by Lila Monroe
I laugh. “You really weren’t kidding. I bet this is a regular date spot for you, huh?”
“Not really . . .” Cam protests, but I can tell it’s true.
“It’s OK, I know you’re a player,” I reassure him, teasing. “Driving the girls wild with your triple-stacked waffles.”
He laughs. “I wish. The truth is, these hours don’t leave much time for dating.”
“Tell me about it!” I exclaim. “I’m usually up at five to get started on my baking for the day.”
He winces. “OK, so maybe my schedule isn’t that bad. But I’m usually pulling late-night shifts on the truck, getting the after-hours crowd. And then with food prep, and transport . . .”
“It’s not exactly social-life-friendly,” I agree. “Even when I tried dating another chef, we could never get our hours to match up.”
“Oh, so you’ve got a type.” Cam grins. “I’m just another in a long line for you, huh?”
“Shut up.” I hit him playfully, laughing. “Actually, after that guy, I vowed never to date one again. He kept critiquing all my recipes, saying that wasn’t how they did it in his kitchen.”
“Asshole,” Cam says cheerfully. “But I’m glad you broke the rules with me.”
I didn’t exactly know I was doing it, but I don’t want to bring up the whole online fiasco and risk ruining the mood. Because I’m having fun, more than I’ve had in a long while, and the night is still young . . .
Cam pulls out his keys, and he opens the door to—
“You live in a parking garage?” I ask as he leads me inside. His food truck is parked in front of a big garage door, and the place looks sparse and minimal, to say the least.
“Don’t worry, there’s a real apartment back here,” he laughs. And sure enough, there’s a living area, complete with a sofa, TV, and a kitchen of the likes that dreams are made of.
“You have an eight-ring burner stove?” I press my hand to my forehead and fake a swoon.
“Baby, just wait until you see my refrigerator,” Cam cracks. “It makes women weak at the knees.”
I laugh. “Don’t even joke. Kitchen appliances are very sexy to me.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Cam grins, drawing me closer for a kiss. I sink happily against him, light-headed from the beer and just the taste of him. His hands slide over my body, and I lean closer, loving the feel of him, so solid and taut.
Boy has a six-pack, and I’m not talking about beer anymore.
“Hold that thought.” Cam pulls away. “Bathroom’s that way, by the way.” He nods down a hallway. “And you’re welcome to whatever’s in the fridge.”
I laugh. “You overestimate my appetite.”
“Hey, I learned not to underestimate you.” Cam smirks. He goes to pour a drink at the old-school bar cart he has set up, and scrolls through his phone, stationed on a speaker dock. I take the opportunity to use that bathroom and freshen up.
And also snoop.
What can I say? You can learn a lot from a man’s bathroom, and I’ve seen some terrors in my day. Luckily, Cam’s is spotless and clean, with fresh navy towels, and even floss in the cabinet. Yay oral hygiene.
I also clock a box of condoms tucked neatly to one side. Not that it’s a foregone conclusion we’ll be needing them of course, but still . . .
It’s nice to know the option is there, should the moment, ahem, arise.
When I emerge, there’s music playing. Old school Sinatra. I smile. “Real smooth,” I comment, strolling over to where Cam is sitting on the couch. “You really did have this seduction thing all worked out.”
“Complaining?” he asks with a smoldering grin.
“Not at all.”
He reaches for me, and then we’re kissing. Oh boy, are we kissing. His hands are on my waist as I wrap my arms around his neck, heart racing as our tongues twine. It’s hot and heady and so overwhelmingly good, except that we’re too upright. I lean back and pull him down into the cushions with me.
Problem solved.
His weight presses into me, anchoring me into the sofa as his lips begin a slow but thorough exploration away from my mouth, along my jaw, and down the curve of my neck.
I give a happy moan of encouragement, for his kisses, and the way his hands are sliding up under my blouse. He hums against my collarbone and slowly tugs at the ribbon on the neckline of my blouse. It falls away, and then his mouth is on me again, licking and teasing my breasts through the lace of my bra.
