by Lila Monroe
Well, I can’t help my thoughts drifting back to the night we met. Before any of this madness began. When it was just a Guy, a girl, a whisk, and a very, very hot kiss . . .
“Penny for them?”
Cam’s voice jolts me back to reality. “What? Huh? No!” I blurt, feeling my cheeks heat. Can he tell what I’m thinking about?
Does he think about that kiss, too?
Now that’s dangerous territory. Even more dangerous than the feel of his thigh pressing against mine, or the way the evening breeze is ruffling in his hair—
Wait, where was I?
Oh yes. Vowing to resist this weird chemistry with Cam. Because sleeping with the enemy? So not my scene.
Even if it has been a while . . . And I already know that he’s good with his tongue . . .
I make the mistake of looking over, just as Cam glances to me too. Our eyes lock, and just like that, all my—many—reasons for keeping my distance seem very far away.
And maybe Cam’s feeling it too, because I swear his gaze drifts to my mouth. And he’s leaning just a little closer . . .
My pulse kicks. I inhale fast, my lips pressing together as he reaches over and—
“Time’s up!”
The car jolts to a stop, and I realize that we’re back on solid ground.
In more ways than one.
“Sorry, kids,” the assistant says, breaking the spell. “Ride’s over.”
Cam chivalrously offers his hand to help me down, but I ignore it. I don’t want to risk touching him after my X-rated thoughts up there.
“Last chance to back down,” he tells me with a smile. “There’s no dishonor in surrender, you know.”
“I could say the same to you,” I retort. I guess our temporary ceasefire is well and truly over.
“Not a chance,” he grins. “See you back out there. In my dust.”
With a wink, he turns and saunters away.
My first thought is that I dodged a bullet.
My second is: damn.
I collect the truck and head home, my head still spinning from our almost—What was that? I don’t even know what to call it. Whatever it was, my blood is still pumping, and I can’t relax.
I can’t believe I almost kissed him up there. What was I thinking?
That he looks way too hot . . . and kisses my exes under the table. The ones I can remember in the distant past, at least. It’s been so long since I had a fun hookup with anyone . . .
I brighten. That must be it. Pure physical need and the fact that we were stuck together on the ride—the one that’s made for lovers. Where it’s practically mandatory to kiss.
Even if it’s someone you really don’t want to kiss.
The apartment is empty when I arrive home, so I kick off my shoes, grab my laptop, and turn on the Food Network while I click through to the Truck Stop message board. I’m hoping to see BetterWithButter online, and I feel a little skip when I see his icon blinking. A moment later, a direct message pops up.
BetterWithButter: How goes the big office rivalry?
Wafflegirl7: On a backburner for now. I think. But who knows what she’s planning?
BetterWithButter: Sleep with your eyes wide open!
Wafflegirl7: Lol. Thanks for the mac and cheese recipe, btw. It’s delicious!
BetterWithButter: Glad you enjoyed. It’s even better as midnight leftovers.
I think of how quickly they sold out at the carnival. Those dishes were flying off the truck. So much, that I’m thinking of adding them to my regular menu. Thanks to this guy. Not that I can tell him that. Maybe someday. I have a feeling he’ll get a kick out of knowing he was behind part of my success.
BetterWithButter: So what’s our next movie?
I smile.
Wafflegirl7: Hmm… how about you pick?
BetterWithButter: How do you feel about Die Hard?
Wafflegirl7: I’m a fan!
BetterWithButter: Fast and Furious movies?
Wafflegirl7: Cheesetastic.
BetterWithButter: OK, so what HAVEN’T you seen?
Wafflegirl7: Well…. Will you kill me if I tell you I’ve never seen a Star Wars movie?
BetterWithButter: !!!!!!
BetterWithButter: ????????
BetterWithButter: !!!!!!!
I laugh. Something about this guy has me smiling. And maybe it’s because I was just reminded how long it’s been since I had a decent date, but I find myself taking a chance, and typing the words I’ve been wondering for a while now.
