by Lila Monroe
I laugh, but I don’t have time to reply because Syd is still talking. “. . . it was a hard decision but our mystery eaters—who had just the worst job in the world, don’t you think, folks?—narrowed it down to four in the brunch division. The four finalists are . . .”
Dramatic pause. I clutch Eve harder.
“The Brunch Bandit . . .”
Yeah! I grin over at Cam who is high-fiving AJ.
Syd continues, drawing his announcement out. “Chez Michelle,” he says, naming a fancy French restaurant.
Applause.
“The Verdant Vegan . . .”
Cheers.
COME ON! I yell in my head. My heart is racing, and I think I’m going to be sick with nerves.
“Aaaaaand . . . The Little Red Wagon truck!”
YES!
My friends all surround me, whooping and cheering. “I haven’t won yet!” I protest.
“But you’re a finalist!” Gemma cries. “You’re going to kill it, I know.”
And so is Cam. My nerves ratchet up again. But so does my excitement.
“Now for the first-round cook-off,” Syd announces. “First up, we have The Brunch Bandit cooking head to head against Chef Henri from Chez Michelle.”
I exhale in relief. That means I’m competing against the vegan restaurant. No problem. I’ve got bacon. Lots of it.
But before Nikki and I are up, it’s Cam’s turn.
You got this, I mouth to him. He winks back. If “sexiest chef” is on the tally sheet, he doesn’t even have to cook anything.
Syd quickly goes over the rules. “Each chef has twenty minutes to make their trademark dish for the judges.” He looks at Cam and Henri. “Understand?”
They both nod.
“Good luck to you both! Now get cooking!”
As the crowd cheers, Cam wastes no time, hurrying up to the demonstration kitchens. Since we’ve been perfecting recipes together over the past week, I know Cam is going to do his smoked pork belly and peach hash with his improved maple bourbon syrup. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.
“He looks good up there,” Gemma remarks, giving me a nudge. “And I’m not just talking about the cooking.”
I grin. “I’m nervous for him. Should I be nervous? I mean, I want to win, but I want him to do well, too.”
Especially in front of Ricky.
“He’ll make a great second-place finisher,” Gemma says loyally, and I laugh.
Soon, the cooking time is up, and the judges are presented with the dishes. Cam looks cool and calm, but I can tell he’s probably nervous as hell, waiting for the verdict.
Chef Henri made a classic crepes suzette. Good, I’m sure, but not overly creative. Meanwhile, Cam’s hash is to die for.
The judges finish their conversation. Syd rises and approaches the mic with his paper. “Folks, I’m not going to lie. It is good to be me today,” he says as he rubs his belly and smiles out at the laughing crowd. “We enjoyed both dishes very much but there has to be a winner. It was very close, but . . . The Brunch Bandit is the chef advancing to the final round!
“Yes!” I pump the air as AJ rushes Cam on stage and gives him a massive bro-hug.
“Up next,” Syd starts at the mic, “we’ve got The Little Red Wagon and The Verdant Vegan. Could you come up here on stage, please?”
This is it.
I take a deep breath, give my friends a final hug, and head for the stage. As I pass, Cam gives me a pat on the back. “Good luck,” he says, and I smile.
Time to rock and roll.
The next half hour passes in a blur, until . . .
“The next finalist is . . . Little Red Wagon!”
I did it!
I’m still reeling as I make my way off the stage. I mean, sure, the vegan place pretty much served up a crudités platter, but still! I can’t believe I’m one step closer to the crown.
“Congrats, babe!” Gemma greets me with a hug. “Ready to kick some bandit ass?”
“Yup!” I grin, but inside, my nerves kick up a level.
Because hoo boy, it’s starting to feel . . . complicated. Even though Cam and I already talked about it and agreed we’d be happy with the result of the competition, no matter what it is, now that we’re here, it’s not so simple.
I want to win. I want him to win. And somehow, the two things are mutually exclusive.
Damn competition rules.
I look for him in the crowd, but he must already be back at his truck.