Gemma was right. It’s a good thing the blouse won’t wrinkle.
I giggle.
“What?” he asks with a smile.
I look down at him. His hair is tousled from my fingers, and his lips are sexy and swollen from kissing. He is legit the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
“Nothing,” I say breathlessly, as he presses against me. “Don’t stop.”
Not needing any more encouragement, he moves further down, trailing hot kisses over my stomach until I’m gasping. He pauses over my waistband, and quirks an eyebrow at me in a silent request, as one hand slowly pops open the button.
I nod, my pulse racing.
Stop? Now?
No freaking way.
He unzips, tugging my jeans over my hips . . . and then my panties, too. I gulp. I’m feeling weirdly exposed, but this is too good to stop, so I press my eyes shut and sink into the feel of it: his hands stroking up my thighs, and the hot whisper of his breath against me. Then he’s kissing me. There. I gasp, arching up, his expert tongue licking, sucking, worshipping me.
Remember when I figured he must be good at this? I was so, so right. He knows just how to touch me, curling two fingers deep inside me as his miraculous mouth makes me come undone. “Don’t stop,” I gasp, writhing against him. “Don’t. You. Stop.”
I can feel him chuckle, a low hum against me, but Cam doesn’t stop. He keeps going, thrusting his fingers deep in perfect time as I come apart, moaning as I break in a hard, fast climax.
I cling to him as the pleasure crashes through me. Holy shit. That was amazing.
Cam emerges with a satisfied grin on his face that would be arrogant, if it wasn’t wholly earned.
“You doing OK up there?” he asks, idly stroking my bare stomach.
I shiver, still blissful with afterglow. “Mmmhmmm . . .”
“Because we aim to please,” Cam adds, smiling. “The customer is always right.”
“Well in that case, there is one thing . . .” I say, yawning.
“Anything.”
“Where are those churros?”
17
Cam
Walking down the sidewalk on my way to my weekly volunteer stint, I hum a random tune. I’m feeling good—great, actually. But I guess a night with Zoey will do that for a guy.
What are you up to today? I ask her now via text. We both have the day off our respective trucks. Much deserved and—in both cases—much needed.
Really sexy stuff, she responds.
I stop in my tracks. Oh really?
You think last night was wild? Today will be off the hook: Laundry. Cleaning. Paying bills.
I laugh. Adulting huh? Last night was great. And I don’t just mean the sexy part.
Agree, she sends. Those tacos were epic!
I shake my head, grinning. Is that all that was epic?
Nope, she sends. The churros were pretty good, too.
Is that what we’re calling it now?
She sends back some winky-face emojis, and I tuck my phone away as I enter the kitchen.
“There you are!” Maddy exclaims, looking up from the counter. She’s laying a top crust over one of many apple pies. “Everyone’s out sick, and I only have two hands.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, grabbing an apron. “I’m all yours now.”
“Thanks.” She sighs, looking around. It really is thin on the ground in here, and I can see piles of produce and half-finished dishes
. “But we’re never going to get the food out at this rate.”
“Want some reinforcements?” I ask, already pulling out my phone. Jamie is doing dad-duty, but Zoey says she can swing by for a shift. I smile just at the prospect of seeing her again, but I quickly hide it, as Maddy directs me to chop a massive pile of apples. Still, I can tell she knows something’s up, and she only looks more amused when Zoey walks through the doors.
“Hi!” Zoey says, looking around. “Where do you need me?”
“Right here,” I joke, and claim a quick kiss. Zoey pulls back, and her eyes widen.
“Ohmigod,” she gasps under her breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you know Madeline Silverson?!”
“You know her?”
“Umm, I’m only her biggest fan.” Zoey falls silent as Maddy comes over, and I make the introductions.
“It’s great to meet you,” Maddy says, shaking her hand.
