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

by Lila Monroe

  “We’re on a mission,” she explains, looking around the crowd with uncharacteristic focus. “To get every dog adopted today.” She looks at me sideways. “You’ve always wanted a dog, right? Or three?”

  “Oh sure,” I laugh. “Trina would love that!”

  Eve giggles. “You know, I forget you even have a roommate. We never see her. Are you even sure she’s real? Are you sure you didn’t just dream her up at a D&D game?”

  I shrug. “Well someone keeps using all my good face cream and eats all my leftover pastries.”

  “Could totally be a ghost with dry skin and a love of baked goods,” Eve quips.

  I give her a hug. “This is exactly what I needed today.”

  “Excuse me?” I hear. Eve and I both look up. Waaaay up to the tall guy standing beside us. The tall, hot, gorgeous guy standing beside us.

  Well, hello there. Are the Hemsworths missing a brother?

  Eve blushes bright red. “Oh, hi! Can we, umm, help you?”

  “I was thinking about adopting. It’s my nephew’s birthday,” the man explains, “and his mom agreed a puppy might be good for him. He’s having a tough time. D-I-V-O-R-C-E,” he adds, with a meaningful look.

  “Well, dogs make an amazing friend,” Eve gushes. “And we have lots of great ones looking for a new home.”

  “You go help him pick one out,” I say, giving her a little push toward him. “I’ll hold down the fort here.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “This is my gig and you’re—”

  “—happy to help,” I finish. Is she crazy? He’s right there! “Go.”

  Eve grins and heads off with her Hemsworth. Hopefully to get his number, as well as find the right pup. I look around the lobby. It’s busy, but it could be busier, so I snap a picture of the cutest puppies I can find and tweet it out from my Little Red Wagon account: Off the road for the day, but helping out at Puppypalooza. Come find your new best friend! #puppies #adopt #bestfriend #adorbs

  I’m tempted to click through and see what the Brunch Bandit is up to today, but I force myself to put my phone back into my pocket and throw myself into role of puppy pusher. The last thing I need is to dwell on the kiss-hate of it all—especially when I have so much cute distraction around.

  Like the litter of adorable Dalmatian pups . . . Or the tiny Chihuahua dogs . . . Or, well, pretty much all of them. I stroke and scratch, and play fetch, and the morning flies by before Gemma and Zach walk through the door. Martin and Julie are with them and when I see the look on Julie’s face, it’s clear they’re here for a reason.

  “Puppies!” Gemma squeals even as she’s hugging me. “What can we do to help?”

  I look at Julie. “Hey. Ready to meet your new family member?”

  Martin rolls his eyes but Julie nods enthusiastically. “Yes! So ready!”

  I point toward the pen. “Go crazy.”

  She dives in. Gemma looks around. “Where’s Eve?”

  “Around here somewhere, with a prospective adopter.” I grin. “A very hot prospective adopter.”

  “Love it!” Gemma beams. “She needs to get out there.”

  “And we already know this one likes dogs,” I agree. We all have our dealbreakers. Mine is people who are single-mindedly attempting to drive me out of business. Eve can’t stand cat people. To each their own!

  Sure enough, she emerges from the back room with Hemsworth—and a swoony smile on her face. He’s got an adorable lab in his arms, and they exchange a few words before he leaves.

  “Well?” I demand, when she rejoins us. “Please tell me you asked him out.”

  She drags her eyes from the door to look at me. “What?”

  “Uh, Hottie McHotterson, there. You asked him out, right?”

  She blushes, adorably. “No! He’s . . .”

  I count off on my fingers. “Hot, looking for a companion, tall, loves dogs, hot.”

  “You said hot twice,” she laughs. Still blushing. Still adorable. “Anyway, he’s a client. I can’t.”

  “You’re not his shrink, Evie,” Gemma cries. “There’s no conflict there. No court would convict you. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’d get convicted for letting that get away.”

  She pauses a moment, then shakes her head. “He would have asked for my number if he’d wanted it. Plus, guys like that are never single. He’s probably dating a supermodel. Who bakes.”

