How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days: Chick Flick Club #1 Page 9

“I don’t need my feet waxed,” I grin.

  “Yes, but what about all the rest of the buffing and puffing?”

  “No, it’s fine.” I don’t tell him that on my budget, my buffing and puffing is strictly DIY, but maybe Zach can sense my brokeness at ten feet, because he beckons a staff member over.

  “Put whatever she wants on my tab.”

  “Zach, no!” I protest, but he waves away my protests.

  “Don’t listen to her,” he tells the woman. “And wax whatever you need.”

  “Hey!” I laugh, but who am I to turn down a free spa session? My toenails have been looking kind of chipped. “Well, thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” Zach sinks back into his relaxed state, and I watch, smiling. When I suggested the spa, I was thinking about the makeover aspect, and not really what he would get out of the experience. But seeing him enjoy the day feels good, too.

  Something tells me, this isn’t a guy who pampers himself.

  Once his feet are callus-free, salt-scrubbed, rubbed, moisturized, and his nails are neat and buffed, Zach is in a state of bliss, his eyes heavy-lidded, a goofy smile on his face. “What’s next?” he asks eagerly. “I’m ready!”

  “Great, come with me,” Jodi smiles as she leads him away to another room. I stay behind for my pedicure.

  I get set up with my own cucumber water and am just starting to really relax, letting out a long breath, when I hear an almighty yell from down the hall. A yell so jarring that it nearly makes me drop my glass.

  Jodi and I exchange an amused look even as we cringe. We both know that sound.

  That’s the sound of a man getting waxed.

  * * *

  After we finish up at the spa—and Zach swears vengeance for that back wax—we head out, strolling the afternoon streets. But I can’t stop sneaking looks at Zach, admiring the new look.

  “What?” he asks, catching me mid-stare.

  “Nothing. I can’t believe the transformation, that’s all.” I cover quickly, flushing.

  He looks uncomfortable. “Come on, it’s not a big deal. I’m still the same guy.”

  “That was a compliment, doofus.”

  “Clearly, you have a way with words.”

  I roll my eyes. Nope, still the same Zach.

  “So what’s next?” he asks. “Did you find that maid service yet? I’ve got people coming over tonight, and even I have some shame,” he adds with a grin.

  “Surprising.” I laugh. “And yes, I have a couple of numbers, I can try and book someone last minute—OOF!”

  A bike messenger flies past on the sidewalk, knocking me off-balance. I stumble, but before I can face-plant on the concrete, a pair of strong arms catch my fall.

  Zach.

  I cling onto his shirt for a moment, my head spinning. His arms come around me, and I’m crushed against his chest: strong and warm and solid.

  I blink

  “Have you always been this tall?” I ask, breathlessly staring up at him.

  Oh my God, I did not just say that.

  Zach smirks. “Actually. I was taller with the beard. Facial hair adds height, you know.”

  I’m so addled, it takes me a moment to realize he’s kidding. “Oh. Ha. Hahaha.” I squark a laugh, still holding on tightly right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I should let go. I’m telling myself to let go.

  He just feels so damn good.

  His body … his arms … those lips …

  His eyes drift down, like he’s reading my mind.

  Red alert, Gemma! Retreat! Retreat!

  I lurch back, flustered. “Um, OK! Great spa day! Way to go!” I hold up my hand for a high-five, and Zach slaps it, looking amused.

  “Go team?” he smirks, mocking me.

  I pull out my phone and make a big display of looking at it. “Oh, no, it’s so late. So much to do. Really, I should just go. Thanks again for today,” I say, not waiting for a response to my babbling before I race away, practically sprinting down the block away from him.

  But I had no choice. It was either bolt or kiss him right there on the street.

  * * *

  “Why are you laughing!” I wail, kicking back on the couch that night. I called an emergency Chick Flick Club session to discuss my near-humiliation. “I was practically drooling all over him. I can’t believe I almost jumped his bones!”

  Eve giggles over her wine, “So why didn’t you?”

  Good question. “Because!” is my not-so-good answer. “He’s a hairy beast!”

