How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days: Chick Flick Club #1 Page 5

  Although now I realize he’s distracted me and paid for my drink, leaving a huge tip. Hmm. What do I owe him now?

  He turns away from me—a definite ‘leave me alone’ message. But I’ve come this far, so I follow him to a table and sit down.

  Zach lets out a noise of frustration. “You don’t know how to take a hint.”

  “And you won’t even hear me out!” I know I’m being super-annoying, but I don’t have a choice. Not if I’m going to stop Arielle walking all over me in her four-inch heels – and gloating for the rest of my life. “Look, I promise, just give me a chance to explain what’s going on, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “I think we’d like you to leave all of us alone.”

  A strange voice makes me look up. There’s a balding dude a few feet away from us with a microphone in his hand.

  “That’s right, honey. Oh look, you’re not the center of the universe.”

  I blink in surprise. “Um, sorry,” I say, confused. “But my friend and I are talking.”

  “Well good for you.” The man’s voice is sarcastic. “And are we interrupting this conversation of yours with our little comedy event?”

  Comedy what?

  I look around. The café is full, and all the seats are arranged to face a low stage area. Where the man is standing. With his microphone.

  “Sorry!” I blurt, embarrassed. “You can start. This won’t take a minute.”

  “Can I start? Can I really? Oh, thank you!” he lays on the sarcasm even thicker, and I cringe.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your Tinder date, but maybe you could wait to beg him to go home with you to in between sets?”

  “This isn’t a date!” I protest. “We’re just discussing … uh … business.”

  The comedian snorts. “Business. Right. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Then he turns and gives Zach a conspiratorial look. “Can you put the leash on your little lady, bro? I’m trying to work here.”

  Half the crowd groans and the other half laughs. He preens. “Hell, I’m surprised you let her out the house without one, seeing as she’s such a bitch!”

  What did he just say?

  “Dude,” Zach speaks up. “Come on.”

  But I’m already on my feet, furious, “Seriously? When did you write your material,1952?”

  There’s laughter.

  “What else do you have in store?” I ask, “Jokes about how women be shopping, and oooh, we get crazy when it’s that time of the month?”

  The comedian’s mouth drops open, and nothing comes out. Busted! The audience laughs again, louder.

  “Maybe women wouldn’t be forced to act like such bitches around you if you weren’t a complete asshole!” I add. “But worse that that: you’re not even funny!”

  “Fuck you!” the guy looks furious, and takes a step towards me. “You want to say that again?”

  “Any time you like!” I yell back, before Zach grabs my arm.

  “That’s enough,” he says, dragging me towards the door.

  “What are you doing?” I protest, as he hustles me outside.

  “Saving your ass.”

  “I don’t need saving!” I protest, riled up. “I could take that guy in a fight!”

  “Exactly.” Zach grins. “And then he’d press charges, and you’d get carted to jail. He’s not worth a felony assault charge, is he?”

  It’s a good point.”

  I take a deep breath. “Thanks,” I mutter, begrudgingly.

  “Any time.”

  Zach turns to walk away, and I suddenly remember why I’ve been reduced to a desperate stalker in the first place. “Wait!”

  He stops walking, but doesn’t turn. I hurry to catch up.

  “You’re really going to keep bugging me, aren’t you?” he sighs, looking resigned.

  “Yup!” I say, crossing my fingers. Have I finally worn him down? “So, you may as well save us both the time and hear me out.”

  Finally, he nods. “Two minutes. Go.”

  My heart leaps. “You know I work as a stylist, right? Well, my company is trying to recruit more male clients, and I need to expand my portfolio. I was thinking maybe you’d let me give you … a makeover.”

  “Makeover?” he says it like it’s a dirty word.

  But, on the other hand, he’s not running away right now. That’s got to count for something?

  “A teeny tiny fashion update,” I agree. “Clothes, grooming, lifestyle … Seriously, Zach. I can help you.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “And if I don’t want your help, is it still considered help?”

  “Yes.” I nod, trying to come across as confident. “I know all about fashion.”