Wafflegirl7: Want to hang out sometime? In real life, I mean?
Oh God. Did I seriously just ask him that? I did. And there’s no backsies now. There’s a long pause. Or maybe just what feels like a long pause.
BetterWithButter: You mean, like a date?
I gulp.
Wafflegirl7: A non-date. A pre-date. A super-casual coffee meet-up to check we don’t hate each other on sight (and also, that you’re not a 50-year-old librarian in Maine called Sheila.)
BetterWithButter: What do you have against librarians?
Is that a yes or a no? I wonder what to type next, but before I can, he replies.
BetterWithButter: OK, Star Wars, the next frontier. Want to get the first one cued up while I make popcorn?
I let out a yawn.
Wafflegirl7: Maybe another night. I’m ready to sleep.
BetterWithButter: It’s a date.
Just not the kind I was angling for. Did he evade the question on purpose? Or maybe he is Sheila, after all.
I sigh. Not that I can blame him. Who knows if our fun banter would last once we’re face to face? Perhaps it’s better to keep the fantasy going.
At least for now.
9
Cam
After the great carnival produce switch, AJ is ready for full-out brunch war. Me? I’m more conflicted: between showing Zoey once and for all who deserves the food truck crown . . .
And showing her a different kind of good time altogether.
Does my nemesis have to be so damn sexy?
“We should slash her tires!” AJ suggests enthusiastically. “Or like, post her phone number on porn sites. Report her to health and safety!”
“Whoa, easy there,” I warn him. “Don’t get carried away. Nothing dangerous. Let’s just chill the vengeance and see how things play out. Maybe she’ll get the message, and back off.”
“Aww.” AJ looks disappointed. “But we need to crush her!”
“How about you settle for crushing those peppers,” I correct him. “And focus on our own food.”
“You’re the boss.”
We kick off lunch service, and luckily, it’s a busy day. Which should help make up for the string of bad ones we’ve been having since that review dampened my buzz—and that rotting fruit made me miss out on some sweet carnival payday. Does Zoey realize some of us need to pay the bills? Or does she figure we’re all coasting off family money like her?
But she doesn’t seem like a dilettante, at least, she didn’t up on that Ferris wheel. I have to admit, it was surprisingly fun bickering with her in such close quarters.
Surprisingly hot, too . . .
I remember the way her body felt against mine; not last night, but back at Halloween. That kiss was seriously scorching.
And seriously off limits now that it turns out my mystery woman is my biggest rival.
I try to shake it off. Maybe I have been focussed on my work too long—it could be time to get back out there and start dating again. Someone fun, and chill, and relaxed, who isn’t set on ruining my entire empire before it’s even gotten off the ground. Someone I can impress with my cooking, without it being a competition.
Someone like Wafflegirl.
I know it’s crazy, internet dating has never been my thing. I have no idea what she looks like, but she’s already impressed me with what I do know of her. She’s funny and sweet and loves food. She’s a romantic at heart—otherwise why would she love those schmaltzy movies? Which,
OK, weren’t so bad when we were playing them at the same time, messaging as we watched.
So, she could be anyone . . . And look like anything . . .
But what the hell. I can take the risk. Worst case scenario, we’ll sit and talk food for an hour, eating somewhere great.
And best case . . . ?
Maybe I’ll finally be able to get Zoey Rafferty off my mind.
I wait for a lull in the lines, then find my phone and quickly text an invitation.
BetterWithButter: How about that meeting IRL?
A moment later, the reply comes.
Wafflegirl7: Are you asking me out?
BetterWithButter: Yes. For tonight.
Wafflegirl7: Oh. Thanks, but no.
Thanks, but no. What the hell? Did I totally misread her?
Wafflegirl7: WAIT! I mean, yes! I’d like to, but I can’t go tonight. Have plans. Wafflegirl7: Tomorrow?
I exhale with relief. Getting turned down is always rough, but being turned down by an anonymous internet friend would have been a bitch.