  We all sigh. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that by the time you get to your late twenties, most of the good ones are taken.

  “Cheer up,” Gemma comforts her. “The event is going great. I think that family wants to take those two St. Bernards.”

  “Both of them?” Eve looks panicked. “Do they know they grow to be five million pounds?”

  She flees over there to set them straight. Hemsworth, clearly, can wait.

  The event goes great, and by the time the shelter closes for the day, we’ve managed to find a ton of pups their forever home. To celebrate, we all head down the street to a great dive bar for dinner and drinks. Everyone is in a good mood after helping the shelter set an adoption record.

  “It was all thanks to you guys,” Eve gushes.

  “And by ‘you,’ she means Zach and Brody, for posting all those pics with the pups,” Julie smirks. “Nothing like man-candy to get people showing up.”

  “What am I?” Martin protests. “Chopped liver?”

  “Yes, but you’re my chopped liver.” Julie silences him with a kiss.

  “To hot guys and puppies!” Gemma raises her beer in a toast. Then she sees something across the bar and freezes.

  “What?” I turn to look. And catch an eyeful of Mr. Nemesis himself.

  Cam. With some buddies. Having what looks like a celebration. Probably for crushing the competition.

  I scowl.

  “Do you want to go somewhere else?” Gemma checks.

  “No. it’s a free country,” I add, even as the sight of him makes our last encounter come rushing back.

  Our last kiss-counter, I should say. I remember the heat of his body and flush—just as Cam looks over and sees me. I whip my head back around.

  “What’s going on?” Zach looks confused.

  “The Brunch Bandit guy is over there,” I tell them. “BUT DON’T LOOK!”

  Too late. He’s looking. Now Martin and Julie are, too. And every single person at our table.

  Real inconspicuous.

  “Wait,” Zach says. “Is he the guy who stood you up, or the one who kissed you?”

  “The kisser,” Gemma pipes up.

  “Guys!” I hiss, and they finally turn back. “Way to be discreet.”

  “Do you want us to go over there and, you know, give him a talking to?” Martin asks. “And by that I mean, do you want Brody to go over there?” he adds, grinning. Brody is a strapping six-foot fitness freak. He raises a glass.

  “Just point me in the right direction.”

  “Thank you, but no. He seems to thrive off attention, so the best thing is to just ignore him.” I send another scowl over, but Cam isn’t even looking, he’s just having a great time. Because clearly, my presence doesn’t matter to him.

  Suddenly, Eve lets out a squeal. “Zoey!” she cries, clutching her phone. “You did it!”

  “Did what?”

  “You made the shortlist for FoodFest!”

  I gasp. “WHAT?!”

  She shows me her phone. “I have an alert set for the Wagon. See! The categories just got announced. You’re up for Best Brunch.”

  “Oh my God!” I cry in disbelief. “This is MAJOR!”

  “Congratulations!” Everyone toasts and cheers, but I keep staring at the screen in disbelief. FoodFest is a major even here: top restaurants get nominated in a bunch of different categories, everything from Fine Dining to Best Hangover Food. It’s a serious badge of culinary pride to even get a nomination, but for the winners . . . They blow up in a serious way. Lines around the block, a big profile in the newspaper . . . And this year, it c
ould be me!

  “So, what happens now?” Eve asks excitedly.

  “Now, the committee sends out a bunch of mystery diners to secretly sample our stuff,” I explain, my heart racing. “And the top ones go head-to-head at the big food festival event next month.”

  “You’ll crush the competition for sure,” Gemma says loyally. “Who else is nominated?”

  “Let me check.” Eve takes her phone back, just as a chorus of cheers erupts from the other side of the bar.

  No freaking way!

  “Tell me it’s not him . . .” I groan.

  Eve winces. “Sorry. You two are the only food trucks in the category, if that helps.”

  It doesn’t.

  Sure enough, like he feels me watching, Cam looks over. And raises his glass, as if to say, “It’s on.”

  I lift my own glass. Not to salute or toast—but to pour my beer down my throat as fast as I can. “He better not sabotage me. Again!”