  He looks down at himself, at his faded 49ers tee, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, before he looks back at me. “Do I look like a guy who’s concerned with fashion?”

  “Well … no, but … I want to do this for you,” I say.

  “For your portfolio?” he asks skeptically.

  “I’ll waive my fee, of course, and you’ll get a new look and clothes at a serious wholesale discount. Plus home design, culture. I’ll be your lifestyle concierge, at your beck and call! Within reason,” I add quickly.

  “You sound like you really love this stuff.”

  “I really do. I love seeing transformations. Before and afters. Helping people with their confidence and improving how they see themselves. Sometimes it’s just a matter of updating a look, you know? It’s easy for people to get in a rut and just sort of stagnate, not realize there’s anything even wrong. Sometimes it takes outside help to shake things up.”

  Zach pauses, like he’s actually heard me for the first time.

  “So, this concierge thing,” he asks. “Does it include housekeeping? Like, maid service?”

  I look at him sideways. “If you’re asking if I’ll come over in a French maid outfit and a feather duster to clean your place while you sit on the couch and drink beer, the answer is no.”

  He grins. “While that sounds exceptionally appealing, that’s actually not what I’m asking. It was a sincere question.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling my face heat up. “If you’re asking if we can book you a housecleaning service, the answer is yes. And meal delivery, and new furniture, and somebody to pick up your laundry. It’s a full service program, so you can get everything handled to live a stylish, awesome life, without having to organize it all yourself.”

  “Oh.” Zach blinks. “That’s actually a good idea.”

  What?!

  “So you’ll do it?” I ask, breathless.

  “And you’ll stop badgering me ?” Zach says slowly.

  I nod because, holy shit, is he seriously going to agree to this? “Yes. Absolutely!”

  “And I get final say on everything?”

  “Of course!”

  I cross my fingers, and my toes too. Please say yes. Please, pretty please.

  For once, the powers that be actually hear my desperate pleas, because Zach takes a deep breath and says, “Fine. Against my better judgment. All right.”

  “Agh!” I let out a shriek of delight-slash-relief and throw my arms around him without thinking.

  I get an armful of surprisingly solid torso, warm and muscular, and—

  Zach backs off quickly.

  “Um, sorry,” I blush. “I’m just really excited to get started. I have so many ideas and know you’re just going to love—”

  “Tomorrow.” He cuts me off. “I think we’ve had enough drama for one day.”

  I open my mouth to protest, then stop myself just in time. I don’t want to risk scaring him off already, even if it means losing another day.

  “OK,” I agree reluctantly. “Tomorrow.”

  I fall into step beside him as he walks back to our building. “So no more stalking?” Zach asks. “Or banging on my door?”

  “Nope.“ I vow. “You know, we could have avoided all this if you’d just heard me out before.”

  He grins.
“And miss your ball-busting routine back there? Maybe if this stylist thing doesn’t work out, you’ve got a future in comedy.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I groan. “Although, if that guy is anything to go by, the bar isn’t that high!”

  Zach stops, and gives me a look: green-eyed and sincere for maybe the first time since I’ve met him. “Just promise me one thing. I’m not going to regret this, am I?”

  “No,” I assure him “Definitely not.”

  I hope.

  6

  Gemma

  - Day 2 -

  I’m like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada (after she’s transformed into the amazing and fashionable assistant) with how well I’m prepared for Zach the next day. I’m at my favorite thrift shop, and I’ve been hard at work, pulling clothes for him to try on. ‘One in a Million’ is packed to the ceiling with racks of funky, fashionable, and sometimes hilarious outfits, everything from hipster to punk to rockabilly. If we’re going to find Zach a new style identity, here’s a great place to start.

  “What’s your chest size?” I text, flipping through the racks. I got him to give up his cell number yesterday, after promising to only use it for emergencies.

  Clothing sizes count.

  “I don’t wear a bra,” he replies.

  “Haha. I mean for shirts and sweaters!”

