You've Got Male (Chick Flick Club Book 2)

by Lila Monroe

  “Whoa,” he says when I’m done. “That’s shitty. AJ seriously pulled a stunt in front of the judges?”

  “Yup.” I scowl.

  “And what does Zoey say?”

  “Nothing.” I sigh. “She won’t talk to me. I tried to apologize.”

  “So try harder.”

  I shake my head. “It won’t work. She thinks that I was behind the bug prank. Do you believe it? Like I would sabotage her that way!”

  “Weeelllll,” Jamie drawls.

  “Well, what?” I demand, indignant.

  “You were behind the prank. I mean, AJ was. Your employee.”

  “My former employee.” I scowl.

  “But . . . that was after,” Jamie points out. “Fact is, you didn’t stop him from doing it in the first place.”

  “How was I supposed to stop him?” I demand. “I didn’t know he was going to do it. And I told him before to knock it off with the games.” I take a gulp of the coffee, forgetting how hot it is. I curse my burned tongue, how the coffee scalds all the way down. It feels fitting, though.

  Jamie gives me a look. “But he didn’t knock it off. That stunt with the traffic clamp? You may not have wanted to sabotage her yourself, but you sat back and let it happen.”

  I glare at my oldest friend. “You think I’m cool with how it went down? You think I wanted to win that way?”

  “No,” he sighs. “I know you’re not OK with it. You’re not an asshole. Most of the time,” he adds.

  “Fuck off.” I roll my eyes as he chuckles.

  “But I have the advantage of years of friendship on my side. Zoey’s known you all of a couple of months . . . and most of that time, you’ve been at each other’s throats. Can you really blame her for jumping to conclusions on this? The contest was a big deal to her, too. And you basically ruined it.”

  I shake my head. If she’s going to be stubborn and throw AJ and all that other shit—everything that I already told her I had no part of—back in my face, then there’s no point. She should know me by now, know that I would never do that to her. And if she doesn’t . . . then maybe what we had together isn’t worth saving.

  So why do I feel like such a dog?

  I fry up the best hangover cure known to man: a pile of greasy bacon and eggs. Jamie, never one to pass up a free meal, sticks around, though I’m relieved when the conversation moves from yesterday’s events to sports. Finally, he leaves. But not before making me promise I’ll call him if I need help on the truck. With AJ gone, I’ll probably have to take him up on that offer.

  My meeting with Ricky Rollins and the show’s production crew is scheduled for early afternoon at their hotel. They want to go over the concept and schedule for the taping before they head back to LA.

  I know I should be excited. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. But I’m dragging my ass on the drive over. I can’t blame it all on the hangover, either.

  I’ve got a sinking sensation I shouldn’t be the one here.

  Zoey should have won. And maybe she would have, fair and square.

  But I guess we’ll never know.

  My bed felt empty this morning without her in it. I feel empty without her.

  “Hey, man!” Ricky greets me at the hotel meeting room. “Come on in.”

  We shake hands, and he introduces me to his production crew. There’s a woman, Sandra, I recognize from the festival, plus people from the publicity and marketing teams.

  “So how does it feel to be the official Brunch King of San Francisco?” Ricky asks with a wide grin.

  “Soon to be of the nation,” one of the producers adds.

  Shitty isn’t a reasonable answer, so I smile and say, “Great! Thanks again for everything. Yesterday was amazing!”

  Amazingly fucked, I don’t say.

  “That was all you,” Ricky says. “Those sliders . . . and the burrito. Your food’s fantastic, Cam.”

  I nod.

  The crew exchange looks. “Something wrong?” Sandra ventures.

  “What? No, it’s all good,” I say, forcing my smile wider. “I’m super pumped.”

  “So,” Sandra continues. “Normally we would schedule the taping a few months out, but the truck we were going to feature for our Easter episode fell through. We need to get it in the can really soon. Do you think you could come up with some themed brunch dishes?”

  “Sure,” I nod. “I’ve actually been working on some recipes.”

  With Zoey. But I push thoughts of her away.

