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

by Lila Monroe

  Boy, do I know that feeling today. I type out a response.

  BetterWithButter: want to talk about it?

  Wafflegirl7: My job sucks sometimes. Send food porn.

  I chuckle as I scroll through the pictures on my computer. I look for the gooiest, cheesiest one I can find and attach it to a post.

  BetterWithButter: Sriracha mac and cheese.

  Wafflegirl7: Oh…. That would do it. Send lots.

  SueVide: recipe, please!

  I google and post the link to one that looks half-decent.

  SueVide: don’t have Havarti. Would fontina work?

  Before I respond, Wafflegirl17 jumps in.

  Wafflegirl7: Yes! Fontina melts beautifully. Perfect for M&C.

  A moment later, a private message from her pops up.

  Wafflegirl7: if someone made a start-up for instant cheese delivery, they’d make a fortune.

  I chuckle. I don’t know who this woman is—and, knowing the internet, she could be some fourteen-year-old boy in Michigan—but after the day I’ve had, I’m happy just for the distraction.

  BetterWithButter: So how bad was it, on a scale of one to day-old tuna casserole?

  Wafflegirl7: Up there for sure. Just busy and stupid and the kind of day that makes me wish I was independently wealthy.

  I grin. I sure know that feeling.

  Wafflegirl7: How about you?

  I think about my day’s receipts and that bulging deposit bag I took to the bank. And then the shitty review—thanks to Zoey.

  BetterWithButter: Mostly great. A little not-so-great.

  Wafflegirl7: Good thing it’s wine o’clock.

  BetterWithButter: I like how you think.

  Wafflegirl7: Know what goes great with wine on a rough day?

  My first thought is some excellent sex, but I don’t want to be that creepy guy on the internet, so I go with the obvious answer:

  BetterWithButter: Mac and cheese, obv.

  Wafflegirl7: Of course! And a fun movie.

  I grab my remote and pull up Netflix. Because she’s not wrong.

  BetterWithButter: Any suggestions?

  Wafflegirl7: I’m a fan of the classic rom-com.

  BetterWithButter: Any favs?

  Wafflegirl7: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless, Pretty Woman, Bridget Jones, Say Anything. seen any?

  BetterWithButter: No.

  Wafflegirl7: WHAT? Impossible.

  I laugh.

  BetterWithButter: I know, I know. I’m missing out.

  Wafflegirl7: YES.

  BetterWithButter: If I was going to catch up, which would I watch first?

  Wafflegirl7: hmm. Probably When Harry Met Sally is the most dude-friendly. Wait…you are a dude, right?

  BetterWithButter: Let me check.

  Wafflegirl7: !!!

  BetterWithButter: Yup, the goods are all there.

  Wafflegirl7: Not touching that with a

  –oh no I didn’t!

  I laugh out loud. I don’t know who this woman is, but I like her sense of humor.

  BetterWithButter: are you flirting with me ;)

  Wafflegirl7: Neverr! I don’t even know you! But you should watch WHMS. If you hate it, I’ll know we weren’t made to be friends.

  I scroll through the menu until I find the movie and hit play.

  BetterWithButter: and if I do like it?

  Wafflegirl7: We’ll just have to wait and see.

  BetterWithButter: starting it now.

  Wafflegirl7: me, too. Which you’ll see is ironic later. If you really are watching.

  BetterWithButter: Well I guess I have to now.

  Wafflegirl7: *snort*

  BetterWithButter: OK. Starting.

  Wafflegirl7: It’s fun, I promise.

  I kick back, take another sip of beer, and let the movie roll. But however the film turns out,

  Wafflegirl has already achieved the impossible and put me in a better mood.

  6

  Zoey

  BetterWithButter: Good morning!

  I smile as I wipe my fingers on my apron, trying not to get flour on my phone. I still smudge a little when I respond.

  Wafflegirl7: So, what’s the verdict?

  BetterWithButter: REPORT: didn’t like Sleepless as much as WHMS. Too sappy! But liked it more than The Holiday.

  Wafflegirl7: Understandable. Sleepless is a classic. The Holiday plays on all the tropes. Not as authentic.

