by Lila Monroe
I roll my eyes. “You wish.”
He laughs. “I just stopped by to see how you’re doing. Slow day,” he adds.
“Yup,” I sigh, deciding to pretend that whole vibrator conversation totally didn’t just happen. “It’s the rain. You’d think people would be used to it by now.”
“Any sign of the judges?” he asks.
“Aha!” I smirk. “That’s why you’re here. You want the inside scoop!”
Cam grins. “Can you blame me? If it helps, we haven’t seen any likely suspects around town yet.”
“Well . . .” I debate sharing the gossip, then figure, what the hell. “I think the woman out front might be one.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
I nod. “She just ordered three dishes for herself. Watch, I’ll go serve her now.”
I take the food to the window and call her number . . . only to find she’s been joined by friends. Drat!
I sigh. “OK, I guess she’s not a judge.”
Cam laughs. “I get it,” he says. “This not knowing where or when is killing me. Couldn’t we just go to a studio and cook against each other like on Chopped?”
“It would make life so much simpler,” I agree.
“You need to find an activity that helps with stress,” he suggests, adding, “the more physical, the better.”
I lift an eyebrow and am about to ask him if getting laid helps. Nope. Not helpful to go down that road. What if he says yes?
Or worse, what if he suggests we should figure it out together?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a strong believer in scratching the itch. Nothing takes the edge off stress better than some sex-induced endorphins. But tangling up the sheets with Cam is a very bad idea. No matter how good it would be. No, not just good. Based on how he can kiss, I am one hundred percent sure sex with Cam would be phenomenal.
Better just to take Nikki up on her coupon offer. It’s not like he’d know I was thinking about him while doing it. Or might be texting with him at the time.
Just the thought has me blushing again.
“Everything OK there, Wafflegirl?” he asks, amused. He couldn’t know what I’m thinking, could he?
Now I’m blushing even harder. Does he know he’s in my spank bank—or whatever the female equivalent is? Rub Room? Flick Pic?
Oh God, Zoey, stop thinking about it!
I cough. “Yeah,” I manage. “Just . . . strung out over all this, I guess.”
“Want to grab a coffee or something?”
Or something?
“Can’t,” I reply, wondering if this is a date invitation. “We’re still serving.”
“Ahem!” Nikki interrupts, proving she has bionic hearing. And zero qualms about eavesdropping. “I’ve got this.”
I open my mouth to protest but Nikki shakes her head. “Get her out of here, Bandit. Please. She’s driving me crazy.”
“What do you say?” Cam asks, with an irresistible grin. “Want to blow this joint?”
Oh boy. Who can say no to that smile . . . and that mouth . . . and those eyes.
“OK.”
I grab my stuff and follow him out. “Where are you taking me?” I ask as he leads me away from the truck.
“To my car,” he replies. “And then you’ll see.”
“Should I be worried?” I ask. “Wait. I’m definitely worried.”
He levels me a cocky look. “How do you feel about getting sweaty? Maybe a little dirty?”
Um, yes please.
“Trust me,” Cam adds. “It’ll be fun.”
An hour later, I’m not so sure. It turns out, Cam was being literal about the sweat and dirt.
And mud. Lots of mud.
“Scared of getting filthy?” he asks with a smirk. We’re hunkered down behind a hunting blind, armed with overalls, paint-guns, and two dorky visor helmets.
“Never,” I retort. “Besides, I can handle a bunch of thirteen-year-old boys.”
Cam’s smirk broadens.
“Eww, not like that!” I give him a friendly whack. We’ve been assigned blue flag colors, and our competition on the course includes an entire bar mitzvah party.
“Watch out,” he warns me, peeping over to get a better view. “These kids are ruthless.”
I hear the battle cry of a pack of pre-pubescent boys. “It’s like Lord of the Flies out there!”
“Once more unto the breach.” He gives me a wink, then pops up, paint gun
at the ready. “Cover me,” he says, before scrambling over the ridge.
Cover him?