“Zoey Rafferty?” a woman asks, making her way through the crowd.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Sandra Prentiss, I’m a producer on The Truck Stop,” she explains.
My eyes bug out. “Oh! Hi! Hello!”
“I just wanted to say hi,” she smiles. “I stole a bite of your dish from Ricky, and wow, great job.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, thrilled. “I’m such a fan of the show.”
“Really?” she smiles, then looks around. Her voice lowers. “We’re not supposed to say anything. And I’m not a final judge, but we love your food.”
We?
“Thank you so much,” I say, giddy. Then I realize why she looks familiar. “Wait, you were at the truck last week. I remember. Were you a mystery judge?”
She nods, sheepish. “Well, one of them. There were five of us, actually. But . . . shh.” She smirks.
I mime zipping my lip.
“So,” she says, casually. Or, maybe fake casually. “Ever been on TV before?”
I nearly choke.
“No. But I’d love to be,” I say quickly. “I’ve always dreamed of having my own cooking show.”
She nods approvingly. “Good luck today,” she says with a wink before walking away.
Oh. My. God.
“Did that really just happen?” I turn to Nikki, feeling dazed.
She grins. “Did you want to do your victory lap now or wait until it’s official?”
I can’t help the grin. “Shh! I don’t want to jinx it.”
“You can be modest all you like,” Nikki says, triumphant. “We’ve got this in the bag!”
One of the organizers comes over to me. “For the final round, we’d love both of you guys to cook on your trucks,” he explains. “That way, the crowd can taste your dishes, too.”
“Sure. I mean, great!” I blurt. We’re all prepped for service anyway, so I’m ready to go.
We head back through the crowd and unlock, taking our places in the truck.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Cooking up there on stage was nerve-wracking as hell, but now that I’m back on familiar territory, I feel way better.
This is exactly where I belong.
I text Cam. Good luck! But he doesn’t reply. Probably already deep in waffle batter. Which is where I need to be.
“OK.” I clap my hands together, surveying our supplies. “I’ll take fruit and sauces, you do the ricotta blintzes.”
“Aye aye, captain!” Nikki salutes, and gets to work, while I go over the menu a final time. Since I figure Cam is going rich and heavy, I decided to take a lighter touch, with my strawberry and lemon curd waffle cone that is substantial, but also the perfect finish to what was a deluge of flavors on the judges’ palates.
It’s strategic, yes, but as they say, all’s fair in FoodFest wars!
The crowd comes fast and doesn’t let up. We must have sold a hundred covers by the time the judges appear in line.
“Hi,” I gulp, my heart racing. This is it. The most important dish I’ve cooked in my life so far!
“Three of everything, please,” Syd says.
“Coming right up!”
I turn to the griddle and get to work, taking care over each and every component. I even taste everything—twice—just to be sure.
Perfection.
With a final dusting of powdered sugar, the cones are ready to go.
I return to the window and pass them to the judges. “Enjoy!” I say, crossing my fingers.
I watch as
they retreat to a table nearby, and dig in, pausing to take notes as they eat.
“Is Ricky smiling?” I ask, peering out. “He’s totally smiling!”
“And that woman just licked her lips,” Nikki agrees, craning her neck to see.
I’m nearly dizzy with excitement. Wait, no, it’s lack of oxygen. I force myself to breathe, bouncing on my toes.
Suddenly, Shannon stops chewing.
Looks down at her waffle.
Frowns. Looks closer.
And screams.
20
Zoey
No. Shannon doesn’t just scream. She screams as she throws down her waffle and launches backward from the table, moving so quickly, her chair clatters to the ground behind her.
By then, the other two judges have thrown down their waffles, too.
Shannon points at her plate. “Bugs! Ohmigod, there are bugs in that!” And then if that isn’t bad enough, she’s gagging.
GAGGING! Over my food!
“WHAT?” I holler and rush out of the truck.
She’s just hallucinating. Or mistook a strawberry seed or something. That must be it. It has to be!