  For the last few nights, I’ve been giving my new online friend an education: rom-com style. A few times we’ve even watched them “together” in our respective homes, texting back and forth about the movies.

  BetterWithButter: What is it about all these guys with dead wives? Is that a thing?

  Wafflegirl7: Lol. Widowers are single, so available…. But not single by choice.

  BetterWithButter: depends. How did wife die?

  Wafflegirl7: *snort*

  He sends a winky emoji. And then:

  BetterWithButter: Go on. Must hear more, oh Chick Flick Yoda.

  I laugh again.

  Wafflegirl7: Someone in the past found them lovable already. Marriageable. They’ve been vetted.

  BetterWithButter: Vetted? How romantic.

  Wafflegirl7: You haven’t dated every asshole in SF.

  BetterWithButter: Thankfully, true. Tell me more?

  I look reluctantly back at the counter. I want to keep texting, but this bread won’t bake itself. And coming off my last run-in with the Bandit, I need to knock my appointment today dead with these brioche buns.

  Wafflegirl7: Another time. Big day at the office, better run.

  BetterWithButter: Good luck! Go kill it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

  Wafflegirl7: Thanks.

  I smile as I click away from the message thread. I’m still playing it safe—I haven’t told BWB any identifying details, like who I am or what I do for a living, and I’ve noticed he’s done the same. I mean, we’ve both probably read enough horror stories about online catfish fakers to know you can’t ever tell who it is on the other side of the message, but still . . .

  I have a feeling Better With Butter isn’t a serial killer, grooming me for the kill.

  This way, he’s my mystery internet man. Perfect in every way. He’s tall, gorgeous, rich, and, of course, a god in bed.

  I mean, seriously, if he can perform as well between the bed sheets as well as he can handle sheets of puff pastry? Lord help me.

  Knowing too much about him might shatter that fantasy.

  The sad thing is, that fantasy is the best thing I have going on right now. At least in my social life.

  And professionally . . . I turn back to my brioche. They need to be light and fluffy and perfectly delicious if I’m going to land this new gig: catering an upcoming wedding. The bride is one of Gemma’s style clients who wants a small, low-key wedding here in town. Gemma suggested the Little Red Wagon for a casual, beach-side brunch, so I’m whipping up a sample menu to wow the bride-to-be and her mom at a tasting this morning. I’ve got cute finger sandwiches, delicate crab puffs, and cupcakes for days. Gemma warned me that the mom is pushing for a more traditional catering company, so I know I need to knock it out of the park.

  Which includes the service . . .

  “What the hell is this?” Nikki asks when I pick her up, holding up the plain white blouse I brought for her.

  “Your uniform.”

  “My what?”

  “Just for the audition,” I reassure her. “I love your T-shirts emblazoned with a diagram of the uterus, but this client might not agree.”

  Nikki sighs. “Marriage is a prison, you know. A ritual to trade women between men.”

  “Yes, but it’s a lucrative prison,” I say cheerfully. “Getting into the wedding catering scene could mean big bucks for us. And big tips for you,” I add. “So don’t forget, on your best behavior.”

  Nikki clucks. “I’m not a child, Zoey!” she says. Belligerently. Like a child.

  “Ahem?”
/>   Nikki grins. “That was on purpose. Chill, Zo, you got this. Your food is amazing. You are amazing.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Now let’s make this fit for a bride!”

  I hop down and start setting up the tables with salt and pepper shakers and the usual condiments. Gemma said she would be bringing her client over just before my regular lunch slot, so I’m making a special effort with the décor today. I picked up bunches of fresh flowers at the market, all in the peach and teal hue that I know (thank you, Gemma!) are the bridal party colors, and I’m stringing some cute lanterns in the trees, too. By the time I’m done, it looks like a magical little woodland glade—complete with pastel-colored cupcakes and enough hors d’oeuvres to keep a ravenous crowd happy.

  Or a wedding party of a hundred.

  As I’m preparing, I get a weird feeling, like somebody’s watching me. But when I look around, there’s nothing but the usual park activity: moms at the playground, joggers jogging, over-50s Tai Chi swaying on their mats.

  Huh. Weird.

  “Zoey!”