“Happy to help!” Zoey replies, giving me a nudge, as if to say she wants an explanation later. “What can I do?”
Maddy puts her to work, telling her to help herself to whatever’s in the kitchen, leaving her to make whatever she wants as long as it feeds a crowd.
After Zoey heads into the walk-in, I level a look at Maddy—the control freak who follows menus to the letter. She gives a smile. “It’s good to change things up a little. Plus, I don’t have time to guide her through what we normally make. I’m sure she can handle a few dishes.”
Zoey rises to the challenge and quickly starts in on the veggies, while I get back to the pies. But I can’t help sneaking looks across the kitchen at Zoey as she works. She has a determined but relaxed expression on her face, concentrating hard as she whisks, chops, and whirls around the space.
It’s sexy as hell.
I hear a cough. “Do you need me to take over?”
Maddy is standing there, smirking at me.
“Sorry,” I say, returning to my task.
“She certainly knows what she’s doing,” Maddy observes.
“She is trained.”
“Yes, it shows. So, does her love for it,” Maddy continues. “And, she came dressed in whites like a pro.” She gives my jeans and T-shirt a slow up-and-down look.
“Oh, hello kettle,” I say as I point at her yoga pants and oversized tunic.
Maddy grins. “Anyway, I like her.”
My mentor isn’t easily impressed, so her saying she likes Zoey feels like a huge deal.
“Me too.”
“That’s obvious,” she says wryly. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Happy over a woman.”
“Don’t fuck it up.”
I grin. “If you were like fifty years younger, I’d marry you, you know.”
“Asshole,” she mutters as she heads over to the ovens. But I can see she’s smiling.
We manage to get all the food ready in time for service, though barely. And only thanks to Zoey.
“This looks amazing,” Maddy says as she looks out over the colorful buffet. She beams at Zoey. “You are welcome back anytime. And I will get that green bean recipe out of you.”
Zoey blushes. “Thanks. I’m so glad you like them!”
The doors open, and people start coming in. We get a real mishmash of people coming by, from older folks, to families, and some homeless people, too. But they’re all here for the same reason: a hearty meal, in a welcoming spot.
“You did great here,” I say to Zoey, as we collect our things and leave. “Thanks again for helping out.”
She smiles at me. “I’m happy to do it. It’s nice to cook real meals for a change.”
“They love your food,” I add. “That means you have to come back, you know. Everyone’s going to expect it now. You should have burned everything. Then you’d be off the hook.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure, tell me that now.” She laughs. “But really, I’d be happy to help again. How did you get involved? I have to admit, I’m surprised.”
“Really?”
She shrugs. “You’re pretty ambitious,” she explains. “And the time you spend here is time you’re not out, building your Bandit empire.”
I pause, not sure what to make of that. Zoey sees.
“I don’t mean it in a bad way. Anyway, I’m learning there are many sides to you, Cameron Donnelly.”
I relax. “I’m very multi-faceted. And virile,” I add, teasing. “Don’t forget virile.”
She laughs. “How could I forget?”
We cross the street, heading nowhere in particular. The bad weather has passed, at least for the day, and now it’s blue-skied and brisk out.
“How did you meet Madeline?” Zoey asks. “Did I make a fool of myself back there? I know I was gushing like a fan-girl.”
“No,” I reassure her. “You played it real cool.”
“Thanks for lying,” Zoey laughs. “But really, what’s the story there?”
“I worked in one of her restaurants,” I explain.
“And she saw your talent right away?”
“Not quite.” I snort loudly. “She actually fired me.”
Zoey laughs. “Seriously?”
I nod. “She wasn’t wrong to, either. I was a dishwasher—we’re talking back in high school—I was like fifteen or something. I was fucking around in the kitchen. Showing off. Maybe caused a small grease fire.”
“Maybe?” She lifts skeptical eyebrow.
I grin. “OK, definitely. Nothing to call 911 over. But obviously due to carelessness, so she canned my ass.”
