How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days: Chick Flick Club #1 Read online

  Arielle snorts. “Never mind.”

  Just then our waitress arrives with a platter of steaming food. Lily is in her fifties, and takes absolutely no bullshit. “Hey, Lily,” Arielle says. “Want to get a makeover? For free?”

  Lily levels an incredulous look at Arielle. “Okay. Sure,” she deadpans. “George Clooney invited me to Oscars as his date and I have nothing to wear.”

  “I’m serious,” Arielle says, though her laugh makes it sound like she’s anything but. “Gemma here needs a new client. She’s up for a big promotion.”

  Lily scoffs and waves at us dismissively before she bustles back to the kitchen.

  James reaches for a pork bun. “I bet you’re relieved, Gemma.”

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “Giving Lily a makeover would be so much fun. And think of the snacks.”

  James takes a bite and sighs. “These pork buns are amazing. Better than sex.”

  “If you think that, you’re doing it wrong,” Arielle says as she grabs one.

  “We should make him over,” I say, pointing my chopstick at James.

  “Please,” he says. “I already have my own Queer Eye.”

  Arielle opens her mouth to say something when she suddenly gets bumped from behind.

  “Excuse me!” she barks at the man who’s just pushed past. It’s a delivery guy, with a shock of bright pink and black hair, and a silver bolt through his nose. He’s dressed in a T-shirt that has curse words printed in different languages, with an arm full of tattoos and an annoyed scowl on his face.

  “Problem?” he demands in a way that isn’t really a question at all. More like he’s identifying Arielle as his problem.

  “You knocked into me.”

  “Well boo-fucking-hoo,” he replies, and keeps walking. I catch a glimpse of pale, hairy legs under his ripped jean shorts as he disappears through the door.

  Unfashionable and rude?

  “He’ll do,” I grin.

  Arielle’s wide eyes swing toward me in panic. “What?”

  I smile and lean back in my chair. “You heard me. You were so eager to make this interesting? You can make him over.”

  James barks out a laugh and claps again. “Oh, this will be good.”

  “He’s gone,” Arielle says smugly.

  “No problem,” James says with a smile. “There was a logo on his shirt: On-Time Couriers. And as I think about it, I think I actually have a few things that need to be shipped across town today. How convenient!”

  “I hope you choke on your dumpling,” Arielle grunts.

  James blows her a kiss.

  “Anyway,” I say, smiling. “That’s my pick for you.”

  “Piece of cake,” Arielle says. Though while she’s all bluster, I notice her cheek twitches as her eyes slide toward the door.

  “You made the rules, Arielle,” I say, thinking maybe this will be fun after all. “And good luck to you.”

  * * *

  My optimism lasts about as long as it takes to realize Arielle is going to pick a real piece of work for me to transform, as revenge for Delivery Guy. Maybe I just showed my hand too fast, by picking someone first. Either way, it’s almost a relief when we step into the elevator back at the office and Arielle starts complaining. “So, we aren’t seriously doing this bet thing, right? It’s crazy.”

  “Crazy smart,” James says, tapping his forehead with a knowing nod.

  “But you can’t be serious about that … that … beastly asshole!”

  Jame smirks. “Scared?”

  “No!”

  “You can always quit while you’re ahead …” he taunts her.

  Arielle glares. “Never going to happen. I just don’t see how I can find anyone as awful for Gemma now.”

  “But you sure can try!” James laughs.

  With a loud clunk, the elevator jerks into place on our floor. I figure there’s still a chance Arielle will quit this whole bet, so I decide to work on some back-up ideas to present to Serena in case we’re pitching the traditional way—

  “Oof!” I exclaim, as I turn the corner and ram into a wall of steel.

  No. A wall of flannel. A familiar wall of flannel. I look up and find myself eye to beard.

  Eyes, up a little more, Gemma.

  Eye to eye with Bigfoot.

  “Zach?” I frown. “What are you doing here?”