  I turn. Gemma is waving from across the parking lot as a pair of women emerge from a sleek black car.

  Show time!

  I straighten up my blouse and plaster on a big, nervous smile as the group approaches. “Hi!” I greet them brightly. “I’m Zoey, and welcome to the Little Red Wagon.”

  “This is our bride-to-be, Janelle,” Gemma introduces her. “And mother-of-the-bride, Francine.”

  “It’s great to meet you.” I smile wider. Francine has a sour look on her face as she takes in the scene, and I can already tell she’s going to be the one I need to convince if this job is going to be mine. I can already tell she thinks having a food truck cater a wedding is lowbrow. But between my food and my extensive culinary training, I’m hoping to show her otherwise.

  “This is so fun!” the bride says, wide-eyed. “Your truck is so cute! And I can’t wait to taste everything!”

  “I have a whole menu for you to sample,” I tell them, leading them over to a special folding table I’ve set up. “You just relax, and I’ll be right out!”

  I go grab the first trays of food, and the pitcher of peach sangria I mixed up, then head back outside.

  “The pastries are all scratch-made fresh this morning,” I explain, as Janelle oohs and aahs over the mini-croissants and cakes. “Plus we have my famous brunch waffles and strawberry shortcake sliders.”

  “It all looks amazing.” Janelle loads up her plate, while Francine reaches for her glass of sangria and takes a sip.

  She curls her lip and puts it down again.

  Not a fan of day-drinking, I guess.

  “Any questions?” I ask, not wanting to be pushy. “Or shall I leave you to enjoy your brunch?”

  “I think we have plenty to get started with.” Janelle beams. “Any maple syrup?”

  “Yes! I have some I infuse specially with lavender. I’ll be right out.”

  I go grab the syrup and pour it into a fancy jug, and by the time I’ve made sure they have everything they need, a crowd of my regulars is forming at the window. Back to work!

  “Just let me know if you need anything,” I say quickly. They haven’t touched their food yet—Gemma has some wedding magazines out, and they’re looking at gowns—so I force myself to leave them be and head back to the truck.

  “How’s it going?” Nikki asks, already taking orders.

  “I can’t tell yet. Fingers crossed!”

  We get to work, but I can’t stop from sneaking glances over at Janelle and her mom. Usually by now, there are smiles and orgasmic moans of delight—at least as far as those strawberry shortcakes are concerned—but from a distance, I can see they’re barely picking at their food.

  “Ewww! I think there’s something wrong with this.” A guy returns to the window and shoves his takeout container back through the hatch. “It tastes really . . . sweet.”

  He ordered an omelet. “I’m so sorry,” I frown. “I can make you another.”

  “This waffle is gross,” another woman remarks nearby, screwing her face up. “It’s like, salt overload.”

  I watch another couple dump their orders straight in the trash and walk away.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Nikki, beginning to get a very bad feeling.

  She shrugs. “No idea.”

  I grab the maple syrup and have a taste. But it’s fine: sweet and delicious. So are all my other sauces, and the savory ones, too. I prepped them last night, so I don’t understand it—

  Until my eyes land on the canisters of dry ingredients.

  “Nikki . . .” I ask slowly. “Has anyone been near the truck today?”

  “Just this skinny kid hanging around earlier, while you were setting up,” she replies. “He asked me out on a date. I told him not if he was the last guy in the multi-verse.”

  Skinny kid . . .

  Oh no.

  “About this high, nose-ring, baggy pants?” I ask, feeling chills.

  “Yup, that’s him. Why?”

  I don’t reply, I’m too busy tearing the lid off my sugar canister. I dip my finger in and taste.

  Salt.

  And there’s sugar in the salt shaker, too. “That bastard switched the lids!” I cry. I keep them red and blue for a reason. So when we’re mixing up batter on the fly, I don’t make this exact same mistake.

  “Are you sure?” Nikki asks. “You could have just—”

  “No. I’m always careful.” I scowl. “He must have sneaked in here while we were distracted. And if these are wrong, then all the ones outside—”

  I gasp. Outside. Where Janelle and her mom are judging all my food!

  I leap out of the back of the truck. I can see Francine slide a strawberry shortcake on her plate. She reaches for the sugar shaker and dusts a cloud on top.