  “I don’t know. I usually just wear XL.”

  That’s no help. But luckily, I’ve gotten pretty good at eyeballing sizing, so by the time our one p.m. appointment rolls around, I’ve got a whole rack of potential outfits lined up for him. I keep looking anxiously at the door every time the bell jangles. I’m nervous he’ll be late.

  Or worse still, not show up at all.

  But thankfully, lateness isn’t one of Zach’s many sins, because at two minutes to the hour, he walks in, in all his hairy, Bigfooted glory. He has on a pair of aviator sunglasses, badly-fitted jeans, and a cartoon T-shirt, but still, there’s something confident about his stride. I have to admit, if I didn’t know him, I’d maybe give him a second glance.

  “Hey, Zach!”

  I know I’m in trouble when his expression sours as he looks around the store.

  He reluctantly walks over to me. “Is this a thrift store?”

  He may as well be asking if we’re at a manure farm and he’s already smelling the product.

  “Yes,” I say, defiant. “It’s a great place to get ideas.”

  “You know where is a great place to get ideas?”

  I lift my eyebrows.

  “At the mall,” he says, looking amused. “I can afford new clothes of my own.”

  Yes, it certainly looks like it. I bite back my response and smile. “I like to bring my clients here to play around and try new looks. I want to get you out of your comfort zone.”

  “Mission accomplished,” he says, looking suspiciously at a hipster dude nearby, dressed in the finest flared jeans and shirt the Seventies had to offer. “And now I’d like to get straight back in it.”

  “Can’t you open your mind just a little?” I ask, sighing.

  “I don’t have to do this,” he reminds me.

  Yikes. Time to dial it back. Last thing I need is him bolting so I have to forfeit the bet.

  “You’re right,” I say, pushing my irritation aside. “I’m sorry. Let’s start again.” I smile even wider. “Hi, Zach. Great to see you! I’m so glad you came to meet me. We’ll head to some menswear stores later, but I thought it would be fun and really helpful if you tried on a few things here first. Maybe explore a few looks that you wouldn’t normally try.”

  He sighs and nods. “Fine. Under one condition.”

  “What?” I ask warily.

  A slow, mischievous smile spreads from his lips up to his amber eyes, making me fear for my life. Also, my panties a little, because a mischievous Zach is a sexy Zach.

  Huh. Who knew?

  “I get to pick an outfit for you,” he says.

  “Fine,” I shrug, unconcerned. This is my favorite store, after all. “Do your worst.”

  * * *

  Maybe I was asking for trouble, but I never imagined that Zach’s ‘worst’ would be so … bad. After browsing the aisles of peek-a-boo 50s negligees and cast-off housecoats, he picks me out a hideous zebra-striped caftan. Or is it a muumuu? My background in fashion has not prepared me adequately for this moment. I didn’t even know this store would stock such a thing, but sure enough, there it was, tucked into the dress section for Zach to find.

  One in a Million delivers.

  “This old thing?” I ask, emerging from the dressing room in all my zebra-print glory. “No big deal.”

  Zach howls with laughter.

  “You looks like you just walked off my nana’s favorite soap opera!” he says, between spluttering laughs. “Are there shoulder pads in there?”

  “Shoulder pads are back,” I say, striking a pose. Sure, the outfit is ugly and embarrassing, but it’s worth it if it gets Zach to behave today. “So, are you ready to do this now?”

  “I guess …”

  I grab the first outfits I set aside and shove them into his arms. “Go, change.”

  “You know, you can be real bossy,” he smirks at me.

  “Chop chop!” I push him towards the dressing room, and then stop to itch.

  Polyester. The worst!

  I go back to browsing, waiting for Zach to reemerge a changed, stylish man. And wait some more.

  “You didn’t escape out the window, did you?” I call out.

  My question is met with a bunch of grunts.

  . “Zach?”

  “I’m not coming out there,” he says in a pained voice.

  I grin. “Just let me see.”

  “Nope.”

  “Zach,” I say patiently. “What’s wrong? I’m sure it looks fine.”