  He looks me up and down with that annoying, all-seeing, all-judging look of his. “I’m doing a favor for a friend,” he replies casually, then nods to someone behind me.

  James comes flying out of his office. “Thank God you’re here. Sorry we’re late back from lunch.”

  “James is your friend?” I question.

  Zach just gives a lazy shrug.

  “I have you all set up in the server room,” James continues, “Let me know if you need anything. I can’t figure out this bug, and we’ve got customer requests backing up. Martin said you were the best programmer around.”

  “He lies,” Zach says. “But sure, I’ll take a look.”

  “Thank you!” James phone sounds in his office, and he ducks back out of sight.

  So Zach is a tech guy? Well, that explains the bad fashion sense, at least.

  But instead of hurrying to solve whatever emergency they called him in for, Zach slowly looks around.

  “So this is where you ‘work’?”

  He doesn’t do the little finger quote marks, but I can hear the scorn in his voice.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “It is work.”

  “Right,” he says with a smile. “Playing dress-up all day.”

  I tense. Obviously he doesn’t understand what it takes to put together the perfect ensemble or advise a client on what best suits them. I mean, just look at what he’s wearing: flannel shirt—a threadbare one at that—over a faded T-shirt and camo cargo shorts. Oh, and flip-flops.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you don’t need any help in that department,” I say, my sweet tone emphasizing the sarcasm. “I think I saw that outfit on the cover of GQ last month.”

  “Oh yeah?” Zach just looks amused. “And you just came from you Vogue cover shoot?”

  I look down at my cute sundress. It’s nowhere near couture, more like second-hand Banana Republic. But the way he said it makes me feel like it wasn’t just my dress he was making fun of. I know I’m not supermodel material, but still …

  “Actually,” I retort. “This is my Bigfoot repellent dress. Seems not to be working today.”

  “That’s Mr. Bigfoot to you,” Zach smirks, before giving me a salute, and strolling away.

  I glare after him.

  “So, who was that guy?” Arielle asks.

  Where did she even come from? I thought she’d disappeared in a cloud of smoke, or whatever it was Disney villains do to make an exit.

  “Nobody,” I grimace. “Just my asshole neighbor. It’s not enough that he plays loud music all night, he has to come here and insult my work, too.”

  “Oh really?” Arielle looks after him, a slow, evil smile forming on her face. “So you two don’t get along?”

  I pause, suddenly remembering all about the bet—and how Arielle still needs to pick my client. “Oh, no, we’re fine! Great! It’s just this playful banter thing we do! He’s really rocking that woolly hipster vibe, huh?” I add desperately. “Soooo stylish, very Gucci fall collection!”

  As in, he so doesn’t need a makeover.

  Arielle gives me a withering look. She’s not buying it. Damn. And then she says the words I’ve been dreading: “He’ll do.”

  Nooooo!

  “For what?” I act dumb, even as my heart is plummeting to the floor.

  “The bet,” she smirks. “He’ll do very nicely, methinks.”

  Methinks? What’s next, clasping her hands together? Maniacal laughter?

  But it doesn’t change the fact that I am so royally fucked. And not in the good, gingery Prince Harry way.

  “You have until tonight to get him on board. Clock starts t
omorrow.”

  “But what if he doesn’t agree?” I gulp.

  “Then you lose.” Arielle smiles. “Besides, weren’t you just saying how amazing your client relationships are? Time to put up, or shut up. But don’t forget, if you tell him about the bet, you forfeit.”

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the day trying to plot ways to somehow convince Bigfoot to let me make him over.

  I come up with a grand total of zilch.

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  I want to scream and wail at the unfairness. Shake my fist at the sky. Rail against the injustice of it all. But then I think of that delivery guy, and the pink-haired, pierced and tatted-up jerk mountain Arielle has to climb. We’re probably well-matched in this competition. And while I’d never in a million years admit it, I can’t really blame her for picking Zach.

  Touché, worthy adversary. Touché.