  “Awesome,” Ricky grins. “We can tape at one of your regular spots, get a feel for the local flavor. We’re flying back today, but how about we pick up the crew and come back in a few days? Too soon?”

  Probably. Especially since I’m going to have to find a replacement for AJ, but I suddenly want to get it over with. I can’t wait to put this all behind me. “That would be great!” I manage another smile. “Looking forward to it.”

  We talk some more about the logistics of the taping and what they need from me. Nitty gritty stuff. But as we go over everything a thought keeps nagging at me.

  When we finish, Ricky walks me to the door.

  “So, hey,” I say to him quietly. “Let me ask you a question.”

  He sighs as he reaches up and slides his fingers through crazy ginger hair. “Yes, it’s plugs, but they look good, right? Gotta have good hair for TV, know what I mean?”

  OK, not where I was going . . . I smile. “No. Though it does look great. I was going to ask about yesterday. That whole thing with the bugs—the candy bugs—in Zoey’s waffles. If that hadn’t happened, would I still have won?”

  He cocks his head. “But you did win.”

  “I know, but . . . if . . . well, I just want to know if my food was actually better than hers. Forgetting about the prank.”

  I realize I’m nervous, waiting for his response. It’s the difference between a silly prank . . . and sinking Zoey’s chances at her dream.

  Ricky darts a glance at his producer. “You won, kid. That’s the only thing that matters.”

  “But—”

  “You’re going to be on the show,” Ricky interrupts me. “Why don’t you leave it at that?”

  Which isn’t a yes.

  But it isn’t a no, either.

  I leave the hotel, feeling even more unsettled than when I arrived. I find myself drive down to the park where I know Zoey’s truck will be parked today, but when I get there, there’s no sign of her.

  I check on Twitter; maybe she had a private event or changed her schedule. But the last post from The Little Red Wagon is a notice saying today’s service is canceled.

  I click through all the responses. The thread is filled with pictures and videos from yesterday. Mostly of her face when the judge discovered the “bugs” in the waffles.

  Zoey’s expression is one of horror and disbelief. The responses are a mixture of mean tweets and some support for her. But mostly mean tweets.

  Assholes.

  Goddamn. Now I don’t just feel unsettled, I feel guilty. Guiltier.

  Still, she accused me of being behind the prank. Jamie’s right that I didn’t stop it, and I should have known AJ was up to something. But that’s not the same as deliberately sabotaging her.

  It hurts that she thinks I’d be involved. After everything, I thought she knew me better than that.

  I should go home, work on the new recipes. But I’m tired of my place. And myself. So I detour to Maddy’s new restaurant, looking for distraction.

  Maddy’s elbows-deep in the dinner rush when I step through the back kitchen door. She looks up, surprised to see me. “Congratulations!” she exclaims. “The reigning king of brunch.”

  I shrug, bashful. It doesn’t seem like such a prize when I know Zoey got hurt in the process.

  “Ordering four specials, two medium-rare, one blue, one shoe-leather!” a waiter yells from the hatch.

  Maddy glances over at me. “What do you say?” she asks with a smirk. “Is the brunch king
too famous to make steak frites?”

  What the hell.

  I wash my hands and grab an apron.

  “So, what’s next for you?” Maddy asks. “Lights, cameras, Hollywood?”

  “Not exactly.” I grab a knife and some potatoes and get chopping.

  Maddy frowns. “Is something wrong . . . ? Oh.” Her eyes widen. “I forgot. How’s Zoey taking her defeat? It must be difficult, losing out like that. Still, I’m sure the two of you will be fine.”

  “You didn’t hear?” I ask.

  She looks blank.

  I sigh. “The only reason I won—maybe—is that AJ sabotaged her dish.” I explain about the candy bugs. “So now she’s not talking to me. It’s over.”

  “Just like that?” Maddy frowns.

  “It’s kind of hard to have a relationship with someone who would prefer you didn’t exist,” I shoot back. “But I’ll be OK. It’s probably better this way. More time to focus on the truck, you know?”