  “Not anymore,” Zoey reminds us, reaching for the bottle. “Seriously, look at you, living the dream. You have turned him from hairy beast into mega-hottie. You should kiss him. You should do a lot more than kiss him—you earned it.”

  “Yes,” Eve agrees. “Do what Zoey says. Kissing. And more!”

  “But it’s complicated!” I groan. “First, he’s a client, and second, he doesn’t even know about the bet. I feel like I’m manipulating him.”

  “No,” Zoey says, wagging a finger at me. “He agreed to it. And you’re doing a good job!”

  “Too good,” I say gloomily. “I’m turning him into Mr. Hottie, so he can go off and hook up with even more girls.”

  Right on cue, there’s a noise out in the hall. Before I can stop them, Eve and Zoey jump up and rush to the door, jockeying for position at the peephole.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper-screech.

  “I want to see,” Zoey says.

  “I want to see,” Eve argues, pushing Zoey out of the way.

  “Guys,” I say, panicking. “Don’t. He has … company.”

  But then, not one to be denied, Zoey yanks the door open.

  Noooooo!

  “Hey, Zach!” she exclaims. “What a surprise.”

  I hear the rumble of Zach’s voice. I can hear that he’s amused, but not what he’s saying.

  I’m so dead.

  “Looking really good,” Zoey purrs. “Gemma wasn’t kidding that you clean up nice.”

  Wait, what?

  Then, while I’m contemplating a murder-suicide, Eve gets in on it. “Oh, Geeemmaaaaa,” she singsongs. “Didn’t you say you wanted to ask Zach something?”

  “No, I’m good,” I call out, dying a slow, humiliating death right there on the couch. “Have a good night, Zach!”

  But then Zoey comes and grabs my arm. “Come on, be nice to your neighbor,” she says, eyes glinting with mischief. Then before I even realize what’s happening, she pushes me out into the hall with Zach.

  The door slams behind me.

  Then it locks.

  Leaving me alone in the hall with my formerly hairy, now totally hottie, neighbor.

  Zach smiles. “Girls’ night?”

  “Something like that.” I lean against the doorframe in what I hope is a casual pose. Then I look down and realize I’m barefoot, in a pair of cartoon boxers and a tank top.

  Not.

  Wearing.

  A.

  Bra.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “So, what are you up to?” I ask, pretending I’m cool with my nipples on display.

  Zach looks down at my feet. “I see you really don’t have hairy feet and toes. That I’d love to taste.”

  “What?!”

  “You have great taste,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Or maybe a woman who’s had too much wine. Waaaay too much wine. “In nail polish. What did you think I said?”

  “Oh, ha ha, right. No, that is totally what I thought you said. Thanks!”

  Just then, my door opens. Thank God, because now I can duck back into my den of humiliation. But no, the door is opening because Eve and Zoey have gathered their things and are leaving.

  “Wait!” I yell down the hall at them. “Don’t go!”

  They mutter excuses about housesitting and making hollandaise or some other total bullshit. And then they’re gone.

  “Remind me to get new friends.” I mutter.

  I turn back towards Zach. “So …
” I wrack my brain for polite ‘ignore my nipples’ conversation. “I guess I’ll watch the rest of our movie. The Devil Wears Prada,” I add, babbling. “Everyone always says Meryl Streep’s character is the villain, but we think it’s the awful boyfriend, always trying to hold her back.”

  “Or you could come over?” Zach suggests, nodding toward his place. “I’ve got a couple of friends coming in about …”

  The elevator dings.

  “Now.”

  I see a smiling couple coming toward us. So not a late-night hookup, then.

  I’m definitely not relieved by that. Not at all.

  “And they have pizza,” Zach adds, making me think he’s as happy about the food as he is about seeing his friends. “Hey Julie, Martin, this is my neighbor, Gemma.”

  I want to be gracious and stick out my hand, but I’m still not wearing a bra. “Umm, hi!” I waggle as much of one hand as I can risk, what with the all-important boob-covering. “Great to meet you guys.”

  Julie and Martin, who seem not to be scared off, smile at me. “Are you joining us?” Julie asks as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  I remember what Serena said about getting to know my client. And also … I want to get to know him. Zach’s friends will have dirt—or, at least, info he’s not been sharing with me so far.