  But that doesn't help me right now. Zach disappears from the office before I can corner him again, but hey, at least I know where he lives. “How am I supposed to do this?,” I ask James on the phone as I walk—slowly—down the hall toward my apartment later that afternoon. Actually, no, toward Zach’s apartment. Because this is happening.

  “Use your charm. And failing that, sexual favors.”

  “Eww! You are no longer my work husband,” I announce.

  “Whatever,” he laughs, knowing I’d never dump him.

  “James, I’m serious.” I hiss as I get closer to Zach’s door. “The guy hates me. Also, he’s a hairy beast. Not to mention this whole bet is stupid.”

  “He doesn’t hate you,” James says.

  When I don’t respond, he concedes. “Okay, so he’s not your biggest fan, but hate’s a strong word. Anyway, it’ll make your victory that much sweeter. He has good bones under all that hair. Or should I say, a good bone. Singular.”

  I can almost hear James’s eyebrow waggle through the phone. I laugh. “How would you know?”

  “I don’t,” James sighs. “But, honey, I would like to.”

  “You’re horrible,” I say. “And practically married. Anyway, I’m here; I gotta go. I’ll text you later with the update.”

  “Tell me tomorrow. It’s date night with Simon—we’re making bath bombs.,” James says before he ends the call.

  I slip the phone into my bag and take a big, deep, steadying breath before I knock on the door. It’s not even six p.m. so I’m hoping the booty call parade hasn’t yet begun.

  I wait. And wait. And wait a little more. I’m sure I hear movement inside, but he’s definitely not coming.

  To open the door, I mean.

  I’m not about to give up so I just bang louder. Finally, finally, Zach’s door opens.

  He leans against the doorframe, still wearing the same outfit as before, though he’s taken off the flannel. It doesn’t look like I’ve interrupted something … physical …

  “Can I help you?” he finally asks.

  Now or never, I tell myself. How about never? Ha! Except, I really want the promotion, not to mention the raise.

  Maybe more than that, I want to prove to Serena that her faith in me isn’t misplaced. That just because I don’t have the education in fashion or even the experience to equal Arielle’s, doesn’t mean I’m not the best person for the job.

  “I was hoping you could do me a favor,” I say, making sure to smile. The terms of the bet say I can’t tell him about the competition. But maybe I can ask him to help me build my portfolio, for free. Most people I know would love for a free stylist working 24/7 to turn their life around. But Zach is not most people. Because before I can even launch into my tempting sales pitch, he gives a snort of disdain.

  “Yeah, nope,” he says.

  And then slams the door in my face.

  4

  Zach

  - Day 1 -

  It takes a while for me to realize that the pounding I’m hearing is not coming from inside my skull, it’s coming from the door.

  Until I sit up too quickly. Then it’s both.

  I groan as I throw back my covers and get out of bed, not bothering to put anything on over my boxers, because whoever is banging on my door so early will be getting what she deserves.

  I say ‘she’ because it has to be Gemma from across the hall, here to complain about something. My hair. My music.

  My very existence.

  “Hold on!” I holler when the knocking starts up again. Hollering costs me dearly. I groan in agony.

  Fucking tequila. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. That’s the problem.

  But I got caught up in playing Monster Hunter and then I got bored. Tequila definitely improved gameplay. Until it didn’t. Maybe? I can’t really remember. I don’t usually drink alone, or play video games all night, but I’ve been on an extended vacation this year, and what’s a vacation without a few margaritas—minus the lime and salt?

  I’ve earned it. First came the break-up to end all break-ups, enough to knock me flat on my back. Then, just as I was preparing to bury myself in work 24/7 to forget about Lisa, my buddy Martin and I got an offer to buy out our app development start-up. The kind of jaw-dropping, once-in-a-lifetime offer that we would have been fools to turn down. So we didn’t. We cashed the checks—with more zeros than I’d ever dreamed of—and moved on. Or rather, he did.

  Me? I moved into vacation-mode. For the first time in my life, I’ve got no deadlines, no early mornings, and nobody holding me back. It’s been a non-stop party for months now, but who would have thought even partying would take its toll?