  Suddenly the curtain opens and Zach steps out, wearing red skinny jeans and a plaid shirt. With the beard and the flip-flops, he is looking more hipster than any hipster I’ve ever met.

  “You look great.” I tell him. “I don’t know what the problem is.”

  He twists his hips awkwardly, scowling. “The problem is wanting children someday. My balls feel like crushed tomatoes.”

  I laugh – and hide it with a cough.

  “It can’t be that bad,”

  “Says someone without balls.”

  I grin. I guess that’s true enough. What I do have is eyes, and, of their own volition, they slide down to where he’s … uncomfortable. Sure enough, maybe the pants are—eh hem—slightly too tight. And he forgot to mention the zucchini to go along with those tomatoes. Okay, maybe the pants are way too tight if I can see all his vegetables.

  My face becomes, I’m sure, as red as … well … a tomato.

  I clear my throat. “Why don’t you try the other pair,” I suggest brightly. “They’re bigger, so they should be more comfortable.”

  With only a half-hearted humph, he disappears behind the curtain.

  One of the store clerks, Bianca, sidles over. “He’s really hot,” she whispers. “You didn’t say he was hot.”

  I lie. “Hard to tell under all that hair.”

  “Whatever,” she says. “I saw you checking him out. That hairy woodsman is fiiiiiine.”

  She drifts toward a new customer, as Zach emerges in his next outfit. We quickly speed through a bunch of looks for him—50s Rat Pack, outdoorsy, high fashion—and despite his complaints, I begin to get a feel for his style. Or, at least, his requirement that all clothes be comfortable and low-key.

  Low-key, I can work with, just as long as it fits right and doesn’t have a novelty joke emblazoned on the shirt.

  “Are we done yet?” he asks, tugging at the neckline of a pinstripe shirt. “This thing is giving me hives.”

  “Wait, try a hat.” I toss him a fedora. He puts in on. “On second thoughts, never ever try a hat again.”

  “That bad?” Zach asks, peering in the mirror. “Hey, I don’t hate it.”


  “You look like a street magician,” I tell him, laughing. He snatches it off.

  “OK then.”

  “One more outfit,” I tell him, nudging him back towards the dressing room. “I want to see you in some color.”

  He heads back just as my phone starts ringing. It’s Zoey.

  “You’ll never guess where I am,” I pick up and say, but right away, she talks over me.

  “Emergency! I need help.”

  I freeze. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at this new street fair festival, and nobody’s coming to the truck!” Zoey wails. “I spent my whole week’s takings on food and supplies, but I’m dying out here! Please come help drum up some business, you know you’re the best.”

  “Oh no! I’m sorry babe, but I’m working.”

  “Puh-leeeeeze!” Zoey begs. “I will do anything. Sexual favors, cater your next office party, cook you brunch at three a.m. Anything!”

  I’m torn. I want to help her, but Zach is like a skittish animal right now—a serious flight risk—and I can’t afford to lose him. “I’ll do my best to come later,” I promise. “Just as soon as I finish up here. Then I’ll brunch it out like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Zach emerges from behind the curtain as I hang up, wearing dark-wash denim with a sky-blue vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt. The soft cotton hugs his muscles, his jeans aren’t quite so revealing, and he doesn’t look like he hates the outfit so much he wants to tear it off and set it alight.

  “Those are better, right?” I say brightly.

  “Marginally,” he says, adjusting things. “Did I hear you say something about brunch?”

  “My friend has a food truck. The Little Red Wagon,” I explain. “She’s down at a street fair today and was looking for some help.”

  I return my attention to his outfit. “The pants look great,” I say. “And I like that shirt.”

  He looks down. “The pants are okay, I guess. The shirt is weird.”

  “If by ‘weird’ you mean it actually fits instead of draping three sizes too big? You’re right.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Enough about fashion, tell me more about brunch.”

  “We’re busy,” I remind him, wondering if he’d look good in green. Of course he would—he’s got a bod that would look good in anything.