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

by Lila Monroe

  Chill.

  I take a deep breath, calming myself. It’s just a date. If I hate the guy, I can just make an excuse, cut tonight short, and then scrub my online presence from the entire known internet.

  Hey, he can’t stalk me if he doesn’t know my name!

  I check the time again. Two minutes after seven.

  Aaand now he’s late.

  I should leave.

  No, I tell myself. Two minutes is nothing. Traffic!

  I look up at the door. He’ll walk through right . . . now.

  No, now.

  I gulp the rest of my saki. Signal the waiter for another.

  What’s the deal here? How long am I supposed to wait before I’ve officially been stood up? And is there anything more pathetic than getting stood up by a man I’ve never even met?

  If there is, I can’t think of it right now.

  The door opens, and I whip my head around again.

  “What the hell?” I blurt, as the last person I want to see strolls through the door.

  Cam.

  I sink lower in my seat. Don’t notice me. Don’t notice—

  “Zoey,” he drawls. “What brings you here?”

  “Uh, the biological need to eat,” I quip.

  “All alone?” He looks around.

  “No, I’m waiting for someone.”

  He grins. “I’ll sit with you until she arrives.”

  He plonks himself down in the seat opposite before I can object. The nerve!

  “Is it inconceivable that I’m meeting a man?” I challenge him.

  Cam smirks. “No, I guess not. Your Hollywood brother in town?”

  How does he know about Luke? Has he googled me? Probably. Like any good villain, he’s scoped out his enemy.

  The waiter arrives with my saki. Cameron orders one for himself.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I demand. “You can’t sit here. I told you, I’m meeting someone!”

  “I don’t see him anywhere.” Cam looks around exaggeratedly. “What time is your date?”

  “Seven,” I admit reluctantly. He raises an eyebrow. “But he’s probably just stuck in traffic,” I quickly add.

  “This guy you’re meeting . . .” Cam pops some edamame in his mouth. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  I cross my arms defensively. “None of your business.”

  “So, no,” he says smugly. “Or is this a blind date? Is that why you’re so nervous?”

  “Shut up,” I bite out, though it may as well be a yes the way he’s looking at me knowingly. “Why are you even here?”

  “The biological need to eat,” he quips, and dammit, now I feel even more exposed. He probably thinks I’m desperate and single, waiting around on a blind date . . .

  Who hasn’t even showed.

  I gulp more saki, ignoring the hot flush it’s causing in my cheeks.

  “Almost seven thirty . . .” Cam remarks. “Maybe this guy isn’t coming.”

  “Or he saw me here with you and figured I, like, picked up some random guy!” I blurt. “Seriously. Can you please go? This isn’t funny. Never mind, I’ll go,” I change my mind, bolting to my feet. Half an hour is more than enough time to waste. I throw down some bills and stalk out, feeling humiliated.

  As if I wasn’t disappointed enough by getting blown off by BetterWithButter, Cam had to be here to see. I don’t want him thinking I’m a pathetic loser!

  “Zoey, wait!”

  I hear a voice behind me and turn. Cam is hurrying out of the café. “What?!” I cry. “Here to gloat or rub it in some more? Yes, I got stood up! Big deal! Boohoo!”

  “No,” Cam says calmly. “You forgot your jacket.”

  “Oh.” I flush. “Thanks.” I snatch it from him. “Now, if you’ve had enough making my life miserable, I’m going to go home and drown my sorrows in a vat of ice cream!”

  He pauses. “You really liked this guy? You’ve never even met.”

  I sigh. “Yes. But I thought I knew him. He’s funny and kind—everything you’re not. We watched all these movies, and talked about food . . . Ugh,” I stop myself. “Why am I even telling you this?! It’s not like you’d understand. Or even care. So fine. Go ahead, make fun of me for being a sap and hoping to meet someone nice and make a meaningful connection. Not all of us are trying to fuck our way through the Bandit Babes,” I add, scathing.

  “Who?” Cam looks amused.

  “Those girls!” I blurt, tipsy. “At your truck. With the T-shirts, and the grinding, and— You know what? I don’t care. Do what you want. Kiss whoever you like!”