  “Sure, that would be nice,” the wine makes me say. “Just let me … give me five minutes.” I wave vaguely toward myself before I dart back into my apartment.

  You know, to put on a bra.

  * * *

  Maybe it’s the wine talking, but it doesn’t take long to realize that Zach’s friends are awesome. Or maybe it’s that they love teasing him and are bringing up old college stories that involve him, bad karaoke, and stunts that wind up with him locked naked out of the dorms. I feel like I’ve gotten an ab workout from all the laughing, and finally have some insight into the man behind the (ex) beard..

  Also, pizza and more wine don’t hurt at all. I’ve eaten more than my share, and I’m happily full, curled up on Zach’s comfy old couch beside him while Julie and Martin sprawl in one of the oversized armchairs. The TV is running in the background, but I couldn’t tell you what show is on—we’ve been having too much fun talking.

  Martin and Julie—very in-love newlyweds—are great storytellers.

  “Remember that time at camp?” Martin begins, already grinning. “When you got stuck in the outhouse?”

  “Oh my God,” I exclaim, smacking Zach on the arm. “You got stuck in an outhouse? That happened to me once!”

  Zach rolls his eyes. “I did not get stuck in an outhouse, I was locked inside an outhouse. By people who call themselves my friends.” The way he glares at Martin now tells me he is at least partially responsible.

  Not that he even pretends to feel guilty. “It was Brody’s idea,” he says with a shrug.

  “Funny,” Zach says, cocking his head. “The way Brody tells it, it was your idea.”

  “How long were you stuck in there?” I ask, remembering how awful it had been when I’d been stuck for nearly a half hour. It had felt like an eternity. A very bad-smelling, claustrophobic eternity.

  Zach levels another glare at his friend. “Almost four hours.”

  “WHAT?” I stare incredulously at Martin who is trying—not very successfully—to keep a straight face. “That is so mean!”

  Zach makes a noise. “The worst was when they decided to try and tip it over.”

  “No! You didn’t!” I look over at Julie.

  She’s shaking her head. “Don’t look at me,” she says, holding up her hands. “This is before my time.”

  “Yeah, well,” Zach says, reaching for another slice. “I have permanent emotional scars. Why do you think I still don’t use the outhouses at camp?”

  “Uhhhhh,” Julie says. “Because indoor plumbing is an actual thing?”

  “Wait,” I laugh. “You just said you still don’t use the outhouses. Present tense.”

  Julie nods. “A bunch of us do the camp thing. Reliving our misspent youth, I guess. Cookouts, games, s’mores.”

  “Locking people into outhouses,” Zach says through a mouthful of pizza.

  “That, too,” Martin grins. “It’s fun. Gets us nerds outdoors and away from screens for a couple of days.”

  “That sounds like so much fun!” I exclaim. “I never got to go to camp. Which is probably a good thing, because I suck at the outdoors. Although maybe I would have learned.”

  “Wait! You should come!” Julie says, clapping her hands together. She looks over at Zach. “Gemma should come, don’t you think?”

  Zach pauses. “I don’t know,” he says casually. “Want to come to sleepover camp with us?”

  Do I?

  Was he inviting me because he actually wants me to, or because he was just put on the spot? Either way, it sounds too good—and I’m too buzzed—to turn the opportunity down. “Why not?” I smile. “But wait—” I turn to Julie. “There’s running water. Modern plumbing? Actual toilet paper—not just leaves, right?”

  Julie laughs. “Yes. All of the above. I promise.”

  “Then I’m in.”

  “Better get packing,” Martin says, finishing his beer.

  I laugh. “Sure, when do we go?”

  “Didn’t I mention that part?” Zach yawns. “We leave tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  11

  Gemma

  - Day 5 -

  Zach is not a morning person.

  After he delivers his two quick, crabby knocks, I open the door with a smile. My weekend bag is over my shoulder and I’m raring to go.

  “Morning, sunshine!” I singsong.