“So how did that turn around?” she asks.
“I begged,” I say matter-of-factly. “I didn’t exactly grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth, so once I realized what an ass I’d been, I did everything I could to make it right.”
“She seems like a take-no-shit kind of lady,” Zoey observes. “I’m surprised she let you come back.”
I nod. “She told me that was my one strike and if I didn’t get my act together, I was out.”
“It’s cool that she gave you a second chance.”
I nod. “She likes to play it tough, but she’s been incredibly generous with her time and talents. And the community center . . . Well, everyone needs to eat. My parents weren’t around much when I was growing up, so for me, it was either learn to cook myself, or eat PB&J every night.”
“That’s tough.” Zoey’s voice is soft, and when I look over, there’s compassion in her eyes.
I shrug, not exactly comfortable with opening up. “I was lucky. I found something I was good at, something I could make a living from. A lot of people never have that passion.”
“True. But you’ve worked hard,” Zoey points out. “That counts for a lot.”
I look up and realize we’ve walked the long way around—right back to that first restaurant. “This is the place,” I smile. “Maddy’s first joint.”
“Should we go in? I could eat . . .” Zoey says.
“It’s not hers anymore,” I explain. “But sure, let’s go in. I’m hungry, too.”
I grab the door. It’s busy and noisy, just like I remember. Even the smell is the same: coffee, frying butter, home-cooked food. Maddy hasn’t owned it in years, since she went more upscale, but it feels like I just turned back the clock a decade. I can’t help but smile. A waitress looks up and gestures at a four-top on the side wall that’s already set with mugs, napkins, and paper placemats. We take our seats and reach for the menus.
“So how long did you work here?” Zoey asks as she scans down the page.
“Four years.”
“Wow, you really paid your dues.”
I nod. “And then some.”
“That’s cool,” she says. “I hate those arrogant douches who’ve never worked in the trenches. They come out of culinary school not appreciating the people who support the kitchen and act like elitist assholes. I mean, food is important, and I love being a chef, but it’s not brain surgery.”
I laugh.
“Tell me how you really feel.”
Zoey blushes. “Too strong?”
“No, I agree.” I smile. “It’s fun seeing you all fired up.”
She rolls her eyes, bashful. “Were you a busboy here?”
I shake my head. “No, only about a year. Then prep guy. Mostly potatoes.”
She grins. “You are sitting across from the potato-peeling and chipper queen.”
“Oh really?” I laugh.
“I worked in a diner during culinary school,” she explains. “I can short-order with the best of them. I ran that grill like a boss.” She playfully flexes a bicep.
“Impressive,” I laugh. “I got my huge muscles doing a different activity.”
She splutters, laughing. “Oh really?”
“Baseball!” I smirk. “Really, Zoey. What were you thinking?”
She’s saved by the waitress, bringing coffee and taking our orders.
After she’s gone, I ask Zoey about her brother, and we keep chatting about our families, and growing up, barely pausing for breath. It strikes me that I really enjoy her company. Not just because she’s funny and sexy as hell, but it’s comfortable. Easy. I have a sudden image of us years down the road, sitting across a table from each other, enjoying food and chatting about whatever.
Whoa. For a guy who’s never seen himself as the settle-down type, that image was very . . . unsettling.
Thankfully, Zoey doesn’t notice and continues, telling me about her kitchen jobs and how she was inspired to go to culinary school. While our pasts don’t exactly align, what we do have in common is our love for food. I bet I could learn a lot from her.
“So now what?” she asks, as we finish up.
“You could go back to your laundry. Or . . .”
She looks at me sidelong. “Or . . . ?”
“We could do my laundry?”
She laughs. “I feel like playing hooky. It’s weird, taking a whole day off the truck.”
“So let’s do something fun.” I think quickly, and then smile.
“I know that look,” Zoey says.
“Hey!” I protest. “Not all my ideas are about food. Or sex.”
