by Lila Monroe
Well, most of them are, but for once, I’m thinking outside the kitchen.
“Trust me?” I ask.
Zoey pretends to think about it.
“Hey!” I protest.
She laughs. “OK, OK, I trust you. Ish. Just tell me, will I need a visor for this one?”
“Nope . . . but you might want some kneepads.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Relax,” I laugh. “You have a dirty mind.”
“You hope I do.” Zoey gives me a wink, and damn, if I don’t want to cut the night short and drag her back to my place, caveman style.
I clear my throat. Romance first. Caveman later.
And I have something crazy romantic in mind.
18
Zoey
When Cam said he wanted to take me somewhere, I assumed it would be back to his place so we could continue the sexytimes we started last night.
After spending this day together, learning more about him, I’m eager to do just that.
Maybe eager isn’t the best word. Panty-meltingly-desperate is probably closer to how I’m feeling right about now.
We grab a car and head downtown, the trendy part filled with posh hotels and high-end stores—the kind of boutiques that fashionista Gemma swoons over but can’t afford. They’re all still decked out with Valentine’s decor. “I feel like a tourist, coming down here,” I say as we emerge from the car. “It’s not exactly my usual haunt.”
Cam takes my hand and tugs me down the street. “Figure it out yet?” he teases.
“You’re taking me shopping?” I ask dubiously. “Hitting up CandyShack on a sugar spree?”
Cam grins. “Nope, but good idea for another day.”
He comes to a stop by Union Square, where there’s an ice rink set up in the middle of the square.
“I thought they only had this for the holidays!” I exclaim, looking around.
“It’s some kind of event,” he answers with a smile. “Pretty Woman on Ice. But for now, it’s open to the public. What do you think?”
I bite my lip. “I don’t know how to skate.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Once as a kid,” I admit. “It was a fail. Or should I say, a fall. Many falls. Epic number of falls.”
He chuckles. “I’ll help you.”
“You better!” I say, grinning. Because I’m up for whatever. And if it means holding on to Cam tightly?
Yes please.
Cam does hold me tight, all the way from the lockers as I wobble, unsteady on my skates. As we approach the rink, I’m lulled into thinking I can totally do this. After all, ice isn’t that slippery, right?
Ha! Perhaps I should have paid better attention in physics class.
The second we get on the ice, I nearly go down, my feet sliding out in front of me. A slightly embarrassing “Whoooooaaaaa!” escapes me. Cam is close and steadies me. I grab his arm like it’s my lifeline.
“Sorry in advance for the torn rotator cuff.”
“I got you,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice, but I don’t dare take my eyes off my feet. Not that seeing them is helping. AT ALL! Seriously, how do people do this?
“I don’t know, Cam,” I say as I shuffle forward, my legs wobbling.
“You’re doing fine. Hold on.”
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I blurt out suddenly. Because he’s dislodged my hands from his arm.
“I’ve still got you,” Cam laughs. He’s taken each of my hands in one of his as he moves in front of me, poised to skate backward.
“Show off.” I stick my tongue out.
“Look up at me,” he says.
“No.”
“Zoey,” he chuckles. “This will make it easier, I promise.”
I take a steadying breath and slowly draw my eyes up to his gorgeous, smiling face. I stumble a little (because of the ice, not that face. At least, that’s my story!) but his grip is firm. Somehow, I don’t go down.
“There,” he says. “Keep your focus off your feet. Now just glide with me.”
He starts skating backward, gently pulling me along, reminding me to look at him when my gaze starts to drift downward.
God. How am I supposed to stay upright when all I want to do is sink into those blue eyes? I admit that it’s much nicer looking at them than at my feet in the ugly rental skates. I notice his right eye has more indigo, the left more green. I wonder if he knows that.
“You OK?” he asks. I blink, adjusting my focus away from my clinical inspection of his irises.