BetterWithButter: Works for me. Want to try that new noodle place on 5th? 7pm?
Wafflegirl7: See you then!
“Yo, boss! Order up!” AJ calls, pulling me back to the present. I smile as I tuck my phone away. There’s a great bar around the corner from the noodle place . . . and it’s only a couple of blocks away from mine. Who knows, maybe things will spark with Wafflegirl . . . And then Zoey’s kiss will be the last thing on my mind.
Time to get cooking.
The next morning, I head across town for my regular shift helping out at the community center soup kitchen. My mentor-slash-old boss Madeline encouraged all her staff to volunteer back when I worked in her (hugely acclaimed) restaurant, and the habit stuck. Now, I walk into the big industrial kitchen to find her bossing around the rest of the volunteers and stirring a big pot of soup on the stove. Her blonde hair is turning salt-and-pepper gray, and she’s wearing her trademark blue smock under her apron.
“What’s cookin’, grandma?” I ask, teasing.
“Ha!” Maddy snorts. “I’m barely old enough to be your mother, let alone your grandmother.” She points to the pile of veggies on the stainless steel counter. “Get chopping.”
I wash my hands and get to work. “What’s on the menu?”
“Beef and barley soup, and a vegetarian lentil dhal,” she replies. “But easy on the spices. The kids will want it tame.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She works briskly, and I fall in line too. She trained me well. Hell, she was the first one to give me a break, moving up from a kitchen scut boy to actual sous-chef. Which is why she can still guilt-trip me into giving up my Monday to peel potatoes like I’m back on the line again.
“So, how’s life on the truck?” she asks. “I heard about your little stunt. Models? Really?”
I cough. What is it about Maddy that makes me feel like I’m back in fifth grade at the headmaster’s office?
“I’m trying all kinds of things,” I say evasively. “Getting the word out, you know.”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“But I got a great write-up in that food blog you like,” I add, wanting to change the subject. “He loved my flavors.”
“That’s something,” she nods. “Good food speaks for itself.”
Message received.
“What about you?” I ask. “How’s Henry? Off any place new?”
Maddy’s husband is a travel writer, so it’s a match in global cuisine heaven.
“We’re planning a trip to Asia next month,” Maddy says, breaking into a smile. “He wants to see the Japanese cherry blossoms, and I want to eat my way around the country.”
“Sounds great,” I say, meaning it. Maddy found someone who understands her passion—and the late nights it takes to make it happen.
“And have you met anyone? Or are you still living your wild bachelor days?” she asks with a smirk.
I chuckle. “If by ‘wild,’ you mean in bed by ten to prep for service the next morning, then sure. The closest I’ve come to dating is . . .” I stop, but it’s too late. Maddy gives me a prying look.
“Is what?”
I sigh. “I kind of have a blind date tonight,” I admit.
“Really?” She looks delighted. “Who’s this mystery woman?”
“Mystery is the right word. I don’t actually know,” I tell her. “We, uh, met online.”
I’m still feeling weirdly self-conscious about the whole “potentially chatting to an axe murderer” part, but Maddy takes it in stride.
“Oh, yes. A friend of mine met a great guy online. They just got engaged.”
“We’re not there just yet,” I laugh. “We’ve having dinner tonight. Noodles. I figured someplace casual would be best, right? I mean, booking somewhere romantic feels like a ton of pressure. Or maybe I should have. What do you think?”
It’s not until I look over and see Maddy smirking that I realize I’ve just been babbling like an idiot here.
Real smooth. Just as long as I get it out of my system before the date.
“Casual is good,” she reassures me. “You can always bring out the big guns on a future date.”
“Right,” I agree, feeling more nervous now. Fuck. I’m used to picking up girls in bars, not something so planned. “I guess this just feels strange because, well, I don’t know anything about her at all. Except, how we’ve been chatting. It’s like we’ve skipped the small talk and moved on to just . . . being friends.”
