by Lila Monroe
Oh yeah. That.
“Thanks for the help,” Zoey says brusquely. She hops up in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Except, nothing comes but the tick of a dead battery. She tries again. Nope. Not happening. A string of curses comes from the open window.
“Need some help?”
She glares at me. “Is this your doing? Because I swear to God—”
“Whoa! It’s not me, I swear. Or AJ,” I add, looking around, just to be sure.
“Crapwaffle,” she mutters, hitting the steering wheel with her open palms. “I cannot afford another day out on service or repairs.”
There goes my guilt again. Dammit.
“Let me take a look,” I say with a sigh. “Open it up?”
She snorts. “Right, so you can wreck it more.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just being a good Samaritan. Scout’s honor.”
“You were a Boy Scout?” Zoey looks dubious.
“Nope, but I made out like a bandit selling candy outside their meetings,” I say with a grin.
“Is that where the name comes from?” Zoey’s lips twitch in a reluctant smile.
“That and how I steal hearts,” I wink, and she laughs.
“You’re ridiculous. But if you think you can fix it, be my guest.”
She gets out of the truck and comes around to watch me tinker under the hood. Probably to make sure I don’t do anything nefarious. I can hardly blame her.
“What do you think it is?” she asks.
“Dead battery,” I tell her, taking a look. “I have a portable charger. Give me a sec.”
“You’re a mechanic?” she asks when I return, equipment in tow.
“No,” I say. “Just took auto shop in high school. I’m good with my hands.”
“Oh.” I could swear she blushes. “So . . . FoodFest.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” I hook up the battery. “I used to work at a place that got named Best in City, we sold out reservations a month in advance. It can really make a chef’s name.”
“I know!” Zoey agrees. “Even making the shortlist is amazing. And the media attention, too . . . I’m nervous about getting interviewed, but I should probably get used to it, if I’m going to . . .” She trails off.
I glance over. “If you’re going to what?”
Zoey looks pink. “Nothing, just, I want to have my own food show on TV one day. Maybe even a cookbook.”
“A Red Wagon empire,” I say with a grin.
“Exactly!” Zoey gives me a thoughtful look. “What about you? Want your shot in the spotlight?”
I shrug. “I’m happier behind the scenes. A buddy and I have a plan to open a restaurant one day.”
“Brunch stuff?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, more high-end. But you need so much backing and investment to get a place off the ground, I figured a food truck is a great way to get my name out there, start making buzz.”
“Smart,” Zoey nods. “I mean, ruthless and annoying, but smart.”
I grin. “Was that a compliment? Let me get my phone out. Say it again, for posterity.”
“Idiot.” Zoey rolls her eyes.
I laugh. “That’s no way to thank your knight in shining armor.” I turn back to what I’m doing with the truck. “Try starting it?”
She does. It starts up immediately.
“Leave it running for a while,” I call out. “Let the battery recharge.”
She does and hops out of the truck again.
“So . . . Thanks,” she says reluctantly. “You really helped me out.”
“So, you don’t wish I was dead?” I tease.
She laughs. “Not as much, maybe.”
“Aw, come on,” I lower the hood with a metallic bang. “You’d grieve me. With a vat of Chocolate Therapy, am I right?”
Zoey pauses, looking confused.
Oh shit.
I realize too late the Chocolate Therapy joke wasn’t something we’ve talked about—at least, not as us.
That was something Wafflegirl said.
To BetterWithButter.
Zoey’s eyes widen, and I see her put the pieces together. “No way . . .” she whispers, looking at me in total shock—and horror. Like I’m the last guy in the world she wants to be looking at right now.
“It was you?!”
14
Zoey
I can’t believe it. The guy I’ve been talking to all this time—the nice, smart, sweet guy, who’s given me advice and support, and had my back . . .
Is Cam freaking Donnelly?
I gape at him in disbelief. I feel completely turned around. All those things I shared with BetterWithButter . . . It was Cam on the other side of the keyboard.
“Was this your plan all along?” I demand, tears of bitter anger welling in my throat.
Oh my God!
“What plan?” Cam looks confused—and guilty as fuck.
“To lead me on and humiliate me!” I cry. “That date the other night . . .” I realize. “You were probably laughing your ass off, watching me wait for someone who wasn’t going to show up!”
“No, Zoey, wait—”
“You’re a psychopath!” I cry. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?!”
“I didn’t know it was you!” he yells.
I pause. “What do you mean?”
“When we met, online, I didn’t know.” Cam rakes his hand through his tousled hair, looking frustrated. “It wasn’t until I arrived at the restaurant, and saw you there . . .”
“So why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, furious. “Hey, Zoey, great to meet you. I’m the dude you’ve been talking to every freaking night of the week!”
“I know.” Cam looks seriously awkward. “I just . . . I was freaked out too. I figured I would work up to telling you, but then you got tipsy and mad, and—”
He stops.
And he kissed me. That’s how the sentence finishes, but I’m not about to be reminded of that particular incident.
No matter how steamy it was.
“You should have said something,” I tell him angrily. “Instead of just ghosting and making me feel like shit.”