  And then, to my total surprise, he does.

  He kisses me.

  Wait, what?

  I freeze as Cam’s arms come around me, and his lips crash against mine. What is happening?

  And then: oh God, this is happening.

  It all comes rushing back to me: the feel of his body, the taste of him, the way his tongue slides deeper into my mouth . . .

  Hello.

  My hands rise to his neck, gliding over the warm skin to his nape as he pulls me closer. Our bodies align and I can feel all of him against me.

  I want more.

  But before I can do something crazy, like push him up against the wall or drag him back to my place, Cam pulls away.

  “See you around,” he says, totally casually, like his tongue wasn’t just caressing mine in a sensual dance.

  Then he walks away, leaving me open-mouthed and giddy on the sidewalk.

  What. The. Hell?

  11

  Zoey

  A half hour later, I’m on Gemma’s couch, surrounded by my favorite things: my two best friends in the world, a giant, sweet dog with lots of love to give, and a coffee table full of junk food. Oh, and a full wine glass. It would be the perfect night if it hadn’t been for everything that came before.

  “Too bad that Cam isn’t a decent guy,” Gemma remarks. “Because if he kisses as well as you say . . .”

  “He does,” I sigh. “Unfortunately.”

  “It should be illegal for jerks to kiss well,” Eve says, indignant.

  “If it was, I’d probably be one of those women who writes love letters to serial killers on death row,” I mutter. “There I’d be, hanging around the prison fence, looking for scraps.”

  Gemma laughs. “It’s just lust,” she says, comforting. “Basic biology. Like, he gets your blood pumping and your body doesn’t know the difference between anger adrenaline and ‘I want to bang your brains out’ adrenaline. It treats them the same.”

  “Nice theory, Dr. Freud,” Eve says, cuddling the latest pup she’s dog-sitting. “But what if it’s more than that? What if the sparks mean there’s something between you guys?”

  “Nope, the hate theory sounds about right to me.” I take a bite of donut.

  Gemma looks pointedly at my phone. “Still nothing?”

  I glance down at the messaging app, hoping to see something. But . . . nope. “He stood me up.”

  “Maybe he has a good explanation?” Eve offers hopefully. “Like, a friend got sick, or he got stuck in traffic and his phone was dead.”

  “Or he got hit by a bus,” Gemma adds cheerfully.

  I jerk my head. “I prefer her version.”

  Still, I can’t stop myself typing out a message.

  Wafflegirl7: I missed you at the restaurant. Stayed until 7:30. Hope all is OK!

  I cringe at it because my message is way too nice. It tells nothing of how it felt at that restaurant when I realized I was being stood up.

  How I feel now: Rejected, stupid, unlovable. Oh wait, I almost forgot how Cam said he felt sorry for me. So yeah, add pity-worthy to that list.

  The door opens, and Zach walks in. “Daddy’s home!” he calls, before he sees us on the couch.

  Way. Too much. Information.

  “Girl emergency,” Gemma explains.

  I raise my hand. “Stood up by one guy, kissed by another.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry,” he says. He sits
down on the chair beside the table, looking wistfully at the last donut in the box. It’s a maple bacon one that reminds me of something Cam would make on his truck. I want to smash it with my fist. Somehow, I have restrained myself so far.

  “Go ahead,” I tell Zach with a sigh. “I’ve had two already.”

  He takes a bite. “Wait. Stood up by one guy and kissed by another? That solves the problem, doesn’t it? One door closes, a window opens . . .”

  “She really liked the guy who stood her up,” Gemma explains.

  “But he stood her up.” Zach looks confused. “You should date the guy who kissed you. Obviously.”

  “But she hates him!” Eve says.

  “So why did you kiss him?” Zach asks.

  I sigh. “I didn’t. He kissed me.”

  At least, to start . . . I’m pretty sure I was swooning into his arms by the end there.

  “Right.” Zach considers the twist. “So, then don’t date him, either.”

  “But the kiss was amazing!” Gemma cries.

  Zach stares at her. Then at me. “I don’t get it.”