I jolt to my feet and take off up the hill in time to see Cam let out a battle cry. “For freedom!” he yells, and he starts down toward the pack of boys.
Like a colony of meerkats, they all turn. They start yelling and shooting.
Uh-oh. I barely pull my trigger before Cam is pelted with multiple exploding pellets—pink paint splattering all over his weathered coveralls.
I giggle.
“A little help here?” he yells to me. I wave.
“You seem to be doing great all on your own.”
“Traitor!”
I’ve barely had time to laugh before the rampaging horde spots me. I turn on my heels and run, ducking though the tire rings and obstacle course. Their tiny roars get louder, and I slide down inside a makeshift bunker, hiding out with my gun trained on the door.
There’s a flash of motion. I move my trigger finger.
“Wait, don’t shoot!” Cam hisses, as he drops down beside me.
I lower my gun. And laugh. He’s got paint smeared all over him.
“Pink really is your color,” I grin.
“You can talk.”
“What?”
Before I can move, Cam wipes paint off his shirt and then smears it over my cheek.
“Hey!” I squeak—shocked by his touch.
And how good it makes me feel.
My breath catches.
“Thank you,” I say, before I can stop myself. “You’re right, this is fun. I needed the distraction.”
“I get too much in my head, as well.” He gives me a smile. “I figured you might be the same. Being another obsessive perfectionist and all.”
I laugh. “Sounds about right.”
Our eyes lock again, and my pulse kicks. Because sweaty, muddy, covered in pink paint Cam?
He looks good.
I’m just wondering if this distraction could possibly count as a date, when Cam whips his head around.
“Shh,” he says suddenly, crouching low. “Here they come.”
We watch as the kids hunt around, loudly complaining that they can’t find us. “Want to give it one last try?” Cam suggests, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Give me glory, or give me death. Well, defeat.” I laugh.
“On three. One, two—”
Cam grabs my hand and pulls me back up through the opening. With a cry, we open fire.
“Take that!” I yell, laughing. The kids turn on us, whooping, and it’s an all-out war. Paint pellets flying, I follow Cam down the hill, racing away as—
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Pellets splatter against my back. “Owww!” I cry. “They hurt!”
“Go on without me!” Cam cries dramatically, dropping to his knees. “I won’t make it!”
“Leave you? Never!” I laugh—before slipping in the mud and falling face-first into the muck. “Eww!” I cry, as we slither and slip, before finally coming to a stop tangled together.
“Play dead,” Cam murmurs in my ear. “Maybe they’ll get bored and leave.”
I loll back, tongue hanging out of my mouth.
“And . . . they’re gone.”
He collapses beside me, laughing. “God help their parents.”
“Why do you think they dumped the kids here? To work out all their aggression on strangers!”
“Smart guys.”
Cam casually reaches and pushes muddy hair out of my eyes. I look up at him, and my heart stops, because
hello.
He smiles down at me, and it’s like time slows, because I know exactly what he’s thinking.
And I want it to.
He leans over and kisses me. Not hard and wild like all our kisses before, but something slower. Sensuous. Meltingly hot.
I grab him and pull him closer, my fingers twining in the hair at his nape. It’s all the encouragement he needs to deepen the kiss, his tongue easing into my mouth and making me sigh in satisfaction and pure, giddy bliss.
God, this man can kiss.
It’s as good as I remember. Better. Because this time, it’s like I really know him. He’s not some handsome stranger in a bar, or an infuriating rival, he’s all of that and more.
And damn, I really like this guy.
The kiss turns sizzling, and I arch against him, not caring we’re down in the mud and paint for anyone to see. All I want is more, and now, and—
Pop. Pop.
I break away, feeling the impact of more paint pellets hard against my leg. “They’re coming!” I yelp, seeing the horde of kids racing over the hill.
Cam pulls me up and passes my paint gun. “Let’s do this!” he cries, before charging towards them with a whoop.
And I follow, laughing all the way.