But as I pick up the waffle and dump it out onto the plate, I recoil in horror.
Because she’s right.
Oh. My. Fucking. God. There are little black bugs in my food.
“GROSS!” someone yells from the crowd and then it escalates into a cacophony of boos and hisses. Suddenly, everyone around us is dumping their food too and recoiling in horror.
No!
Nikki rushes up to me. “They’re on the truck, too! Everywhere!”
“What?” I gasp in horror.
I grab the discarded plate again, and peer at the little black specks. None of the bugs are moving, thank God, but . . .
I pause.
They look weird. Too uniform. Familiar?
“WAIT!” I cry. “These aren’t real! They’re bug sprinkles. We used them at Halloween!” I look around, confused. “Did they spill into the cones somehow?”
Nikki shakes her head. “No! I mean, I don’t know!”
It doesn’t matter now. What does is that I start doing some serious damage control.
I get up on a chair, pasting a smile on my face. “Ha ha! False alarm! They’re sprinkles. From Halloween! Look!” I grab a couple of them and pop them into my mouth. I look pointedly at the judges as I chew the candy. “See? Nothing to worry about, people. No bugs here!”
But it’s too late. People are already leaving us in the dust. They can’t get away fast enough.
“No really—just a prank!” I call, my voice high with desperation. “The food’s fine. Perfectly edible. Just a joke!”
But the judges clearly aren’t amused.
“Would you like me to make another batch of waffles?” I ask, hopeful.
“That won’t be necessary,” Syd answers quickly. He retreats to the others, and they have a huddled conversation as I stand there, paralyzed.
This can’t be happening. I was so close!
They return to the stage, and Syd taps the mic. “All right folks,” he announces. “This year’s cook-off certainly had its share of drama. But . . . we have a winner.”
My heart stops, and I can’t help thinking—hope against hope—that what they did taste of my food was enough to sway them.
Surely they can’t penalize me for those stupid big sprinkles?!
But they can. Because the judges all beam at Cam, as Syd calls him up to claim his prize. “And the winner of the best brunch in the city is . . . The Brunch Bandit!!”
The crowd goes wild, and Cam jumps up on stage, grinning and waving. He looks so happy, I can almost forget I just got totally humiliated.
I’m happy for him. I guess.
“Aww yeah, that’s how we do it, bandit style!” I hear a loud whoop and turn to find AJ, looking smug as hell.
“Congrats,” I bite out reluctantly.
He smirks. “Enjoying the view?”
“Cam worked hard,” I admit, trying not to be a sore loser. “He deserves it.”
“And those bugs didn’t hurt.” AJ pulls out a container from his pocket and gives it a shake. “That’ll teach you. Mess with the bull, you’re going to get the horns!”
Wait, WHAT?!
AJ pushes through the crowd to reach the stage, whooping, leaving me frozen in place.
I don’t believe it.
This was another of their dirty tricks?
I’m stunned. Cam is up there, lording it on stage, but he doesn’t deserve to be there.
He won by default. Not fair and square. He wanted this. He engineered this!
My heart sinks. I feel sick.
He sees me and gives a thumbs up, but I turn away. I can’t look at him. I can’t stomach his face right now. Because after everything we’ve been through, he still decided to stab me in the back—or at least, let his little buddy do his dirty work for him.
As I push my way through the crowd, I hear Ricky congratulating Cam over the loudspeaker. “. . . And get ready, because the Brunch Bandit is going to be featured on The Truck Stop!”
It’s adding insult to heartbreak. Because he won. He won everything.
And all he had to do was betray me and stomp on my heart to do it.
I’ve never felt so helpless. Gutted. Humiliated.
How did I let this happen? I knew he would do anything to win, but for some reason, I let myself be lulled into thinking he’d left the sabotage behind. Had the last week been a ruse while he planned his pranks with AJ? Did he lure me into bed, so I’d be blinded to his shenanigans with multiple orgasms?
All I know is that I’m desperate to get out of here. But I’m literally going nowhere. My truck is completely blocked in. And there’s a huge crowd of people milling around.