“Oh sure,” I deadpan. “I mean, this is cool, right? Me, on the ice looking like a toddler with an inner ear issue.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cam smirks. “Actually, that toddler over there is doing pretty well. Maybe he doesn’t have an ear issue, though.”
I glance over at the kid being led by his mom, the same way Cam is leading me. The shift makes me nearly lose my balance.
“Asshole!” I laugh as Cam steadies me.
“You’re doing great,” he reassures me.
And I do feel like I’m doing better as we get to the halfway point around the rink. Until a pack of fast-moving teens skates up right beside me. I panic and stiffen, afraid they’re going to bash into me.
“Cam!?” I grip his hands hard.
“It’s OK,” he says. “They’re not that close. They won’t run into you, I promise.”
He’s right.
Though neither of us sees that toddler coming.
We retreat to the safety of the outdoor café, for hot chocolate with mountains of whipped cream. “You OK?” Cam asks, as I rub my forehead.
“You mean aside from the concussion?”
He frowns.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “Though I do think I’m going to have a couple of goose eggs—front and back.”
He leans over and kisses my forehead, right where we must have headbutted when we fell.
“How’s that?” he asks.
“Barely scratches the surface. I have many more injuries that need kissing better.”
He laughs. “And I very much want to kiss them better.”
I give him an Oh really? look.
“Minx,” he laughs. Then he pauses, with a bashful look. “This is good, right?”
“Yup.” I take another sip. “I think they used real chocolate.”
“I mean us. Together.”
I blink, but Cam isn’t kidding around.
And I don’t want him to be.
This time, I’m the one pulling him closer for a kiss. This time it’s not a light, sweet peck. It’s a hot, searing meeting of tongues and lips. I fumble to put my cup on the bench and then wrap both arms around him, pulling him close. He tastes good, like chocolate and him and the promise of something even more delicious.
We make out for several minutes until I shiver, partly from the kiss, partly from the chill that’s appeared in the air.
He pulls back. I realize it’s dark now. “Maybe we should go somewhere . . . warmer?” he suggests.
I nod. “My place has heat.”
And a bed.
And a lock on the door.
“Sounds perfect.”
I don’t even register the ride back across town, we’re making out like a pair of teenagers in the backseat. We burst through the door, and I thank the Gods of Absent Roommates that the place is dark and quiet.
“Want something to drink?” I ask, peeling off my coat.
He shakes his head. “I want you.”
Yes please!
“Come here,” he says, his voice deep and husky, turning me on more. As I close the gap between us, he growls as his lips land on mine. It’s hot and overwhelming and I almost rip his clothes off right there in my living room. Instead, I use my last shred of willpower to yank him back to my bedroom, slamming the door behind us.
He kisses me again, and I run my hands up under the hem of his shirt, skimming the hard planes of his chest. I pull it over his head, and we tumble bac
k on to my bed. He’s breathing hard as I explore his chest, the flat nipples, the small patch of hair between. The muscles, oh God, the muscles . . .
“You must make a lot of fries,” I observe, running my fingers over his biceps. “I approve.”
He laughs and undoes the buttons on my shirt, lavishing attention on one breast, and then the other, until I’m panting for more. I reach impatiently for his belt and help him strip off his jeans. Soon we’re gorgeously, deliciously naked.
And yes, I’m impressed.
Cam pulls me beneath the covers, and I shiver as his lips find mine again. I close my hand around him, teasing his hard length until he groans. “Fuck, Zoey . . .”
I moan myself as he slips one hand between my legs, finding me wet for him. His fingers pulse and probe, and then I’m bucking against him, gripping his shoulders tightly. “Cam . . .” I gasp, as a climax suddenly ripples through me. Oh my god!
“We’re just getting started,” he says, his voice low and sexy in my ear. He retrieves a condom from his wallet, then slips back under the sheets with me, positioning himself above me,
hands on either side of my head. There are those biceps again.