  Eve frowns. “You don’t think he’s going to keep up the pranks, do you?”

  I look at my sweet, naïve friend. “I’d bet my life on it. I mean, the stakes are higher now, for both of us. Winning FoodFest would put me on the map.”

  Gemma looks sympathetic. “Why don’t you call a truce?”

  “I wish I could, but he’d probably just take that as a sign of weakness and stomp all over me.”

  My elation from the shortlist fades—and fast. How am I supposed to focus on cooking my heart out when I have to keep watch for his dirty tricks 24/7 along the way?

  First my big date with BWB, now this.

  Can’t I catch a break?

  13

  Cam

  I glance at Zoey across the bar where she sits with her friends. Despite the FoodFest news, she looks pissed. She darts a look at me. Narrows her eyes. Clearly, she isn’t thrilled about the competition.

  I can’t resist throwing her a smile and a wave. Her scowl deepens, and she looks away.

  I’m being a jerk, I know, but the truth is, I have no idea to act around her now that I know she’s really Wafflegirl.

  Especially since I lost my mind and kissed her like that.

  “Want another beer?” Jamie asks after he empties his. “Or we could go somewhere else. We have the sitter for a couple more hours, and Tillie’s down for the night.”

  “Hopefully,” Laura adds.

  I dart another glance at Zoey. Who looks at me at the same moment. Damn eye contact. This time I look away. I could use a change of venue, where there aren’t so many distractions. “Let’s go back to my place,” I offer. “I have leftover brisket and some foot-long rolls.”

  “Yes! Midnight snack time!” Jamie cheers.

  We head out and cab it back to mine. I live in a warehouse in a shady part of town. Not one of those fancy places that’s been done up by developers, but the real deal. It’s big enough to park my truck inside off the street, and I managed to get a bunch of kitchen equipment from restaurants going out of business, so it’s practically an industrial kitchen—with some furniture laying around.

  Jamie makes a beeline for the massive refrigerator and starts assembling the food, while Laura and I chill on the couch.

  My phone buzzes. A notification from Wafflegirl.

  I wince.

  “What’s up?” Laura asks.

  I show her the message.

  Last time I will text you. If I don’t hear back, will assume you died of butter-fueled heart attack. Will drown my grief in a vat of Chocolate Therapy.

  “I don’t get why you ghosted,” Laura remarks. I already came clean to her and Jamie about the whole Wafflegirl/Zoey situation. “Or at the very least, explained why you’re backing off.”

  “Because she’s the enemy!” I protest.

  “But you really liked her online.”

  “Before I knew who she was. None of that was real.”

  “But she is real,” Jamie pitches in. “She’s Zoey.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t give it a try,” Laura agrees. “You have a lot in common.”

  “Sure,” I snort. “Our strong dislike for each other.”

  “I meant the food truck thing,” she grins.

  “But she doesn’t know I’m the guy she’s been talking to. She hates my guts in real life.”

  “It’s a fine line between love and hate,” Laura teases, sing-song.

  But I don’t hate Zoey. Not really. In fact, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, trying to piece together the two pieces of what I thought were totally different women. The one I’ve been relaxed with, opening up to . . .

  And the one who drives me so crazy I just want to push her up against the wall and kiss her senseless.

  Fuck her senseless, too.

  But I can’t.

  “We’re competitors,” I try to explain. “The real Zoey is stubborn and uptight with her rules and her turf wars. She’s determined to kick my ass.”

  Which, I have to admit, probably makes me like her that much more. She’s strong and takes no shit—a worthy competitor, if I’m being honest.

  “Look, just cut the crap and admit you like her,” Jamie says, looking smug. “I don’t see the problem.”

  “There are a lot of problems!” I argue. “We’re rivals. She doesn’t know I’m me. It’s complicated.”

  Laura snorts. “Unplanned pregnancy is complicated. Getting a mortgage in this town is complicated. Finding out a girl you like online turns out to be a girl you thought you didn’t like in real life but are kidding yourself about? Minor hiccup.”