“I know,” he sighs, looking hang-dog and way too cute for this. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, sorry isn’t good enough!” I cry. “I can’t believe I opened up to you! You gave me advice. You told me to fight fire with fire!”
He winces. “Yeah, that probably didn’t help things.”
“You think?” My anger is running on empty now, and instead, I just feel exposed. Vulnerable. I can’t look at him right now, not with all my emotions whirling. “Well, now I know. goodbye.”
“Wait, Zoey—” he starts, but I don’t hang around to listen.
I get in my truck and drive away as fast as I can. Before I make a real fool of myself and do something I can’t take back.
Like kiss him.
Or cry.
With my romantic life tangled up in more knots than my famous challah loaf, I focus on the one thing in life I can control: cooking. FoodFest is looming, and I want all my dishes to be perfect for the mystery diners to judge, so between running my usual service at spots around town and testing new recipes at the coffee shop kitchen, I barely have time to think about certain men.
Certain hot, smoldering, infuriating men, who kiss like a god and leave my panties in a twist.
Certain men who are blowing up my phone, wanting to talk. BetterWithButter has been messaging me, wanting for me to hear him/Cam out, but I’m nowhere near ready to deal with him yet. And definitely not on the same message thread where we were flirting and laughing just last week.
Dammit.
I burn my hand on the edge of a pan and curse, wincing.
“You OK?” Tara comes in, ready for the morning shift.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Sorry, this place is a mess. I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Please, stay,” she smiles. “I love seeing what you’re whipping up in here. it’s the most acti
on this kitchen gets,” she adds, joking.
She starts puttering around, refilling her sugar canisters. My phone dings.
“Want to get that?” Tara asks, nodding to my cell where it’s sitting on the counter.
“Nope.”
My phone dings again. I press my lips together in frustration, but I don’t look.
Ding!
“Uh, Zoey?” Tara asks. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I insist.
“Is that an actual ‘nothing,’ or a pull up a seat and some hot chocolate kind of nothing?”
She knows me too well. I put down the spoon and sigh. “How long have you got?”
“Dan’s opening,” she smiles. “So as long as you need.”
I haven’t even told Gemma and Eve what went down; I know they’d only push me to forgive Cam and go get naked with him, but I’m in serious need of some perspective here, and Tara is an adult, at least. So, I spill. The whole sorry story.
“Wow,” she says, when I’m done explaining about BWB-slash-Cam. “That’s wild.”
“Wildly disappointing.” I gulp, feeling that sting of betrayal again. “I really liked the guy I was talking to online. I don’t understand it. How can Cam be such an infuriating guy in real life, but then so nice behind the screen?”
“I don’t know,” she muses. “Maybe he just doesn’t let his guard down with many people.”
“But I let my guard down too!” I protest. “I trusted him, and he strung me along. I mean, you should have been there that night at the restaurant. I was feeling totally rejected, thinking I’d been stood up, and meanwhile he’s sitting right there, getting a kick out of my disappointment.”
“That’s rough,” she agrees. “But clearly he has feelings for you too, otherwise, he wouldn’t have kissed you. And you liked it, right?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know!” I wail, still totally confused.
She comes over and puts an arm around my shoulders.
“I told him all these things,” I continue sadly. “We watched movies together, and talked about things. Real things. Feelings and romance, what we want from relationships. And of course, the really important stuff, like what makes the best mac and cheese.”
“Hot sauce,” Tara says without hesitation. “And lots of fatty cheese, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I say, smiling. “But then he betrayed me.”
“Did he, though?”
I do a double-take at her. “Are you defending him?”
“No. Maybe. A little?” She bites her lip and frowns. “Maybe he didn’t know it was you. Maybe he was surprised and panicked like he said.”
“Then he should have come clean,” I bite out.
“I know,” Tara says, sympathetic. “And that’s not cool. But . . .”
“But what?” I ask. Then I’m sorry because the look on her face has “tough love coming” written all over it. “Never mind.”
She laughs. “I’m going to tell you anyway. You clearly like this guy. Stop being afraid of your feelings.”
“I’m not. I’m afraid of him ruining me. And my business.”
“That’s not it,” she says. “You’re a great cook and baker. You’re building an amazing business—look how crazy busy you’ve been lately! And you’re in the FoodFest thing. Obviously, your business is awesome and you can withstand a little competition. I think you’re afraid of falling for him.”
I tense. “Because lies and dishonesty and backstabbing are the foundation of every healthy relationship.”
“No, but being vulnerable and opening up is,” Tara points out. “You’re just bruised because you let your guard down. I think you should give him a chance.”
“We’ll see,” I say, but I don’t know what to think.
I only know there’s a part of me that wants to jump right on that message thread and have fun talking to BetterWithButter again . . .
And a part of me that just wants to forget he ever existed.
After a long day, I want nothing more than to hurl myself into a hot shower and my comfiest pajamas, but when I get back to my place, I find an unexpected guest, waiting on the front steps.
Cam.
I tense. I’m still no closer to figuring out how I feel about this whole online alter-ego revelation, but just the sight of him sitting there in his beat-up leather jacket and jeans makes something turn over in my stomach.