“That sounds promising,” she remarks, looking thoughtful. “Small talk is overrated. When I met Henry, we made a rule to just jump ahead and not bother with all that ‘I grew up here, my parents do this’ stuff.”
“And it worked out?” I ask.
She smiles. “Well, ten years of marriage would say yes.”
“I’ll settle for not having a terrible date tonight,” I say, exhaling. “But thanks.”
“Just be yourself, and you’ll knock her dead,” Maddy says. “But you will brush your hair first, right?”
I laugh. “Yes. I’ll even take a shower.”
“Good boy.”
With Maddy’s encouragement-slash-instructions ringing in my ears, I get ready and walk over to the noodle place.
Wafflegirl.
It feels so stupid that I don’t even know her name. But it’s too late to ask now. Or is it?
Nah, now it just feels awkward.
Though I shouldn’t have trouble finding her. She told me she’d be in a red sweater, with brown hair. And . . .
That’s it. That’s all I know about her. Not her shoe size or the color of her eyes. I have no idea if she paints her nails or fidgets with a necklace when she’s nervous. I almost feel like I’ve watched enough rom-coms in the last couple of weeks to know best practices. To be able to nail this whole awkward blind date thing. But nope. I’m flying blind.
I’m almost tempted to call the whole thing off. Except . . .
I do know her. All these nights we’ve been messaging, I’ve opened up to her. We have a connection, and I owe it to myself to at least see if there’s something here. Even if that something is just friendship.
Or more.
Mind made up, I reach the café. There’s a big picture window out front, and I pause to take a look, scoping the crowd. It’s busy tonight, with plenty of people, but I’m on the look-out for a red sweater and brown hair . . .
What the actual fuck?
I stop dead, finally catching sight of her.
Nooooo . . .
I take another look around the room, hoping desperately to find a different red-sweatered girl, but nope. I’m shit out of luck.
Because Wafflegirl7—my online friend, the girl I’ve opened up to and enjoyed hanging out with more than anyone—is Zoey freaking Rafferty.
Holy shit. What do I do now?
10
Zoey
I must be insane. Why else would I agree to meet a perfect stranger for a blind d
ate? I don’t even know his name! I got caught up in our online relationship, thinking it was real.
But now, as I’m sitting here in this restaurant, nervously waiting for a man I know nothing about, I realize it isn’t real. More like a dream relationship. I’ve built him up so much in my head. There, he’s everything: funny, gorgeous, kind, incredibly skilled with his hands . . .
In other words, perfect.
I glance at the clock on my phone—still six minutes to seven. Lots of time.
To fret, apparently. My heart is racing, and I haven’t been so nervous in . . . I can’t even remember. Good thing I’m the queen of multitasking. I can fret, drink saki, and use that time to text Eve and Gemma:
FYI - On a blind date.
WHAT? Gemma demands.
With who? asks Eve.
Will explain later. But if I go missing, BetterWithButter from The Truck Stop message board has kidnapped and murdered me.
Eve sends a string of exclamation points.
Need us to come save you? Gemma asks.
I glance up at the door. No, he’s coming at 7.
Which is three minutes from now.
REPORT BACK, she responds. Let us know if you need saving.
I will, I promise. GTG.
They both send me thumbs-up emojis, which for some reason just makes me more nervous.
But I have plenty to be nervous about. What if he turns out to be some dude in his forties? Married?
My dad?!
No, no, no, he couldn’t be my dad. He hates sriracha and I’ve already determined he’d never be on The Truck Stop’s message boards. I mean, he’d better not be!
But what if BetterWithButter and I meet and he’s not the guy I thought he was? What if there isn’t a real connection there? Or if he picks his nose at the table?
I almost get up to leave. I’m too freaking nervous. This was such a bad idea.
Even though I love noodles (could he have picked a better place?), I won’t be able to eat. I’ll be a stupid nervous wreck and will for sure say stupid things. Or will spill sauce all down my sweater.
Dammit. I should have worn something black.
The door opens, and I leap out of my seat . . . but it’s just an older Asian couple.