  She presses her lips together. “Ambition is one thing, but don’t lose sight of what really matters. The people in your life.”

  I wince.

  “I didn’t train you just in knife skills, you know,” Maddy continues. “I thought I taught you some values along the way. Like not screwing the competition just to get ahead.”

  “I didn’t screw her over.”

  Her eyebrows go up. “Did you stop it?”

  I continue peeling, keeping my mouth shut. She knows the answer anyway.

  “Did you make it right, Cam? Did you do the right thing and fix it before she was totally humiliated?”

  Fuck. “No, I didn’t. I tried to explain, but . . .”

  Maddy sighs, exasperated. “I told you not to fuck it up. I like this girl.”

  So did I.

  “But she hates me. She thinks I’m a scheming, horrible person.” I’m starting to understand why. “Even if I manage to convince her that it wasn’t my doing, after everything, she’ll never trust me again.”

  “You know, I never thought you were a coward.”

  She drifts away before I can protest. I load a potato into the manual chipper and yank down the handle with a loud ker-shuck, the shoestring fries falling into the tub below.

  The potato feels like a metaphor for my heart, julienned into pieces.

  So how must Zoey be feeling right now?

  I gulp. Maddy’s right. I am being chickenshit . . . because I know exactly what I’ve lost. And if I go back to Zoey and try to make it right, and she still slams the door in my face?

  It’ll hurt like hell.

  But no more than it’s hurting right now. Because she’s special. What we had together was special . . . before my stupid rivalry went and screwed everything up. I want to fight for her. For us.

  The only question is: am I too late?

  22

  Zoey

  “I think you should come out here for a vacation,” Luke says.

  I groan into the phone. A vacation? That’s about the last thing I want to think about. No, maybe the second to last. Vacations are made for couples, and since the FoodFest disaster a couple of weeks ago, I’m definitely not half of a couple.

  “I’m not coming out to freezing cold, snowy New York. I’m perfectly happy wallowing here.”

  “Zo-Bear, I haven’t seen you in ages,” he cajoles me. “What about if we hang in LA instead? It’s warmer there. I could rent that place in Malibu again . . .”

  I sigh. “I’m just not in the vacation mood. But thanks.”

  “Think about it, OK? Stella and I would love to see you.”

  “I will think about it, I promise,” I say, crossing my fingers.

  I haul myself out of bed, shuffling to the kitchen to get some coffee.

  I stop in my tracks. There is a person sitting on my couch typing on a laptop. Then I realize that person is my almost-never-home roommate.

  “Hey, Trina.”

  She looks up from her laptop, as surprised to see me as I am to see her. “What are you doing home?” she asks, frowning.

  It’s a valid question. Normally I’d be at the coffee shop at this time, baking and getting ready for service. But since FoodFest, I’ve barely had the motivation to roll of bed, let alone get up at the crack of dawn to bake. Nikki’s been taking up the slack. Sort of. She’s not a baker, so the pastries aren’t getting made, but she knows enough that the truck can run regular service. More or less. I pretty much just show up. Most days. All right: not much at all lately. Though since the hit I took in the competition, it’s not like they’re lining up to take my bug-infested food.

  Yes, I’m wallowing in self-pity, but I deserve it. Because what I didn’t deserve is how I lost FoodFest. I got so screwed over by Cam. Professionally and personally.

  Forget the pity party; what he did qualifies me for a pity fucking parade.

  Anyway, I’ve thought about him more than enough since that day. Even though I don’t want to. Know I shouldn’t. But can’t help myself.

  Thinking about him is like smelling spoiled cream: you know it’s bad, but you can’t help but sniff it. Then you’re sorry you did and vow to never do it again. But then you do. Again and again. It’s like you can’t not smell the cream.

  Because the truth is, you miss the cream. You wish the cream would call. But the cream is spoiled and won’t call. All it will do is stink up your fridge until . . . well, until you realize you must be losing your mind because your metaphors are stupid and more than a little crazy.

  “Zoey?” Trina asks, still staring at me like I’m a crazy person. Which, to be fair, I am.

