"You said there was research. I'm assuming you're about to show it."
Oh, crap. "Yes, well…the thing is…my research is all firsthand, primary, I think they call it."
At his desk, he looked unimpressed. "So you've gone to a festival? That's the basis for this?"
"Not just a festival," I said. "I've probably gone to fifty at least."
His eyebrows lifted. "Fifty of the same? Or different?"
It was a trick question. Or more likely, he was just mocking me, as if I couldn’t do basic math. "Well…since I'm only twenty-five years old, it's obviously not fifty of the same. I mean, each festival only happens once a year, right?"
In reply, he made a forwarding motion with his hand. "Go on."
I glanced toward my computer. "You mean with the presentation, or…?"
"No. With your explanation. Give me a breakdown of your festivals."
"My festivals?"
"The ones you've attended."
"Oh. Right." With a nervous laugh, I said, "Well, I've been to the Tomato Festival twenty-five times, and I've hit most of the other festivals—"
"Hang on," he said. "So you're telling me you've gone to the Tomato Festival every year since you were born. You sure about that?"
What kind of question was that? "Definitely."
He gave me a dubious look. "So…your first festival, what was it like?"
I gave my computer a worried glance. I was only a few slides into my presentation, and already, he was throwing it off-kilter.
Was he doing it on purpose?
Probably.
I looked back to Chase and felt my gaze narrow. "Wait a minute. Is this coming out of my ten minutes?"
"Meaning?"
I gestured toward the projector screen where the Blast logo remained. "I'm just saying, if I've got only ten minutes, I'll never get through it at this rate."
"Alright," he said. "Then consider this off the clock. Your first festival – tell me about it."
I studied his face for a long, tense moment. Was he serious? He looked serious. As for myself, I was feeling seriously rattled. "Well…there's not much to tell, considering that I was just a baby."
"Uh-huh. But you're sure you went."
"Of course."
"You got any proof?"
I tried for a laugh. "What? You want a picture?"
"You bet I do."
"Seriously?" I hesitated. "Honestly, I'm not sure I have one."
He frowned. "Is that so?"
With growing trepidation, I said, "Let's say I don't have a photo. Would that be a problem?"
"It would be now."
"Why?"
"Because you just offered one." He gave me a hard look. "What, you thought I wouldn't take you up on it?"
Yes. I had thought that, in fact. But the reason for this was obvious. "It was a joke."
And now, he was looking more jaded than ever. "So you don't have a picture? That's what you're saying."
My stomach twisted. I was blowing this, bigtime. "If a picture's that important, I'll find one."
"You mean you'll try to find one? Or you will find one?"
My chin lifted. "Oh, I'll find one, alright."
"You're on," he said. "Same time tomorrow then?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"We'll take this up again tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Let's say four o'clock."
So I was being dismissed? With growing confusion, I glanced toward the projector screen.
When I did, I swear, my face burst into flames.
Once again, my computer had gone into wallpaper mode.
Instead of the logo for Blast Tools, I was looking at another picture of myself. In this one, I wasn't wearing a bikini.
That was the good news.
But the bad news? Instead, I was wearing a long silver prom dress along with a sparkly crown and white sash that proclaimed in big red letters, "Tomato Queen 1st Runner Up."
At the sight of it, I almost groaned out loud.
Just shoot me now.
Chapter 10
Chase
Inside my office, Brody was laughing his ass off. "And you're meeting with her again?"
I liked a good joke as much as the next guy, but unlike my brother, I wasn't laughing.
Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since my meeting with Mina Lipinski, and I'd spent far too many of those hours wondering what she was up to.
It was distracting the hell out of me, which might explain why I'd made the dumb-ass decision to tell my brother about yesterday's meeting.
After that pageant photo, Mina had practically ripped the cord from the computer and rushed out of my office faster than you could say, "Point me to the nearest loony bin."
But that wasn't what she'd said. No. What she'd said was, "Fine. I'll be back tomorrow."
Tomorrow was today.
According to Gretchen, Mina was already here in the building. She'd arrived twenty minutes ago, a half-hour early for our scheduled meeting.
To Brody, I replied, "Too late to cancel now."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
"Because the meeting's in ten minutes."
"So?"
"So I'd be a dick to back out. Don't you think?"
"Since when has that stopped you?"
Never.
The truth was, I'd never been one to play by the rules, and canceling a meeting last-minute – or simply not showing up at all – it would hardly be the rudest thing I'd ever done.
Hell, it wouldn't even get an honorable mention.
When my only reply was a tight shrug, Brody gave me a long penetrating look. "So, what aren't you telling me?"
Shit.
I was in no mood for an interrogation, especially from my little brother – the guy who'd come to believe that he had all the answers, ever since his engagement to the love of his life. His words. Not mine.
In my world, love wasn't something that lasted a lifetime. It was something that might last a night or two, or maybe a month at best.
Me – I wasn't the kind of guy to stick around.
And I sure as hell didn't worry about what people thought of me. Yeah, I could play the game as well as the next guy, better even. I was a good talker and an exceptional doer.
If I were the humble type, which I wasn't, I might hesitate to say that I'd worked plenty of miracles on the marketing front. Against all odds, I'd taken a local startup and made it a household name.