16
Zoey
“Ugh, this movie is THE WORST!” Gemma yells at her TV. It’s Chick Flick Club night and we’re at her place, surrounded by junk food, watching P.S. I Love You.
“It’s romantic!” Eve argues. “He’s left her love letters.”
Gemma swings an incredulous look at our friend. “Love letters? He sends her on a morbid scavenger hunt. If he really loved her, he’d have cut her loose right at the funeral. I’m dead, so sad. But I want you to be happy. We had some good times but now I’m worm food, so carry on with your life.”
I giggle. “Worm food!”
Eve shakes her head. “But all the stuff is meant to encourage her to memorialize and compartmentalize their marriage. Then she can move on. Grief takes time.”
“No way,” Gemma argues. “If she didn’t have to jump through all his post-mortem death hoops, she would have gotten over him and banged that Irish guy way sooner.”
“I’m with you on the death hoops, Gems,” I put in. “But she wouldn’t have been in Ireland to bang that hot Irish guy without the scavenger hunt.”
Gemma rolls her eyes. “Not the point.”
“Uh, sort of the point.” I laugh. “But maybe she would have banged Harry Connick Jr. He’s definitely bangable in an awkward, adorkable way.”
“Oh,” Eve says, reaching for a handful of my famous homemade kettle corn. “I agree. Totally bangable.”
“Speaking of bangable,” Gemma says, pausing the movie. “Have you banged your food truck guy yet?”
I choke on my wine. “What?”
She rolls her eyes again. If eye-rolling burned calories, Gemma would waste away to nothing. “I guess that’s a no.”
“I haven’t banged him, but . . .” I pause, blushing.
“WHAT?” they demand in chorus.
“We kissed. Yesterday.”
“Talk about burying the lede!” Gemma scolds me. “You let us watch half a movie when the real headline news was right here!”
“Details,” Eve agrees.
I grin. “He took me to paintball and we got all muddy . . .”
“And it was good, right?” Gemma asks breathlessly.
I sigh happily. “Good doesn’t do it justice. It was . . .”
“Amazing,” Eve breathes. “Of course, it was amazing. Because you’re so into him.”
Gemma clucks. “You are such a hopeless romantic, Evie.”
Eve frowns. “No. I’m a hopeful romantic. And paintball makeout is sooo hot. I mean, just look at Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles in 10 Things I Hate About You!”
“True,” Gemma agrees, “So then what happened?” she demands.
“Nothing. He took me home.”
Her face falls. “And you didn’t drag him inside to take things further?”
I shake my head. “I wanted to. But . . . it’s different with him. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before. If we take things further, it’s going to be about more than just scratching the itch.”
“Awww.” Eve looks thrilled. “You’re falling in love!”
“Like,” I correct her quickly. Because that would just be insane. “Very strong like. But even that is new for me! I don’t want to wind up getting hurt.”
On cue, my phone buzzes. It’s Cam texting me.
I scoop it up to read the message.
What are you up to?
Movie night with the girls, I text back.
Let me know when you’re done. Late night taco run ;)
Gemma leans over my shoulder to look. “Tacos? Like . . . your taco?”
I want to scowl at her, but it’s hard to scowl when you’re laughing. “No. I’m sure he means actual tacos.”
I glance at Eve, who is smirking.
“Shut up,” I laugh. “Anyway, I’m with you two tonight.”
Eve shakes her head and points at my phone. “Oh no you don’t. You text him back and tell him you will meet him for,” she does air quotes, “tacos.”
Gemma grins. “Let him . . . you know, eat your taco.”
I laugh. “You’re horrible.”
She winks. “Hey, my guy likes tacos, too. Not a bad thing.”
Eve frowns. “Are we still talking about tacos?”
“I have no idea.”
“Go,” Gemma says. “Share your taco with him.”
“OK.” I send a quick response and take a deep breath. I’m excited and nervous. I’ve done the hookup thing before. I’ve even had boyfriends before, but I’ve never felt this flustered. Something is definitely different with Cam.
That something? Feelings.