“Zoey,” he says, getting to his feet. “We really need to talk.”
“Go away, Cam.” I hurry past him to the door.
“Did you get my messages?”
“Yes. And I’m ignoring you. Feels pretty crappy to be ghosted, huh?”
He sighs. “Look, Zoey—”
“I’m not interested!”
“Not even with pistachio gelato?” he asks, holding a bag up. “That’s your favorite, right?”
It’s Wafflegirl’s favorite. Yet another thing I told him that I wouldn’t have if I’d known the truth.
But still. I’m not about to look gift ice cream in the mouth. I hold out my hand for the bag. “Two minutes.”
Cam grins. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. To be honest, I was freaked out too. You weren’t the only one opening up,” he adds. “You think I was happy to find out I’d told my biggest rival all that personal stuff?”
“Welcome to the club,” I grumble.
He lets out a laugh. “I swear, I was going to come clean. And isn’t it better I didn’t keep talking to you online after I knew?” he adds. “That would have been weird.”
“True,” I agree. “But just disappearing wasn’t good either. I can’t believe I was actually worried about you.”
“You were?” Cam looks surprised—then pleased.
“Don’t get cocky,” I add. “Just because I don’t want you to get hit by a bus doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
Or more.
Cam gives me a grin. “We had fun though, didn’t we, Wafflegirl?”
“No.” I try my best not to smile. “You were the literal worst. I hated every single second of talking with you online. Especially when you said Sleepless in Seattle was too sappy. That’s when I knew for sure you were a monster.”
He laughs. “Listen, about this rivalry . . . I was thinking we should have a truce. Mutually assured ceasefire, at least as long as we’re trying to impress the FoodFest judges.”
I exhale in relief. I want to kick his ass on the merits of my food, not who can be more underhanded. “Agreed. No more pranks?”
“I promise,” he says. He sticks out his hand and I shake it, trying not to notice how good his touch feels.
“May the best truck win,” I say.
And may the best truck be mine.
“Right back at you.”
Cam gives me a smile, then turns and strolls away, but I’m not even inside when my phone buzzes with a message.
BetterWithButter: But hands off the mac & cheese recipe, that one’s mine.
I smile, despite myself.
Wafflegirl7: Oh, playing it safe are you?
BetterWithButter: Thems fighting words…
Wafflegirl7: hell yes. In fact, we should have a wager…. Loser buys winner dinner – anywhere they like.
BetterWithButter: I hope you’ve got some savings, because I feel a filet mignon dinner coming on.
Wafflegirl7: Dream on.
And just like that, it feels like old times again.
15
Zoey
A few days later, I’m parked at my usual Sunday lunch spot, trying to keep my spirits up and my competitive edge sharp. But the weather is awful—drizzly and cold—and only the hardcore health types have dragged themselves out of bed today. Aka not the type to indulge in eggs benedict, or my three-layer whiskey cinnamon rolls. Which means I have plenty of time to obsess that any of our customers might be a secret mystery judge for FoodFest.
Like the woman at the window who is dressed suspiciously smart for a day in the park. “Three of the
waffle cones,” she says, despite the fact she looks to be all alone. “One plain, one extra spicy, and one with the sweet caramel sauce.”
“Coming right up,” I tell her. “Shall I pack them up to go?”
“No thanks,” she replies. “I’m good.”
She’s just ordered three complete meals for . . . herself? She’s totally a FoodFest judge! I would bet the day’s paltry takings that she’ll only take a few bites of each. Sealing my fate with a few nibbles.
The woman strolls away to wait nearby under an awning, and I turn to Nikki, excited.
“That order is totally a judge,” I whisper. “Please, please, please make sure everything’s perfect!”
Nikki rolls her eyes. “You’ve been saying that all day. They can’t all be judges.”
“This one definitely is,” I insist. “Those were false alarms. She’s all by herself and ordered three different cones!”
“So, she’s comfort eating,” Nikki retorts, “or waiting for friends. Or—”
“OK, I get it!” I sigh. “But still, FoodFest is . . .”
“A huge deal. Yes, I know,” she says as she rolls the first waffle. “But you need to relax. I love you, but you are legit driving me crazy with this mystery judge panic.”
“Sorry.” I take a breath. “I might be wound a little tight.”
“A little?” Nikki smirks. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you need a trip to Babeland. Oh wait. You totally do.”
“Where’s that?” I ask, confused.
“Only the best sex-positive toy store in town.” Nikki grins. “I just went and picked up a few things. I can send you a coupon. They have some new vibrators that will blow your mind.”
“My mind could use blowing,” I agree, wistful. “In fact, I could use multiple, toe-curling, rock the trailer, earth-shattering orgasms, but—”
A throat clears behind me.
I freeze.
Oh God. The FoodFest judge heard me.
“Zoey?”
Nope, not the FoodFest judge. Cam.
Even worse!
I reluctantly turn. He’s standing there in his Brunch Bandit shirt looking all dark and brooding. And very amused.
Oh, he heard it all. No doubt.
“Umm, hi.” I cringe. “Cam! What’s up?”
He grins. “Don’t stop your conversation on my account. Carry on.”