He pushes into me and we both groan at the pleasure of him filling me completely, stretching in the best way. He’s so thick, and deep, the friction is incredible. I arch into him, hungry for more. “Yes,” I gasp. “More.”
He growls in agreement, and then starts to move.
Yes. Fuck. Yes.
Cam slides into me, hard and fast now, and I’m lost to it, the slide of his body and how fucking hot this is. I can’t believe it, but I’m close to the edge again, chasing the pressure, that angle, just right. Then Cam kisses me again, his tongue probing as his cock strokes into me, and fuck, I can’t hold back. I shatter against him with a cry, and then he’s coming hard, surging into me with a groan.
Damn.
He collapses on me, the two of us a sweaty, heavily-breathing, aftershocking tangle of arms and legs. I love it. I want to live here now.
He briefly gets up to deal with the condom, then spoons back against me, kissing my shoulder.
“Stay the night?” I ask, hesitant.
I worry he hasn’t heard me as he kisses up my neck. But then, when I’m about to just let it go, fearing that he’s not answering me on purpose, he rolls over me and looks into my eyes. I wonder if I look as happy and satisfied as he does right now.
“Definitely.” Cam grins. “And if you’re really lucky . . . I’ll make you breakfast.”
That sounds pretty much perfect to me.
19
Zoey
A week later, I wake up feeling like a kid on Christmas morning.
FoodFest Day!
Then I see the gorgeous sleeping man beside me and my second thought is, Oh baby.
Like he heard my thought, Cam opens his eyes, a lazy smile curving his lips. That smile, his sexy bedhead, and that I know he’s naked under the covers, improves my already good mood.
I’ve never been a morning person but waking up with him these last several days has changed all that. Has it ever.
“Morning,” he says and then tugs me close to give me a kiss. “I like you in my bed,” he drawls, smiling.
“I like being in your bed.” It’s only been a week since we took things to the next level, but it’s only gotten better since. Like, exponentially better. Every day we’ve woken up together, starting the day with delicious orgasms. We go to work on our respective trucks, checking in a lot, trading silly texts and comparing notes on possible judges.
And after we each close up for the day, we meet, spending our evenings working on recipes side by side, preparing for FoodFest.
At first, the contest thing was awkward: we’re competitors. But then we reached a point where the competition is secondary. I mean, I’m not holding back on my recipes—and I don’t think Cam is, either—but I’d be OK if he won. He’s a great cook, especially for being self-taught. Losing to him wouldn’t be the upsetting failure I first thought when we were announced as semi-finalists.
“Excited for today?” he asks.
“Hmmm.” I press back against him. “Not as excited as you seem to be. Not that I’m complaining . . .”
He chuckles. “I’m talking about FoodFest.”
“I know,” I grin. “Yeah, I am. I’m excited. But also . . .”
“I get it.” Cam smiles back at me. “I want to win. But I want to see you win, too.”
I’ve been wondering what would happen if we ended up as the final two. Now that the day is here, it feels more real. “Do you think there’s a way we can tie for the top spot?”
“I doubt it.” He leans in for a kiss. “But I want you to know I’ll be thrilled for you if you take it. With all your training and hard work, you deserve it.”
I laugh. “With all your hard work and obvious talent, you do, too. But don’t get me wrong,” I add, with a smirk. “I still want to win. And I will cook my ass off.”
“I can’t imagine a more worthy competitor.” Cam glances at the clock. “We better get moving. We both have a lot of prep to do.”
I yawn. “I’ll go jump in the shower.”
Cam pauses. “As someone who’s very concerned about the environment, I should probably join you. You know, to save water.”
“I like that about you,” I say as I throw off the covers. “Caring so deeply . . . for the planet.”
“I’ll give you something deeply,” he quips as he leads me to the bathroom.
In the end I don’t think we save any water, but we do get very, very clean.