My biggest miracle was our reality show, Blast. When I'd first suggested it, my brothers had thought I was nuts.
Good thing for me – or more accurately, them – I had the final say on marketing and publicity.
I'd pitched Blast as a sexy remodeling show starring three hot, single brothers who didn't always see things eye-to-eye.
I hadn't been lying.
Life had handed me and my brothers plenty of lemons, but as far as looks, we'd come out alright – more than alright, if I cared to brag about it, which I had, repeatedly, while pitching the show.
Hey, you had to use what you had, right?
To the surprise of both of my brothers, I'd managed to get a one-year commitment from the Home Network, whose viewers matched the demographics of our best prospects, do-it-yourselfers who didn't mind getting dirty.
That was five years ago.
Since then, the show's popularity had skyrocketed, along with the sales of our tools. Already, Blast was the network's number-one hit show of all time. The show wasn't just free advertising for our products. It was free advertising for all of us, meaning me and my brothers.
These days, we were so famous, it was hard to walk down the street without being recognized, and we'd all received plenty of unique offers as a result – movie roles, cameos, endorsement opportunities, and even marriage proposals from multiple fans.
To my share of these proposals, I'd replied with the truth. I wasn't the marrying type.
Hell, I wasn't even the boyfriend type.
I was the type
to offer up a good time and leave it at that, which made my reaction to Mina Lipinski all the more unsettling. I'd seen her only twice, and neither time had been good.
And yet, here I was, getting ready for round three.
What was it about her, anyway?
Already, I'd wasted too many hours trying to figure it out, along with an embarrassing amount of time imagining her in a bikini, the red one from the picture.
As far as bikinis went, it was relatively tame. But she'd looked good, even while striking that ridiculous pose.
Even now, I could still see her, standing on the beach with a cocked hip and raised arms. She'd been making a kissy face at the camera.
I still couldn’t decide if she'd been hamming it up for a friend or posing for real. She was a mystery that I was trying to figure out, even while kicking myself for thinking of her at all.
And then, there was the beauty queen shot. In that photo, her smile had nearly bowled me over. It had been different from the smiles I'd seen in person. Very different. Because for one thing, I hadn't felt the urge to cover my privates.
But I had felt other urges, especially when revisiting the bikini shot in my dreams. The whole thing was nuts. Maybe I was nuts.
Here I was, acting like a kid in high school, and not someone who'd been around the block a time or two. Or a hundred.
I was still trying to figure it out when Brody said, "Scale of one to ten, how crazy is she?"
It was a good question. And for once, I didn't have a good answer, so I said the only thing that made sense. "Ask me in an hour."
Chapter 11
Mina
Once again, I was sitting in the lobby of Blast Tools. But this time, I had an appointment.
And boy, had Gretchen been delighted to hear that. Oh sure, her words had been perfectly polite as she assured me that she would let "Mr. Blastoviak" know that I was here. But the pinched look on her face said something else entirely.
Obviously, she was annoyed that in spite of her warnings, my persistence had paid off. Or maybe she was just sick of seeing me camped out on the same sofa that I'd been occupying all week.
On this, I could totally relate.
I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time. It was 3:51.
I blew out a nervous breath. Nine more minutes.
This would be our second official meeting. Our first one hadn't gone so great – and not only because of my stupid photos.
Yesterday, I'd spent most of my time not pitching my ideas, but rather defending my claim about attending the Tomato Festival every year of my life.
He thought I was a liar.
He hadn't bothered to hide it either.
Too bad for him I'd been telling the truth. And I could prove it, too.
Soon, he'd be eating his words along with a big ol' helping of humble pie, assuming that Chase Blastoviak had a humble bone in his rock-hard body.
I gave a silent scoff. Him? Humble?
Not likely.
Still, I felt an evil smile tug at my lips as I imagined him apologizing for misjudging me. And just maybe, he'd feel like an ass for demanding proof.
Hey, a girl could dream, right?
I was still trying to enjoy this little fantasy when my cell phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced down and saw a text from my mom, asking, "Can you talk?"
Nope. Not a chance.
Normally, I loved talking to my mom, but with only a few more minutes until my meeting, I couldn't afford to take any chances. Plus, the lobby was nearly empty, and Gretchen was watching me with far too much interest, even as she pretended to be engrossed in her computer.
I knew she was pretending because every time I happened to glance in her direction, our eyes would meet for the briefest instant before she'd look back to her monitor, as if to prove she'd been studying it all along.
By now, I knew better. One time might be a coincidence. But half a dozen times? Not likely.
As far as the text from my mom, I was just getting ready to reply that I'd call her in an hour when another text arrived, also from my mom. This one said, "It's kind of an emergency."
I felt the blood drain from my face. The last time I'd gotten such a text, my dad had fallen of the roof of our smallest barn. He'd broken both of his legs, along with a wrist, too.
With my heart in my throat, I hit the call button, even as I turned away from Gretchen in hopes of maintaining my privacy.
When my mom answered, I asked, "What's wrong? It isn't Dad, is it?"
"Your dad?" she said. "No. It's Ginger."
