Blitz: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Blast Brothers Book 3)

by Sabrina Stark

  He looked up and quirked a single eyebrow. He said nothing, but his expression said it all. He didn't believe me.

  Oh, for God's sake. "Look, for the last time, I don't want to get in your pants. I seriously meant your desk drawers."

  "Suuuure–"

  "Don't you dare say it."

  To his credit, he didn't. Instead, he gave me a look that I couldn’t quite decipher. Just like in the lobby, he didn't look angry so much as amused.

  Or maybe he was just flattered that I was so darn eager to rummage around in his briefs.

  Or boxers.

  Chase Blastoviak would look spectacular in either.

  And of course, I wasn't the only one who thought so. While doing my research, I'd come across a news article that claimed he'd been offered half-a-million dollars to star in a series of underwear commercials.

  He'd declined, which had surprised me – not because I thought he needed the money, but because a guy like Chase seemed exactly the type to flaunt his goods for the whole world to see.

  So, why hadn't he?

  Was it because he didn't wear underwear?

  As the thought crossed my mind, I felt a warm tingle start in my toes. It crept upward and settled just shy of my stomach.

  I bit my lip. Oh, no. Maybe I did want to rummage around in his drawers.

  But even if I did, this would hardly make me unique. As everyone already knew, Chase Blastoviak had seen plenty of action in his pants. And the last thing I wanted was to join a party that was way too crowded.

  And besides, I hadn't been invited.

  In fact, I'd been outright banned.

  Even now, I could still hear Chase telling me out on the sidewalk, "Look, I don’t want to fuck you, okay?"

  This humiliating memory was just the thing to remind me how much I disliked him, which meant that if he ever did invite me to a party in his pants, I would most certainly decline regardless of how stupidly sexy he was.

  And besides, I wasn't here on a social call. I was here to save the Tomato Festival, along with my own hide, considering that Ginger Hawthorne was already making trouble.

  In Chase's office, I gave the far wall another worried glance. No projector screen. I glanced toward the conference table. No remote. I looked back to Chase and tried not to sigh as I said, "Okay, what am I missing?"

  He was still leaning back in his chair. With a smugness that was hard to miss, he replied, "The question is, what am I missing?"

  Boy, if that wasn't a loaded question. He was missing lots of things – like a good dose of humility, for example. But I wasn't so stupid that I'd say such a thing out loud, so all I said was, "I'm not sure. Do you want to tell me?"

  In reply, he leaned forward and drummed his fingers across his desk – another sign of impatience.

  I freaking hated this.

  I was starting to feel stupid, because from the look on his face, the answer to his question should have been obvious.

  And yet, whatever he was "missing," it wasn't obvious to me. In search of clues, I took another look around his office. When my gaze landed on my leather portfolio, I almost groaned in embarrassment.

  Of course.

  He was waiting for me to show him the picture – the one of me attending the Tomato Festival as a baby.

  I should have done that right away. But for all kinds of reasons, I was seriously off my game. First, there'd been that distressing phone call from my mom. And then, there'd been all those snafus with Chase in the lobby.

  And here I was, in mid-snafu yet again.

  I looked back to him and asked, "Do you mean the picture?"

  "That was the deal."

  This was true. And yet, he'd made no mention of needing to see it first.

  I said, "So you'd like to see it before my presentation?"

  "Let's get one thing straight," he said. "Without the picture, there'll be no presentation." He gave me a serious look. "And do you wanna know why?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't deal with posers."

  Chapter 16

  Chase

  In my office, she stiffened like I'd just called her a filthy name. But a deal was a deal, and if she thought she could shirk it just because she was pretty, it was time to set her straight.

  I gave her a look. "So, do you have it or not?"

  "Of course I have it," she said. "As you so nicely said, that was the deal."

  Nicely, huh? Judging from her tone, she knew better.

  I hadn't told her "nicely."

  But the reason for this was obvious. I wasn't nice.

  Oh sure, I could be charming as fuck. But charm was superficial, like glossy paint on a rusted car. Scratch the surface, and you'll get a good look at what's underneath.

  Nothing – and no one – had scratched me in a long time. And the reason for this was obvious, too.

  I wouldn’t let them.

  Me – I'd rather be all gloss and no substance than let anyone probe deeper. And that included Mina Lipinski.

  In my office, she turned and stalked toward the conference table. She picked up her leather portfolio. As she turned to face me, she did something unexpected.

  She smiled.