  “Ugh. Get out, Zach. This is a girl emergency!” Gemma laughs as she pushes at his shoulder with both hands. “Go to the store and get us more Doritos and wine.”

  “No more wine,” I say, because one more glass and I’m going to go from tipsy and sad to sloppy and pathetic.

  Gemma follows him to the door and gives him the kind of kiss I have to look away from.

  “What should we watch?” Eve asks, pulling up Netflix.

  I shrug. “I don’t care.”

  And then I realize the default is a rom-com. Maybe even something I watched with BetterWithButter. Who is second only to Cam on my current hit list.

  “Wait, no. Something gory and violent. I don’t want romance and syrupy sweet happily-ever-after.”

  Gemma looks at Eve, who then looks at me.

  We all nod.

  “Kill Bill it is,” Gemma says.

  Perfect.

  After the movie, filled with Uma Thurman’s rage-filled sword-swinging badassery, I head home to find Trina on the couch, her gaming headset on as she kills stuff on the TV. I just wave at her and head right into the bathroom.

  Being propped up by my friends (and even well-meaning but clueless Zach) helped when I was with them, but now, my buzz has mostly worn off and I’m just sad.

  Not to mention, I’m now discovering, as I look into the mirror, that I spilled something on my favorite sweater, have powdered sugar on my cheek, and my eyes are bloodshot and puffy.

  Yikes. Not my best look. I wash my face and brush my teeth before I turn out the light and duck into my bedroom, phone in hand.

  I’ve been looking at it approximately every twelve seconds, so no surprise that I don’t have a message from BetterWithButter.

  He’s stood me up and left me hanging, not responding to my message from earlier.

  Eve and Gemma told me not to send more messages. They also reminded me that wine and texting don’t mix. That I already sent him a message and to leave it at that until he responds with a reasonable excuse.

  If he responds with a reasonable excuse. Because I’m still not sure he didn’t just bail after seeing me with Cam.

  Oh God, maybe he even saw me kiss Cam! I mean, it was right there on the street for all to see.

  Shit.

  Or maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was in an accident. Or lost his phone and laptop. Could happen! Maybe his devices were together in a backpack that he left on public transport. Who knows how he travels or how responsible he is with his belongings? I don’t. I barely know the guy.

  Even knowing it’s a bad idea, I can’t help myself. I start typing.

  Wafflegirl7: Hi! Me again. Just wondering what happened tonight.

  I put the phone on my nightstand and start to undress. I get my sweater off before I turn back to make sure it’s not muted.

  It isn’t.

  Keeping my eyes on it, I undo my skirt.

  I will it to ding with a new message.

  It doesn’t.

  Then, as I’m undoing my bra, the dots appear. I freeze, my boobs in limbo. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s typing! He didn’t lose all his devices! He’s not dead!

  I’ll soon hear what will surely be a terrifying tale of how he was in a car accident or nearly drowned or somehow otherwise cheated death and he’s so very, very, incredibly sorry now. When can we reschedule, he’ll ask. No, not ask: beg.

  It must be a very long tale because those dots just keep appearing.

  And disappearing.

  And appearing.

  Hurry up! I want to yell.

  Fuck, I’ve had enough of this.

  Wafflegirl7: are you OK?

  Nothing. Seriously nothing. The dots disappear.

  Wafflegirl7: Starting to feel weird here. Did I do something wrong?

  Like kiss an asshole in front of the restaurant.

  Wafflegirl7: I mean, maybe I’m not exactly what you expected, but I thought we were friends.

  No dots. No response. No tale of near death/dismemberment.

  I start to text something. And then I realize I’m being willfully ignored. The more I respond, the worse I’m going to feel. The more pathetic I’ll seem.

  Because the truth is, he’s just not that into me.

  Sigh.

  Fuck my life. Seriously.

  But no, I refuse to be that girl. I made a mistake with BetterWithButter, but I can control the rest of my life. I combine my sadness over that with my rage over Cam into a fiery hot need to beat his ass. I will claim brunch truck victory once and for all.