  “Apparently you’ve never had the hiccups,” I growl. “Those things are a bitch.”

  I shrug vaguely. They don’t understand how connected I felt to Wafflegirl. How guilty I feel now, knowing she’s waiting for me to respond. Not knowing why she got stood up.

  But how could I explain that I panicked when I saw her? How everything she’d told me as Wafflegirl conflicted with everything I know about Zoey?

  It’s even more complicated now that we’re both competing in FoodFest.

  I can’t ask her out. Even if she’d be into it—which I seriously doubt—it’s a recipe for disaster.

  How can you date a girl when you want to take her business down, crush it, and drive your truck over it?

  I’m pretty sure the answer is: you can’t.

  The next morning, I head to the market. I need to stock up so I can test new recipes to impress the FoodFest judges. I’ve already vowed to put this Wafflegirl stuff way out of my mind and get my head back in the game—

  Until I roll into the parking lot, and the first thing I see is her Little Red Wagon.

  Fate has a sense of humor, that’s for sure. I’m still feeling seriously guilty over standing her up, and I almost leave. But no. I need supplies, and, oh yeah, I’m a grown man.

  I probably won’t even see her if I’m careful. Not that I’m avoiding her.

  Much.

  As I’m walking down the busy aisle, I see a stack of boxes with legs coming toward me. It’s a nice set of long, feminine legs in a short casual skirt. Those legs end in a pair of red All Stars. Cute.

  “Coming through!” the boxes yell.

  I take a step back just as she’s about to pass. It’s then that I see her face: Zoey.

  She looks right at me and narrows her eyes. Cute squared.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She eyes me, suspicious. “You going to trip me or something?”

  “So distrustful,” I tease.

  Her eyebrows go up.

  “All right,” I grin. “I guess I deserve that. But for the record, the boot thing was my juvenile employee’s doing.”

  She snorts. “Sure.”

  “I mean it. Though that trouble with the health department? I’m guessing that was your doing. By the way, you’ll be pleased to hear we passed with flying colors. The inspector was very impressed,” I add. “He loved my bacon-wrapped tater tots.”

  “Good to know.” She hitches
up her boxes, clearly struggling under the weight.

  “Do you need some help?” I ask.

  “Nope,” she snaps. “I don’t need you running off with my stuff.”

  She has plenty of reasons not to trust me—more if she knew I am BetterWithButter. But I’m trying to be a good guy. I pluck the top box off her stack.

  She squeaks. “Hey!”

  “Easy there, I’m not going to run off with your stuff,” I sigh. “Do you have any more stops?”

  She stares at me for a long minute, sizing me up. “Nope. This is it.”

  “OK then.” I start walking in the direction of her truck. She follows fast, dogging my heels—probably to make sure I’m not slipping something in her boxes. “You stocked up today, huh?” I say, trying to make conversation.

  “I’m trying out some new recipes,” Zoey admits. “For . . .” She stops.

  “FoodFest?” I guess.

  She nods.

  “Congrats on making the cut, by the way,” I offer.

  She gives me a cautious look. “You too.”

  We get to her truck and I help load the food inside.

  I should tell her—about the online messaging, the date the other night . . . She’ll be mad as hell, but at least I won’t feel like a total asshole for keeping secrets. And really, can she hate me much more than she does now?

  Unlikely.

  “Uh, hello?” she says suddenly, making me realize I’ve been zoning out. I look over. She’s standing there, hands on hips. Almost amused.

  I shake my head. “I . . . it’s early. Need more coffee. I was up late last night,” I tell her for no reason. What I don’t tell her is that I was up late watching Bridesmaids—the film she’d mentioned on the forum, but that we hadn’t gotten around to watching together. It was actually pretty funny. I suddenly wish I could tell her I watched it and liked it.

  I wish I could tell her a lot of stuff. Like how pretty she looks with her hair pulled back like that, or how the fit of her T-shirt has me thinking all kinds of non-produce-related things . . .

  The longer I spend with her, the more I forget why we even have this stupid rivalry.

  Because you were an asshole to her when you first met.