I hesitated. "Ginger Hawthorne?" Even though I wasn't a huge fan of the woman, I'd still be sad if she fell off our barn. Okay, I knew this wasn't likely the case, but my mom wasn't the type of person to use the word "emergency" lightly, so I knew this had to be serious.
I asked, "Is she okay? Did something happen to her?"
"Something's gonna happen to her," my mom said. "I can promise you that."
I smiled with relief. Dad was okay. And apparently so was Ginger. For now, anyway.
I asked, "So, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you what," my mom said. "That harpy has been spreading the most outrageous rumors."
This wasn't exactly a surprise. Last year, Ginger had gone around telling everyone that my mom had gotten a boob job. My mom hadn't, and no one would've blamed her if she had.
But the truth was, she'd gone on a huge fitness kick for my brother's wedding. She'd lost nearly twenty pounds. With my mom's slight frame, her "boobs" had looked just a little bit bigger in comparison – no surgical help needed.
If my grandmother were still alive, she would have called the whole thing a tempest in a teapot. The teapot had come to a full boil during last year's Tomato Festival, when Mom and Ginger had gotten into a huge argument on the Ferris Wheel.
This happened more often than you'd think.
But I had no time to think about it now. As my mom muttered something about Ginger needing swift kick in the pants, I pulled the phone away from my ear and snuck a quick glance at the screen. The time was 3:54, only six minutes until my meeting.
I put the phone back to my ear and said, "Sorry Mom, but I'm heading into a meeting. Can I call you when I'm done?"
"Sure," my mom said with a bitter laugh, "as long as you don't mind that the rumors are about you."
I blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. You." She gave a little huff. "When you call back, I'll tell you all about it."
My mom was a smart woman. And she knew me all too well. There was no way on Earth I could hang up now. "So…what's she saying?"
"Are you sure you have time to hear it?"
"Not really," I admitted. "But can you make it quick?"
"Alright. You remember the other night when I ran into her at the restaurant?"
I did remember. At the restaurant, my mom, along with some of my parents' friends, had told Ginger how I'd saved the Tomato Festival. That was a week ago, and I still hadn't mentioned anything about the bank backing out of the sponsorship.
This wasn't the only thing I'd been silent about. I also hadn't mentioned anything about losing my barista job. My mom worried enough already, and besides, if she knew I'd lost the barista gig, she might begin to wonder what I'd been doing with my time.
This was the last thing I wanted.
As far as the festival, I'd give everyone an update soon – hopefully after finding a replacement sponsor. If I were lucky, this would happen today.
And yet, I didn't like where this conversation was going. On the phone, my mom said, "You do remember, right?"
Boy, did I ever. For obvious reasons, I'd been mortified to hear I'd gotten so much praise for something that had already fallen through. "Yeah. I remember."
"So you're gonna love this," my mom said. "Apparently, she's been telling everyone that the whole thing is a sham."
I gave a hard swallow. "A sham?"
"Yes, a sham," my mom repeated. "She's been running around telling everyone who will lis
ten that the new bank is refusing to honor the agreement."
Oh, God. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to curse out loud as I considered what I should say.
On the phone, my mom asked, "Are you still there?"
"Um, yeah." Working hard to sound casual, I asked, "So, where would she hear such a thing?"
"She says she heard it from the bank's new manager."
I knew which guy she meant. He was some corporate lackey who'd arrived out of the blue to fire me and most of my co-workers.
How Ginger knew him was anyone's guess.
And I still didn't know what to say.
As for my mom, she was saying plenty. After a few choice words about Ginger, she said, "So, I give her a call, and you wanna know what I tell her?"
Oh, boy. Bracing myself, I asked, "What?"
"I tell her that she's full of crap, and that if I hear her spreading one more rumor about my daughter, she's gonna be sorry."
Hearing this, I literally cringed. Ginger Hawthorne wouldn’t be the only sorry one. I murmured, "Aw Mom, you didn't have to do that."
"Oh yes, I did," she shot back. "She practically called you a liar."
Yesterday, Chase Blastoviak had done a similar thing. But in Ginger's case, there was the tiniest kernel of truth. Okay, a giant kernel of truth. But technically, I hadn't been lying about losing the sponsorship.
I'd simply put off telling everyone, that's all.
A lie by omission? Maybe.
But it wouldn't matter once I found a replacement sponsor. Into the phone, I mumbled, "Well, um…maybe she's a little fuzzy on the details, that's all."
My mom hesitated for a long moment before saying, "Mina?"
I croaked, "Yeah?"
"Is there something you want to tell me?"
Shit.
I recognized that tone. It was the same one she'd used during my senior year of high school, when she'd tried to make a hot toddy, only to discover that the rum had been diluted with water, courtesy of me and Natalie.
We weren't huge partiers, but we had borrowed half a jelly jar of Mom's rum for a party at a friend's house. We'd been planning to replace it. But then, when we couldn’t find anyone of legal age to buy it for us, we'd panicked. Thus, the water.
That was what? Seven years ago?
And yet, my mom's voice sounded exactly the same when she said, "Mina Catherine, are you still there?"
Blitz: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Blast Brothers Book 3) Page 4