After a couple of hours of baking and prep, I meet Nikki and drive the truck over to the park where FoodFest is being held. It’s a massive festival, and this year looks bigger than ever: food trucks, stages, live cooking demonstrations . . . There are thousands of people expected, and I can’t help but feel nervous as we slowly make our way through the crowds to our assigned spot.
Nikki whistles. “It’s packed! Did we prep enough food?”
“I hope so!”
But the day’s service is the least of my nerves. I’m still thinking about the big competition, and whether I’ve done enough to win the top brunch spot. What makes me most nervous is that it could easily come down to judge’s personal tastes. I mean, what if they just don’t like waffles?
Inconceivable!
Nikki is even smiling for the occasion, her pink hair tied up in two spiky bunches.
“I can’t wait to kick ass!” she grins. “No offense to your fuck buddy, of course.”
I laugh. “None taken. I want to kick his ass, too.”
And then later, celebrate my win with him.
Naked.
I send Cam a message through the Truck Stop forum app.
Wafflegirl7: Hey, I heard there’s a big foodie thing today that you’re competing in.
I feel a little guilty for bothering him while he’s probably busy getting ready, but I can’t help myself. Only a moment later he responds.
BetterWithButter: Yes! But I’m competing against this amazing chef. Def going to lose to her.
Wafflegirl7: I bet she’s worried. You’ve got mad knife skillz.
BetterWithButter: did you seriously just type ‘mad knife skillz’?
Wafflegirl7: Hey, at least I didn’t take a poor girl ice skating where she almost got killed!
BetterWithButter: truth. I have to go. Use my mad knife skillz. Good luck.
Wafflegirl7: Good luck to you, too.
I turn off my phone and slip it into my pocket as I take a deep breath to prepare myself. Because I am totally going to win this thing.
“Welcome FoodFesters!” the editor of the Bay Area News announces, greeting everyone at the official kick-off announcement. “We’re so thrilled to welcome the best in the city’s food scene here to celebrate and, yes, compete today! We’ll be announcing the top two contenders in our big categories, and they’ll be going head-to-head in a live cook-off, for a
ll our enjoyment. Are you guys ready?”
The crowd cheers, and I clap along. Gemma, Eve, and the whole gang have showed up to support me, but I can’t help scanning the crowd for one particular person.
There he is. I send a wave to Cam, and he smiles back.
I wish—not for the first time—that our trucks were parked closer together.
Though maybe that would be too much distraction. I need to stay focused.
The crowd quiets down again as the emcee continues. “We’ve been sending mystery judges to all our semi-finalists to narrow the list down. But before we announce the final competitors, let’s meet the judges.
“First up we have a dedicated foodie, an admitted horrible cook, who admits she frequents San Francisco’s food trucks way more than she’d like, so she’s definitely qualified to be here. Shannon Stevens from Hits 97.9. Give her a warm welcome!”
As the crowd applauds the local radio celebrity, she comes out from behind the stage’s backdrop. She waves before she takes her seat.
“Second, we have . . . me. I’m Syd Bailey, representing the Bay Area News. We love our vibrant food scene and, well, I love to eat!”
The crowd gives him respectful applause. “Last but not least, our very special guest judge, host of your favorite food reality show, The Truck Stop: Ricky Rollins!”
“What?” I gasp. “Holy shit!” The audience goes crazy—and so do I. Ricky Rollins in the flesh? Tasting my food?
It’s a dream come true!
“Thank you so much for the warm welcome!” Ricky says into the mic. “I’m so pumped to be here! And I’m thrilled to announce that the winning food trucks here today don’t just win the FoodFest title, they will also be featured on an episode of The Truck Stop!”
SHUT. UP.
An episode of The Truck Stop! I grab Eve’s arm and yank on it. “Did you hear that?!”
“I know!” she squeals.
I wanted to win before, but now I’m fired up! Plus, the fact that there are only a handful of food trucks that made it to the finals in any category. Even more chance I could make the show!
As Syd runs down the finalists in a bunch of the other categories, I get a text from Cam.
Truck Stop Represent!
