Page 19 of You Chive Me Crazy
She rolled her eyes. “You wish.”
I just stared at her. “No! I don’t wish. I was worried. Seriously.”
She studied me for a moment, then lost her smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m perfectly fine.”
I tried to walk off the pain, but now had it coming from both ankles.
“You’re hobbling like a hobbit,” Zoe said, adding a scornful glare just to irritate me.
That got a chuckle out of me. “Just tell me your name, Bozo.”
She blinked. “Apparently, it’s Bozo.”
“I’m taking this seriously. This is your post-concussion protocol, as directed by Dr. Bonebrake. Humor me and answer my questions.”
Zoe hesitated. “Reese Witherspoon.”
I gave her a look, but she didn’t look like she was done playing.
“Christina Ricci?” she said.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, still waiting.
“You’re no fun,” she finally said. “Zoe Bell.”
“Finally. Thank you,” I said. “Where are you?”
Zoe huffed, tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear, and looked around the room. “Being held prisoner inside the Love Shack at the Serendipity Inn, conveniently located on Lakeview Drive in Big Bear Lake, California. Do you need the zip code or nearest cross street? What about the weather forecast?”
I ignored her. “What day of the week is it?”
She sighed. “The day before tomorrow.”
“Zoe . . .”
“Oh, come on. I’m fine. Do I need to quote your restaurant reviews like one of your groupies to get you to believe me?”
“Please don’t.” I stood up. “To be continued this evening . . .”
“You’ll see—tomorrow I will be back to normal, and we can get on with our lives. As for now, I’m hungry.”
“I can order some food from Betsy and have it brought up,” I said.
Zoe shook her head. “I don’t want to be cooped up here all night. Give me a few minutes to wash up and then we can go downstairs.”
Honestly, I was hoping she wanted to eat in the room, so I wouldn’t have to see Damian Landau again. I didn’t like the guy one bit. He left a foul taste in my mouth and singed my nose hairs, much worse than the mole sauce.
As if she were reading my mind, Zoe walked to the bathroom, then turned around and stuck her head back out. “By the way—what’s the deal between you and that other food critic? He looked like he wanted to stuff your head down your throat.”
I shrugged. “Ego . . . what else?”
“Care to expand on that?”
“It makes little sense, really. It’s like every single thing I have, he wants. We were both nominated for the Craig Claiborne Distinguished Restaurant Review Award from the James Beard Foundation. It’s the most prestigious award in the country for our industry. I ended up winning, and because of that, I snagged a coveted job atDevour America, something he was also going for. I totally get that he’s disappointed, but he needs to learn to lose with a little more grace and dignity. The guy’s a total jerk.”
Zoe nodded. “I feel your pain. There’s this guy with a food truck called Heavenly Potatoes. My business is called Potato Heaven. Yes, the names are similar, but our menus are like night and day. I prepare baked potatoes with gourmet sauces and toppings, and he does french fries, tater tots, and potato skins. Still, he’s rude and gives me the stink eye every time we do the same event. And he tells me there should only be one potato food truck per city. Can you imagine McDonald’s telling Burger King or any other burger joint that there should only be one of them per town? The man is egomaniacal. And the worst part of all is that I filed to trademark my name two years before he ever came up with the idea for his truck. And of all the things, he doesn’t think I remember him trying food from my truck and telling his buddy he could do better.”
“Is he going to be at Big Bang Big Bear?” I asked.