  The hammering on my door gets louder.

  “I’m not interested in doing you a favor!” I bellow, and throw open the door, expecting to see my cute, but very uptight neighbor. I kind of love that she’s so uptight—it makes her so easy to rile up—but instead, I find it’s Martin, my best friend slash former business partner, with his wife, Julie, in tow.

  They look at me expectantly.

  “Aww, crap. We have brunch plans, don’t we?” I remember.

  “Dude,” Martin laughs as he gives me a once-over. “Are you just rolling out of bed? It’s almost noon.”

  “No judgement,” I yawn. “You used to crash until three.”

  “In college,” he replies, “Before I grew the fuck up.”

  “Hi Zach,” Julie greets me with a kiss on the cheek as they enter the apartment. “How are you?”

  “Hungover and hungry,” I reply, hugging her back. “But brunch will fix both of those. Just give me a minute to change.”

  Martin makes a face. “It smells like our old dorm room in here.”

  “Feeling nostalgic?” I tease.

  Marty makes a show of sniffing the air. “Nostalgia, is not what I’d call this fragrance. More like, Eau du Sweatsock?”

  I throw an old sweatshirt at him, which was conveniently draped over a chair … where I left it, three days ago.

  OK, maybe this place could use a cleaning.

  “Where are we going to eat?” I call, as I head to my room to grab some clothes – which, what do you know, are also scattered on the floor.

  “Some place Brody picked,” Martin calls back. Our other friend is a personal trainer gym freak, so I’m just hoping there’s bacon.

  “You told him no more of that raw meat diet, right?” I yell, remembering his last crazy food fad.

  “Oh yes, we laid down the law.” Julie’s voice comes. Phew. I prefer my brunch meats smoked, grilled, and deep-fried.

  I pull on an almost-clean shirt, and grab my wallet. “All set,” I say, joining them in the living room again. Julie is regarding a stack of old pizza boxes with a grossed-out expression.

  “You bring girls back here?” she asks. “And they stay?”

  “I make it worth their while.”

  She snorts with laughter. “No comment. But seriously, get a maid service. You’ve got enough money.”

  “Huh. That’s actually a good idea.”

  “Don’t sound so sur
prised.” She elbows me as we head to the door. “I’m brilliant.”

  “Yes, you are.” Martin says on cue. She kisses him, and I would roll my eyes – except they’re all rolled out. These two have been loved up since the moment they met at a gaming competition three years ago – and took a deep dive straight into domestic bliss. Back when I was with my ex, we hung out as a foursome all the time; now I’m just the single third-wheel they bring along for the ride.

  The third wheel who gets to live in a pigsty if he wants, drink until three a.m., and booty-call any girl he chooses.

  I’d say my life turned out pretty good, wouldn’t you?

  * * *

  But a half-hour later, I’m seriously reconsidering my choices. Or, more accurately, I’m reconsidering my friendship with Brody, who chose the restaurant. A vegan, raw food place.

  Raw, vegan food does not include bacon. It does include something called “fakin”. Yes, quotes are necessary.

  At least there is hot, strong, fair-trade coffee, served by the real reason we’re here, which is the woman behind the counter who Brody keeps darting glances at.

  “So,” I say after taking a gulp of coffee. “What’s her name?”

  Brody drags his gaze from the girl and looks at me. “Huh?”

  I roll my eyes. “The woman? The reason you bait and switched us, promising brunch.” I point at the smoothies in front of us. “Which this, by the way, is definitely not.”

  Brody gives a sheepish grin. “Her name is Sierra. We met at yoga class.”

  “So, you live here, now?” Julie teases. Because we all know Brody is a romantic. A hard-core romantic. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great wingman when we go out, but when he falls for a girl, he’s all in – diet and all.

  “No,” Brody says. “I … I just come here a lot. The smoothies are good, though,” he says, taking a sip of the swamp sludge in front of him as though he really believes it. Got to give him credit for total buy-in.

  “You’re pathetic.”