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

by Lila Monroe

  “I love it,” I grin. “This all needs to cool for later, so we have plenty of time.” I quickly check the Bandit’s social media and see a photo he’s posted from the produce mart.

  Caption: stocking up for an epic day’s menu. #banditstyle

  “I know exactly where he is! Let’s go.”

  “Wait!” Nikki barks. I stop in my tracks.

  She pulls a blonde wig and another trench coat from her shopping bag. “You need to be incognito, too.”

  “Of course! Good thinking!” I laugh.

  She outfits me in my blonde wig and big puffy jacket. With a baseball cap pulled low, I’m almost unrecognizable. At least, I hope so, because one quick drive across the city later, I find the Bandit truck still parked in the lot at the market. Bingo!

  When we get inside, I head straight toward Julio’s stall. Sure enough, Cam is there, checking out the produce.

  “Now what?” Nikki whispers, ducking behind a crate.

  “Act casual!” I hiss, dragging her up again.

  We sidle up to the booth and start perusing the produce—at a safe distance. I lean closer to eavesdrop as Cam chats to Julio.

  “I’ll need extra for the carnival tonight. Peaches, and some tomatoes, too.” He peruses the rest of the produce. “Oh, and give me about twenty pounds of ripe—but not-too-ripe—bananas.”

  Bananas is good, I think, returning to that night. The night when Guy and Julia shared a crazy-hot kiss.

  I wish . . .

  No, Zoey. Not going there! I force those thoughts away and focus on the matter at hand.

  Swift, lethal revenge.

  “So?” Nikki whispers. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know just yet . . .” I’m thinking hard when a vendor walks past me with a cardboard box that smells ripe. Very ripe. I watch him head to the back of the market and through a set of swinging doors—back towards the trash.

  I look back at Nikki. “Stay with him, I’ll be back.”

  I head out back. As soon as I push open the doors, the smell of rotting food hits me, and I know I’ve got the right spot.

  Jackpot. I find the recycling stash and grab an empty box, like the ones all the vendors use. Then I head over to the massive trash bins.

  I open the lid of the first and am hit with a pungent sweet smell. Thankfully, there’s a pile of overripe but not-too-bad fruit on top. I start piling it into the box. Oh, look, some blood oranges. Perfect! I laugh as I put them in. Then I toss in a pile of bananas that are so rotten they are basically goo.

  I pick up a cucumber, which basically disintegrates in my hand. Except for the big moldy patch. Gross.

  “What are you doing?”

  I freeze. Fuuuuuck.

  Pasting a smile on my face, I turn around.

  It’s not Cam, thank God. But still, I’ve just been busted by a vendor. One I don’t recognize.

  Either way, I need to think fast.

  “Oh hi,” I say, as though I’m doing nothing wrong. “I was just collecting some things for my pigs. I’m an organic farmer and this food is still fine for them. Trying to be sustainable and cut down on waste, you know.”

  He stares at me for a second while he seems to be processing what I’ve said.

  I wonder if you can get arrested for stealing garbage. I can just imagine the jail cell convo: “What are you in for? Oh, you know, Dumpster diving.”

  Suddenly, the guy in front of me smiles. “Really? That’s great.”

  “Yes,” I nod, flooded with relief. “They love all this stuff and I figure it’s just going to get thrown out, so . . .”

  “Totally!” he says, walking over to me. “Let me help.”

  Umm, what? That’s not part of the plan!

  He starts flipping open more carts, unleashing flies and odors that I hadn’t really signed up for. “There’s one bin here that’s for meat—will that work?”

  I nearly gag when the smell of rotten meat hits my nose. “Oh, uh no. Thanks. Just fruits and veg.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m walking out to the parking lot carrying two stacked boxes full of rotten produce. My arms are already aching, but my new best friend, who loves the idea of feeding my pigs to cut down on food waste, is walking beside me with three more filled boxes.

  So helpful!

  Nikki is leaning against the car but when she sees us approaching, she pushes away from the vehicle.