  Like Uma, I will kill all who get in my way.

  Though instead of using a sword, I’ll use my knives. And instead of stabbing the shit out of people, I’ll use my knives to make amazing food.

  I open up a browser and start looking for menu ideas.

  When in doubt, bake.

  The next morning, I’m up and at ’em, raring to go, full of piss and vinegar, and all sorts of other clichés that mean I’m going to kick Cam’s ass.

  But when I get to my parking spot, I find the Little Red Wagon has some big yellow accessories.

  Traffic clamps.

  “Nooo . . .” I wail, checking the parking sign. But I’m still within the time limit, and my plates are all current. What’s going on?

  I pull out my phone and search for the number of every city department I can think of, but after ringing around—and spending a half hour listening to a smooth jazz version of “My Heart Will Go On”—I still have zero answers.

  Where’s a chainsaw when you need it?

  My phone buzzes. It’s Nikki: where are you? Bball tourney, Bandit is cleaning up!

  The Brunch Bandit.

  Cam.

  My heart sinks . . . and then turns to steel. That’s it! Sabotage is one thing, but pulling this shit after his kiss-and-run routine last night?

  This is war!

  I haul my food back inside to stash in the café cooler, then take a bus and my righteous anger to the park where the Bandit’s Instagram says he’s set up for the day.

  AJ is outside taking orders and must feel my wrath coming toward him. He glances up. Smirks.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t bring my chef’s knives with me, is all I can think, because that shit-eating grin pretty much pushes me over the edge. The only thing saving him from my anger at this point is that he’s not at the very top of my hit list.

  No, that would be the Kissing Bandit, himself.

  I go around to the back of the truck and pound on the door.

  It swings open revealing dangerously sexy Cam, in a chef’s hat and torso-hugging T-shirt. No, not dangerously hot. I will not think of him that way. Ever again.

  “Zoey.” He looks surprised. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “You know exactly what! I thought we had some kind of . . . I don’t know, understanding!” I blurt. “But no,
you have to get right back to your dirty tricks.”

  “I really have no idea what you’re talking about . . .” Cam frowns.

  “Sure you don’t!” I snort. “Well, now the gloves are off, mister. You’re going to rue the day!”

  I’m full on Days of Our Lives-ing it here, but if anyone deserves the theatrics, it’s this guy.

  “Looking for this?”

  AJ approaches, casually spinning a keychain on his index finger. The kind that unlock traffic clamps.

  I gasp. “You did do it!”

  I whirl back to Cam, furious now. “This is my livelihood you’re messing with. My whole career! So your fun and games are over, because I’m not laughing.”

  “Whoa,” Cam holds his hands up, clearly startled by my rage. “Look, I’m sorry about AJ—”

  “Sure you are,” I scowl. “But believe me. You will be.”

  I grab the keys from AJ’s hand and storm off. I’m not even halfway across the park before I’m pulling out my phone.

  He wants to take this nuclear? I’ll show him nuclear.

  “Hello, health department?” I ask. “I need to report a food truck with a serious cockroach problem.”

  I pause, feeling a pang of guilt.

  But then I remind myself that he started this. He’s the one who made every day a battle and sent my blood pressure through the roof.

  Pang gone.

  And what did BetterWithButter say? Fight fire with fire. Look out, Brunch Bandit, I just strapped on a freaking flamethrower.

  12

  Zoey

  I need a break from the food truck wars, and luckily, Eve texts to let me know that they’re hosting a Puppypalooza adoption event at the animal shelter.

  Fluffy pups and some girl talk? Yes please.

  The second I walk into the building, I’m hit with the cacophony of voices and barking. A ton of people are here, getting to know the pups, and there are open pens for the dogs to roam around. In the middle of it all, Eve is trying to talk to an older couple, while a golden lab enthusiastically licks her face.

  “Zoey!” she greets me, looking relieved. “Can you please take this guy for a moment?” She thrusts the pup into my arms. I don’t object. A massive helping of cute is exactly what I need in my life right now, so I happily keep the puppy entertained until Eve finishes up the paperwork and sends him off with his new owners.