  I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m taking the morning off.”

  “Oh. Well, can you keep it down? I’m skyping with my boyfriend in Alaska.”

  Okaaay.

  There’s a knock at the door. Trina lets out a loud sigh and grabs her laptop. “I’ll be in my room!”

  She storms out, and I go answer the door. I’m surprised to see Tara there.

  “Hey.” I open up. “Everything OK?”

  She tilts her head and crosses her tattooed arms. “You tell me.”

  This again. I sigh. “Want to come in?”

  Tara follows me inside. “We’re worried about you,” she says bluntly. “You’re not baking, our customers miss your croissants. They’re going to stage a riot without their pain au chocolat.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Well, OK, they just keep asking when you’ll be back,” Tara admits. “But come on, you can’t hide away, wallowing forever.”

  “Sure I can,” I reply.

  “Zo . . .” She must see something in my face, because she sighs. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

  “Yup.” I try to force a smile. “Men! Maybe Nikki was right. The patriarchy will crush us all.”

  Tara smiles. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Are you sure it wouldn’t make you feel better to get cooking again? And I’m not just saying that for the croissants,” she adds.

  “I tried,” I say with a long sigh. “But everything came out wrong. You know how they say you can taste it when something’s been cooked with love?”

  She nods.

  “Well, you can definitely taste it when something’s been cooked with heartbreak and betrayal.” I think of the ruined batter and bitter sauces I was making before Nikki banished me from the truck. “Believe me, I’m doing you a favor.”

  “But what about you?” Tara tries. “This can’t be good for you, all this moping.”

  “Better than crying in public, right?” I manage another weak smile. “Look, it’s just a bad breakup. I need some time, that’s all. I can’t feel like this forever.”

  God, please don’t let me feel like this forever.

  “OK,” Tara says, not looking convinced. “But you’re coming to dinner at ours tomorrow. Dan just got some royalties through on a song they used on TV, so I went wild at the fancy grocery place. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Thanks
,” I say, giving her a hug. “I’ll be there.”

  I close the door behind her and shuffle to the kitchen to make coffee. I add a spoon of sugar and reach into the fridge for the cream. I pour in a dollop, thinking as I do that maybe I was too hasty when I told Nikki I wasn’t coming to the truck today. Maybe it’s time to get back in the saddle. Maybe I just need to get my shit together and get back to work.

  As I stir my coffee, the cream floats to the top in clumpy strands.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  I sniff the carton. Recoil. And burst into tears.

  “Welcome to the pity party,” I say to my besties as I open the door that night.

  “Cute PJs,” Eve says, smiling as she gives me a once-over.

  “Thanks.” I look down because I actually can’t remember what I’m wearing. Oh right, a tank and my flannel pants with the whisks on them.

  Gemma isn’t quite so . . . kind. Her nose wrinkles. “When was the last time you had a shower?”

  “Yesterday!” I protest.

  Her eyes rise to my hair. “And by yesterday, you mean, like, yesterday’s yesterday?”

  “Shut up,” I mumble. Because if I stop to do the math, she’s probably right.

  “That’s OK,” Gemma grins. “Breakup hygiene. We understand. We brought supplies,” she adds.

  Eve holds up a CandyShack bag in one hand and a giant bottle of wine in the other.

  “Great,” I say. “What are we going to watch?”

  The girls exchange a look.

  “What?”

  “You don’t know?” Gemma ventures, joining me on the couch.

  I don’t have any idea what Gemma’s talking about, but I do not like the concerned look on her face. Something in my stomach twists. “What?”

  “Tonight is Cam’s episode of The Truck Stop,” Gemma says gently. “We didn’t want you to watch alone.”

  Oh. Shit.

  “I had no idea.” I exhale with a whoosh.

  That aching sensation in my chest I’d almost gotten used to?

  It’s back. And achier than ever.

  “Have you heard from him?” Eve asks, looking hopeful.

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I reply, disappointed. “It’s like he fell off the planet. I guess he didn’t really care about us at all.”