Then I remember what I’m wearing: yoga pants and a comfy old hoodie. I definitely didn’t think I’d be on a date tonight. “Help!” I yelp. “I’ve got like fifteen minutes to make myself presentable. What can I borrow?”
Thanks to Gemma’s wardrobe—perks of being a stylist—we manage to find an outfit that strikes the right balance between casual and “ravage me now.” The boyfriend jeans are cute and easy, and the lacy peasant blouse has a sexy ruffle down the front.
“Also,” Gemma helpfully points out, “the shirt is made of no-wrinkle cotton, so when Cam tears it off and throws it on the floor, you won’t have to worry. “
“Not happening,” I say sternly as I’m tying my shoes at the door. So why am I so relieved I shaved my legs this morning?
“Right. Your shit-eating grin tells me you would hate for that to happen,” she says.
“Maybe he’s just hungry.”
“Sure he is.” Gemma sends me out of the door with a wink. “Have fun!”
I take an Uber over to the taco place, my nerves growing. Is this a late-night booty call? And would it be the worst thing in the world if it was?
Cam is waiting out front and greets me with a casual kiss on the cheek. Right away, my blood pressure shoots way up. Because he. Is. Gorgeous.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly.
“Hungry?”
“Mmhmm,” I say vaguely, as he holds the door open for me.
Yes, but not necessarily for tacos.
The place is packed—a good sign—and noisy. It’s the kind of casual, comfortable neighborhood place I love. And they all seem to know him.
“Cam, my man,” the guy at the counter greets him with a complicated fist bump thing. “What’s up?”
“The usual, you know,” Cam replies, grinning. “This is Zoey. I figure she needs to try one of everything.”
“Coming right up.”
Cam grabs us a couple of Coronas and steers us to a table in the corner. “How often do you come here?” I ask as we sit.
He grins, sheepish. “A lot. I live right around the corner.”
I look at him sideways. So
maybe this is a booty call, after all. “Now, isn’t that convenient . . .”
He smirks. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.” I laugh.
I take a sip of my beer and try to collect myself. Just because he’s smoking hot, and I’m more than a little horny, it doesn’t mean I need to melt in a puddle at his feet.
Down, girl.
“These are the most authentic tacos in town,” he remarks, as a server brings over several heaped dishes.
“You’ve been to Mexico?” I ask.
He nods, chewing a bite and swallowing before giving a response. “Jamie and I took a trip, years ago. We were both broke, so we took his old van, drove for two days, and made it down to Baja. We slept on the beach and ate everything in sight.”
“Sounds amazing,” I sigh, wistful. “I’ve never really traveled.”
“Really?” Cam looks surprised. “What about your brother?”
“Luke?” I pause. “What about him?”
“I just thought, since he’s such a big-shot star . . .”
“That he’d be flying me first class around the world?” I laugh. “Nope. He loaned me money for the truck,” I add. “But I’m paying all that back. I want to make it on my own.”
Cam looks thoughtful. “I guess I was wrong about you.”
“Why?” I ask, only half-teasing. “Did you think I was some spoiled princess playing at being chef on daddy’s dime?”
He coughs. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
“So, I guess you owe me an apology.” I smile, and he chuckles.
“You’re right. Would you accept this carnitas as penance?”
I pretend to think about it. “If you’ll throw in extra guac, then sure.”
“Deal.” Cam grins wider, and I feel it all the way down to my toes.
And other, more intimate places.
He looks at me and laughs. “You’ve got salsa . . .” He gestures.
I swipe at my chin. “Better?”
“Not quite.”
Cam leans over and wipes the corner of my mouth. Then, before I can overthink it, he leans in and kisses me. Hot, and slow, and delicious.
By the time we come up for air, my head is spinning.
“Want to get those churros to go?” he asks.
I nod. Hell yes.
He flashes me a smile and heads back to the counter. A moment later, we’re back on the street, bundled up against the chill with a delicious cinnamon smell wafting from our takeout bag. “This way,” Cam says, slipping an arm around me as we cross the street. “I’m that building right there.”