  I’ve been busy since I got up, checking in with Serena that it’s OK for me to take the time off work. I’ve also consumed about a gallon of coffee, wanting to be ready and awake for our trip. I’m so jazzed that I’m even wearing a t-shirt that I dug out of my closet, bought for that fateful failed camping trip from years ago. It has two tents over the chest and says, ‘Going camping because I’m two tents!”

  “Oh. You’re a morning person,” Zach grumbles. “Great.”

  I laugh because I’m having trouble matching his clean-shaven, chiseled jaw, GQ look with this crabby Bigfoot attitude. His bedhead helps, though. Even though it’s kind of endearing. No, not endearing, I tell myself, because I do not want to think of him that way. Messy. Unkempt. Zach through and through.

  His outfit also helps remind me he’s the same old guy, which is back to his normal uniform: cargo shorts, a faded college tee, plaid flannel shirt on top. As I watch him shuffle down the hall in his worn hiking boots, dragging a duffel bag behind him, I wonder if he’s backsliding for real. But hey, we are going to camp, he’d probably find a way to get all his new clothes muddy if he took them along.

  At least those feet are hair-free.

  I lock up, and catch up with him at the elevator. “So, will caffeine help with this?” I wave toward his gruff expression, “or is it something I’m just going to have to wait out?”

  He stabs at the down button and then looks at me. He notices the shirt, his eyes drifting down to my chest. He cocks his head and smiles in spite of himself. “Cute shirt,” he says as his eyes return to mine. “But let’s assume a two-pronged approach: coffee and time.”

  “Done,” I say as we get into the elevator. “To the nearest café.”

  He leans his head back against the wall of the elevator, closing his eyes.

  “Want me to drive?” I offer.

  His squints, and yawns. “It’s okay.”

  “I really don’t mind.” I kind of want to try out his rugged old Jeep. “In fact, it’s probably safer, considering you’re still basically asleep.”

  Without further protest, he hands me his keys.

  But when we get to the parking garage, he shakes his head when I turn toward the Jeep. “No, this way.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ll take the convertible,�
� he says. “Unless you’re going to give me shit about having the top down because of your hair.”

  “Wow, you really are crabby in the morning,” I say, reaching into my pocket for an elastic. I put my hair up into a high pony, getting ready for the drive. “Keep that up and I’m going to start calling you Bigfoot again.”

  He snorts. “You can drive a stick, I presume?”

  “Oh, honey, I can handle a stick no problem,” I tease, before I realize what I’ve said. Luckily, he’s still too asleep to catch a double entendre.

  Then Zach approaches a slick, silver Jaguar convertible. He nods toward the fob in my hand. “You’ll need to unlock it.”

  I stop dead. “This is your car?”

  He nods.

  Zach. Formerly hairy, unemployed man-whore who plays video games all day and wears cargo shorts and ratty old T-shirts, has a drool-worthy Jaguar convertible.

  I clear my throat. “Something wrong with your Jeep? Like, is this a loaner while you’re getting a new timing belt or something?”

  That earns me a laugh. “Nope. This is nicer for driving down the coast, don’t you think?”

  “Oh sure,” I answer with a shrug. “Unless I give you shit about my hair.”

  He smirks. “Exactly.” He puts his sunglasses on, hiding his eyes. “Shall we?”

  He loads our bags, and I get into the driver’s seat, stifling a sigh of pleasure. Leather interior, cherry wood console. “Damn, this is one gorgeous machine.”

  “Don’t crash,” is Zach’s only response, as I start the car and pull out of the garage, stopping at a Starbucks on the corner for Zach to fuel up before we hit the road.

  “Pumpkin spice latte, please!” I call after him, but when he returns to the car, I take a sip, and find he’s got me a plain coffee. Black.

  “Eww, how do you drink this?” I exclaim, screwing up my face at the bitter taste.

  “How do you drink all that syrupy bullshit?” Zach retorts. Clearly, the caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet.

  “Drink faster,” I advise him.

  I navigate us out of the city, and hit the highway, relishing the smooth handling of the Jag. It’s definitely a level up from the kind of thing I usually drive. Or four levels. It’s luxury and performance rolled into one. That I have a hot guy sitting beside me just makes it even more perfect.