My current rage plus pedestrians is not a good combo right now.
“Zoey—”
I turn. I can’t believe it, but Cam actually has the nerve to be standing in front of me right now.
I fold my arms. “Congratulations,” I say, bitterly sarcastic. “How does it feel to crush the competition?”
Cam at least has the decency to look guilty. “Listen, about the bugs—”
“Genius move.” I give him a slow clap. “When did you think of it? When we were in bed this morning? Or earlier. Last week? When we went ice-skating? At my place, during sex?”
“Zoey.” Cam reaches for me. “It’s not like that.”
“Ha! Right.” I snatch away. “So you’re saying sabotage is beneath you? The salt/sugar prank, stealing my clients, the boot on my truck?”
“AJ was behind it,” Cam insists. “I had no idea he was planning this stunt today, I swear.” He looks at me, imploring. “You believe me, don’t you? I would never do that to you.”
“I don’t know what to believe.” I gulp, my betrayal giving way to heartache. Right from the start, Cam’s been two different guys with me. The sweet, supportive, sexy as hell man . . .
And the ruthless competitor.
But which one came out today?
Cam frowns. “Do you really think that little of me?”
He seems insulted. He seems insulted! I can’t even.
“Are you kidding me? You made it clear the day we met that you’d do whatever it took to beat the competition. All’s fair in love and food trucks, remember?” I scowl. “I should have known not to trust you, after the stunt you pulled with your online lies—”
“I told you, I freaked out!” Cam protests, but I’m not listening.
“But no, I let you in. I trusted you. And then you turn around and stab me in the back!” I bite back tears. I should have trusted my first impression. I should have known he was bad news from the start. “I can’t believe I was falling for you. All of it was a lie!”
I turn and hurry away, before I start crying. Away from what I just lost.
Which right now, feels like everything.
21
Cam
I
wake up the morning after the contest with a splitting headache. I shouldn’t be surprised. I poured a lot of booze down my throat last night.
I groan—and not just because the hangover makes me want to die.
No, I groan because it all comes rushing back to me. Yesterday. It was a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Yeah, I won the FoodFest competition and everything that goes with it. And yes, I’ll get to tape an episode of The Truck Stop that will be a huge boost for my business.
But the way it went down, how it fucked everything up with Zoey, taints it all.
Zoey got cheated. Though not by me. I could fucking kill AJ. Almost did, actually. The guy can run fast, I’ll say that. It’s the only reason his face and my fist didn’t have a serious conversation.
I tried to explain to Zoey, but she was so wrapped up in having lost that she wouldn’t hear my explanation or apology. It was pretty clear that she was over me. Us. And that she blames me for everything.
I glance at the clock, wondering if it’s too early to resume drinking.
But no. I only have a few hours before the meeting with The Truck Stop crew. And as much as I’d like to get blackout drunk for a few days, I can’t. If I bail, the win was for nothing. That would be even worse.
I haul my achy frame out of bed and shuffle down the hall to the bathroom.
A while later, I emerge, showered, shaved, and feeling slightly more human. Just in time to catch the ring of the doorbell.
Zoey. She’s here. Thank Christ. We can put all this behind us. Move forward.
I didn’t realize how much I want exactly that until this moment.
“Hold on!” I holler, hoping my voice carries through the garage. I yank on a pair of sweats and jog out front, around my truck and to the door.
My hopes are immediately dashed when I open it. It’s not her. “Oh,” I say, disappointed.
“Nice to see you, too,” Jamie says wryly as he pushes his way past me.
I sigh. “Not in the mood.”
“What mood?” He frowns. “You won! You’re going to be on TV. I’m here to congratulate you.” He looks over my shoulder and then leans in close. “Wait, do you have company? Is Zoey here?”
“Before we have this conversation, let me put on coffee,” I say as I lead him back to my kitchen. Jamie’s a coffeeholic, so I don’t bother asking if he wants some. Then I tell him what exactly went down yesterday, in all its bug-strewn glory.