  “Do not ask,” I mutter. “Just go with it.” And then, much louder, I add, “Can you pop the trunk?”

  “You don’t actually think you’re putting all that shit in my car, do you?” Nikki hisses.

  I sigh. “Yes! It’ll all fit in your car! The pigs are going to love all this stuff. Great, huh?”

  She gives me the side-eye as she hits the button to open the trunk. We load everything in and I thank the guy for all his “help.”

  The minute he’s gone, Nikki lets out a groan.

  “I’m so getting a raise.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Of course.”

  “And you realize I hate you right now.”

  “Also, yes. Duck!” I suddenly squawk, dragging Nikki down, out of sight.

  “What?”

  “Shhh!”

  We watch from behind the car as Cam emerges from the market with a cart of fresh produce. He loads it in the truck, and then heads back inside for another round.

  “Come on,” I hiss. “Quickly!”

  We grab a few boxes of rotting produce and hurry across the lot. Thankfully, he’s left the truck unlocked, so it’s easy to open up the back doors and quickly switch boxes.

  “That’ll teach him!” Nikki gloats as we trade fresh, gorgeous fruits for mushy, bad ones.

  For a moment, I feel a flash of guilt. Aren’t I just stooping to his level?

  Then I remember the whipped cream incident. And the salt and sugar debacle. And how quickly he moved in for the kill and stole MY client out from under me.

  What the hell. He’s got it coming.

  “Take that, Bandit,” I say, as we hop back out and scurry across the lot again. Nikki guns the engine, and we race away, tires screeching. “I’ll show you who’s afraid of competition!”

  Hours later, I’m stationed at the carnival, doing a roaring trade. Maybe it’s the old school Ferris wheel and games getting everyone in the mood, or my throw-back menu of spun candy cones and (gourmet) corn dogs, but we’re close to selling out, and it’s not even close to finished yet!

  “Two dogs, three poutine fries, and a round of cake shots!” Nikki calls back to me. I’m up to my elbows in batter and hot grease splatters, but I couldn’t be happier. After messing up this week, it’s a relief to see happy, satisfied customers raving over my food again.

  “Order up!” I call back, whipping the last order into its packaging, and sliding them down the counter to her. We’re a well-syruped food truck machine tonight. “That’s the last of the gingerbread waffle cones.”

  “So, what does that leave us?” she asks.

  “Enough for us, I hope!” Gemma says, appearing at the window. “We’re starving!”

  “Hey!” I smile, greeting the group. Zach and Eve are there too, plus Zach’s friends, Martin, Julie, and Brody. “We’re running low on pretty much everything, but I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

  “Whatever you’ve got,” Eve beams. “We worked up an appetite kicking the guys’ asses on the carnival games.”

  “Those pins were rigged!” Brody protests. “I swear, they have some kind of secret release system. Only hot women were winning.”

  “Thank you, and also, we can win all on our own,” Julie laughs.

  I go pull together some waffle cones, fries, and random leftovers for the gang.

  “When will you finish up here?” Gemma asks, as they grab the food. “You have to come join the fun.”

  I look around. I hadn’t been planning on hanging out tonight, but I barely have enough food left for my friends, let alone another crush of customers. “How a
bout . . . now?” I strip off my apron and call over to Nikki—who’s busy flirting with a cute girl. “I’m calling it for the night. Go have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  She rolls her eyes like I’m her embarrassing mom, and heads out, and I go join the gang at some tables nearby.

  “These waffles kick ass!” Martin exclaims. “So much better than the Bandit’s.”

  Julie elbows him. “Owww! What?” He looks around.

  “I told you not to mention him.”

  I laugh. “It’s OK, you guys. Just some friendly rivalry. I can take it. Have you seen him working here tonight?”

  Eve shakes her head. “No sign of him. Guess you sent him running.”

  Either that, or the moldy produce did.

  I ignore the guilt and focus on the fun instead: sold out, and the night is still young.

  “What should we do first?” I ask, after we’re done with the food. “I haven’t had a chance to even look around.”

