.”