  “No!” I cry, but she doesn’t hear me. “Wait!”

  She’s taking a huge forkful of the dessert and shoving it into her mouth.

  “Noooooooo!!!!!” I launch toward her and try to rip the fork from her hand. But it’s too late.

  The look on her face says it all.

  Oh wait, no. The way she spits it out into her napkin does.

  Then, Janelle starts gagging over her food, too.

  “What is this garbage you’re trying to serve us?!” Francine demands, her face screwed up in disgust. “Are you trying to poison us? And then you maul me? What are you, some sort of psychopath?”

  “I’m so sorry!” I blurt. “I can explain!”

  “No, thank you!” Francine stands up, struggling with the awkward picnic table as she pulls her purse over her shoulder. “I have never been treated so shabbily! Come on, Janelle.”

  “Wait! Please!” I try, but there’s no use. They’re already walking towards their car—which is now blocked in.

  By the Brunch Bandit’s truck.

  I watch in disbelief as Cam steps out. “Just some engine trouble,” he says. “I’ve got a tow on the way. But in the meantime, how about something to eat? To make up for the inconvenience.”

  I can’t believe it. He sabotages my food, then swoops in to steal my clients, too?

  “We are still hungry . . .” Janelle sniffs the air. “Wait. Is that bacon?”

  And it’s game over.

  I turn and slump back to the truck.

  “What happened?” Gemma asks, looking shocked.

  “He did.” I nod over to where Cam is now charming the pants off Janelle and her mom. Francine is even laughing. Laughing!

  “I’m so sorry,” Gemma tries to console me. “Maybe I can convince them to give you another shot. Or find another wedding client—”

  “Thanks, but it’s too late for that now. I need to go throw everything out,” I sigh. “And then go beat some bread dough into submission.”

  Instead of pounding Cam Donnelly’s smug handsome face.

  But five loaves later, I’m not feeling any more relaxed. I can’t believe Cam would pull something like that. Str
aight up sabotage! It’s like he knows he couldn’t win going up against me chef to chef, so has to play the underhand trick instead.

  And this time, he won.

  My phone sounds with a message.

  BetterWithButter: How did it go?

  Wafflegirl7: on a scale of one to tuna casserole?

  BetterWithButter: Oh no. what happened?

  Wafflegirl7: I got beat out for that project I wanted. My rival snaked me at the last minute.

  BetterWithButter: I’m sorry to hear it.

  Can you take her down?

  I don’t correct his assumption that my rival is another woman . . . and not a smokin’ hot man.

  Wafflegirl7: I don’t know…. I just want the drama to be over!

  BetterWithButter: if she sabotaged you on purpose, you have to fight fire with fire.

  Wafflegirl7: Shouldn’t I take the high road?

  BetterWithButter: if you want to get crushed, sure. But all’s fair in love and war. You should show her who she’s dealing with!

  Maybe he’s right. After all, playing by the rules is what’s gotten me into this mess in the first place. I need to stand my ground, and prove I’m not backing down from his stupid games.

  Watch out, Bandit. Two can play at that game!

  7

  Zoey

  The next morning, I’m up bright and early at the café, stirring up a giant vat of sriracha mac and cheese (thank you, BetterWithButter!) . There’s a block party-slash-carnival event later this afternoon, and I’m determined to drive the crowds wild.

  And also rub my success in the Bandit’s face.

  Hey, I can multi-task!

  I’ve just turned the burner off when I hear a whistle. I turn just as Carmen Sandiego walks into the kitchen.

  I blink, trying to figure out what’s going on. It’s not really her, but the woman standing in the doorway looks a lot like her, with her long black hair, trench coat, and wide-brimmed hat. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is the full plastic shopping bag she’s carrying.

  “Umm . . . can I help you?”

  “Good, the disguise works,” says the woman in a very familiar voice.

  Wait. “Nikki?” I burst out laughing. “What are you doing?”

  She flips the long black hair—a wig, obviously—over her shoulder. “You said you wanted to do recon on the Bandit and figure out revenge. I’ve got my mom’s car, so we can follow his truck and see what he’s really all about.”