  “Tunnel of love?” Gemma smirks, nodding to the nearest ride.

  “Umm, pass!” I say, trying very hard not to think about the only guy I’d like to take a romantic ride with . . .

  And then throw overboard.

  I look around. “Ooh! Bumper cars!” I exclaim. “I haven’t done those since I was a kid. Also, my feet are killing me.”

  “Two birds, one stone,” Gemma agrees.

  We head over and all grab a car. Mine is cute and red (natch) and soon, we’re all driving around the rink, playfully bumping into each other. “Take that!” I call, nudging Eve out the way.

  “I’m going to get you!” she laughs—and then is pushed clear in the other direction by another car.

  CRASH!

  I’m jolted forwards as somebody hits me from behind. Hard.

  “Hey!” I protest, trying to see who did it. But already, I’m being nudged around. I spin the wheel, turning, when—

  CRASH!

  I’m hit again!

  “Dude, seriously!” I bark, annoyed now. But when the car finally turns, it’s not some little brat giving me a hard time.

  It’s a big one.

  Cam.

  Whoops.

  “I can’t believe what you did,” he growls, spinning his wheel hard. I’m lucky the ride has us on these slow, dinky cars, because this guy is furious.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I reply airily, drifting alongside.

  “Quit the innocent act.” Cam steers hard into my car again, and I have to gip the wheel from the jolt. “Switching all my produce for rotten fruit? Does that ring any bells?”

  “Maybe,” I glare. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I had to skip this whole event!”

  “Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you sent your little friend to screw with my salt and sugar!” I snap back. I spin the wheel, ramming into HIM this time.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have written that Yap! review!” Cam yells back.

  Wait, what? I blink . . . and then remember, Nikki was vowing to spread the word about his sexist model stunt.

  “That wasn’t me!” I yell back. “But even if it had been, you deserved it!!”

  “You started this!”

  “Did not!”

  “Did too!

  Suddenly, all the cars come grinding to a halt. “We have a code infraction,” a voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Could the drivers in vehicles seven and ten please vacate their cars?”

  Uh-oh.

  I look around. Everyone is staring at us.

  “See?” I shoot at Cam, as we haul ourselves out of the cars. “You ruin everything!”

  And then, before he can get another word in, I grab my friends and leave.

  “What was that about?” Gemma asks, eyes wide.

  “Nothing.” I sigh. “Just this whole food truck war thing is getting way out of control.”

  I feel that guilt again, wriggling in my stomach. Maybe BetterWithButter was right and I need to fight back, but still, I’m not a cut-throat person. I spend my time baking, not plotting devious revenge against all who’ve wronged me!

  “Don’t feel bad,” Gemma says, linking her arm through mine. “I still can’t believe he pulled that stunt with Janelle and Francine. You know they booked him for the wedding?”

  “No!”

  My guilt melts away. “That rat!”

  We arrive at the Ferris wheel to meet the others, but when it comes to our turn in line, Gemma hangs back. “Mind if I ride this one with Zach?”

  “Oh, sure! I’m fine solo.” I watch her hop into a car and snuggle beside him as the assistant lowers the safety bar.

  I feel a wistful pang.

  “Next?”

  I guess I’m riding alone. I take a seat and am about to get into my bag of candy corn, when someone swings into the car beside me and takes a seat. I barely have time to register that it’s Cam before the bar locks into place, and we’re swinging up off the ground.

  “Wait!” I blurt, but it’s too late.

  I’m trapped. With him. For the entire ride.

  Cam gives me a grim smile. “I think it’s time we had a little talk.”

  8

  Zoey

  Talking is the last thing I want to do after that scene on the bumper cars, but I don’t have much of a choice right now. Grrr! Cam is still sitting beside me with a smug smile on his face. Was he put on this earth to make me crazy? I think the answer to that is obvious.

  Also: how many bones would a person break if they jumped out of a Ferris wheel? Or were pushed?

  Asking for a friend.

  Finally, I break. “So. Want to tell me why you decided we need to be stuck together on this ride?” I ask the man currently seated way too close beside me.

  “Because I missed out on a whole day’s revenue.” He scowls. He’s wearing a dark jacket and jeans, looking every inch the brooding bad-boy chef. “I thought I’d give you a chance to apologize.”

  “Ha! Don’t hold your breath,” I say. “You’re the one who sabotaged my food the other day, and stole that wedding gig.”

  He presses his lips together. The lips I’ve kissed . . . Damn. I did not need that reminder!

  Not going there.

  “I hope you at least got good use out of all my produce,” Cam remarks, sarcastic.

  “I didn’t use it,” I shoot back. “I didn’t throw it out, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I add. “I made a generous donation in your name to the Daily Harvest.”

  His frown deepens.

  “It’s a food bank,” I sigh.

  “I know what it is,” he says, still frowning. “Why?”

  I shrug. “It would be stealing if I’d used it. This way, it’s a donation to a good cause.”

  “Are you serious?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds . . . amused? I look up and sure enough, he’s smirking at me. “So, what, you’re like a food truck Robin Hood?”

  “If that makes you the evil Sheriff, then sure,” I shoot back.

  He just grins.

  “What?” I ask, self-conscious.

  “Nothing,” he says, totally infuriating. “I was just thinking . . . Nope.”

  Ugh! Now I know he’s trying to wind me up on purpose. “Is your sole purpose in life tormenting me?” I complain.

  “Self-centered, much? Not everything is about you.”

  “You’re the one who followed me onto this ride,” I point out.

  “Maybe I just like the view.”

  Cam folds his arms and checks out the scenery. It is pretty cool. We’re almost at the top of the Ferris wheel’s rotation now, and I can see all the way from the waterfront to Coit Tower.

  I exhale. If we’re going to be stuck together, I don’t want to be sniping the whole time. “That pork belly thing you make,” I begin, waving the culinary equivalent of a white flag. “It’s not bad.”

  “Oh really?” Cam sounds pleased, and when I look over, he’s got a smug expression o
n his face.

  “Easy there.” I roll my eyes. “You could use more acid in the sauce, but it’s a good start.”

  He frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “Just . . . the sweetness can get a little cloying,” I say, bracing myself for more acrimony. “Not at first, but after you’ve eaten a whole burrito . . . ?” I explain. “The flavor profile changes.”

  “I didn’t think about it like that. It started just as a small bite,” Cam says, sounding thoughtful. “But . . . you’re right.”

  “Wait, say that again?” I put my hand to my ear. “Better yet, let me find my phone and record it.”

  “Hey!” he protests, laughing. “I can take constructive criticism.”

  “You can?” I blink. “What about your whole ‘free country, I’ll crush you’ routine!”

  “That’s about the business. This is food,” Cam says. “Two totally different things.”

  “If you say so . . .” I tease, but Cam smiles, more relaxed now.

  “What about your waffle cone?”

  “What about it?” I ask, braced for an insult.

  “It’s great,” he says. Then stops.

  “That’s it?” I ask in disbelief. “No ‘constructive criticism’?”

  He smirks. “I don’t need to tear down your recipes. I’m perfectly secure in my own skills.”

  “So am I!”

  “Is that why you stooped to shady reviews and produce-switching?” he counters.

  “You started it!”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too!”

  I catch myself, and I burst out laughing. Cam chuckles, too. “It’s a good thing my friends can’t hear,” I say, giggling. “They’d give me a hard time for acting like a baby.”

  “Maybe we have been kind of childish . . .” Cam agrees. “I don’t suppose you’ll back off and stop this stupid vendetta.”

  “If you’ll give me back my brunch spots,” I offer.

  “Not a chance.” He grins. “So, I guess we’re back at square one.”

  “I guess so,” I agree, but I’m smiling now. Because I’d never admit it out loud, but sparring with Cam is . . . kind of fun.

  And hot.

  Which is insane. I mean, the man is my biggest competition—as well as being a sexist pig saboteur to boot—but now that my blood is pumping, and we’re sitting so close . . .