  And whereas her other smiles had made me want to cover my privates, this smile had me thinking the polar opposite.

  Her smile was sweet with a hint of sass, like she knew something I didn't. From behind my desk, I watched with far too much interest as she marched forward and stopped directly between my two guest chairs.

  She held out the portfolio and asked, "Would you like me to leaf through it? Or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

  I reached out and took the portfolio from her hands. Without opening it, I asked, "So what's this?"

  "Proof."

  "Of what?"

  She straightened. "That I'm no liar."

  I had to give her credit. She wasn't beating around the bush. And she sure as hell wasn't kissing my ass. But had she delivered?

  That remained to be seen.

  She pointed to the portfolio and said, "Go ahead. Open it."

  So I did. Taking maybe five seconds, I rifled through its pages to see what I was dealing with.

  It wasn't a standard portfolio. I might have called it a photo album, except it wasn't limited to photos. Along with various snapshots, it also contained a few news clippings.

  There was one item per page, tucked in clear plastic sleeves. Each sleeve also contained a black sheet of paper, serving as a frame for each item of interest. The items appeared to be organized in chronological order.

  After my quick inspection, I returned to the beginning and gave the first item a good, long look. It was an old newspaper clipping. The headline read, "Tomato Festival Draws Record Crowds."

  The newspaper's name was the Hazelton Bee. I knew this because the story had a byline. The story wasn't long, maybe ten paragraphs of festival highlights.

  But it wasn't the story itself that interested me. It was the corresponding image.

  In it, a pretty blonde with a strong resemblance to Mina held a baby in her arms as she gazed out over a small carousel – only six horses total – populated by laughing toddlers.

  According to the caption, one of those kids was named Timmy Lipinski, and he was the son of the pretty blonde – a woman named Libby Lipinski of Lipinski Farms.

  If the caption was to be believed, the baby was none other than Mina herself.

  As I zoomed in on Baby Mina, I didn't know whether to smile or groan. She was dressed like a tomato, as if Halloween had come early.

  Her blob of a dress was bright red with small black dots resembling tomato seeds. Her tights were green to match the leafy collar near her neck. On her head, she wore a bright red hat, topped with a bunch of green, leaf-shaped fabric.

  The baby tomato was smiling at the camera, as if she liked being dressed that way.

  Talk about messed up.

  And yet, I still wanted to smile.

  Or groan.

 
As I studied the picture, the adult Mina had remained standing at the edge of my desk. Now I could feel her eyes watching me, waiting for my reaction.

  I gave her none.

  Without looking up, I told her, "Have a seat."

  As she claimed one of my guest chairs, I turned to the next page. This one contained a family photo taken in a carnival midway. A sign near the photo's edge said, "Tomato Giveaway, 3 p.m."

  In this photo, Mina was now a toddler, sitting in a stroller being pushed by the same blonde as before. Next to the blonde stood a sturdy looking guy in jeans and a plaid shirt. The guy was big and bulky, like he lifted tractors for a living.

  Mina's dad. Obviously.

  His hair was light brown, and he was smiling like he meant it, as if there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

  Both parents appeared to be in their mid-twenties, younger than I was now. As far as having kids, they'd obviously started early.

  I turned a couple more pages and saw more of the same, with the addition of another baby – another little tomato, wearing the same costume that Mina had been wearing earlier. A younger sister.

  I kept going and saw proof for every year of Mina's life. I had to give her credit. She'd delivered and then some.

  I was surprised – not only by the fact she'd gone above and beyond, but also by the fact she'd been telling the truth. In my world, this wasn't as common as you'd think.

  Maybe she wasn't quite as crazy as I'd thought.

  After studying the final photo, one obviously taken last summer, I closed the book and looked back to Mina.

  She smiled as if to say, "I told you so."

  Yes. She had.

  But if she thought this gave her the upper hand, she didn't know who she was dealing with.

  I said, "What, no pageant photo?"

  Her smile faded. "What do you mean?"

  I gestured toward the portfolio. "Where's the photo from yesterday?" I gave her a significant look. "And I don't mean the bikini shot."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Which really was an accident."

  For the first time, I was tempted to believe her. Tempted, but not willing. "So you said. But that's not the photo we're talking about."

  "I know. I'm just saying."

  "No. You're not saying. So answer the question."

  I wasn't sure why I wanted to know. But my curiosity was more piqued than it had been in a while. The pageant photo would've been solid proof that she'd attended in whatever year that was.

  But she'd left it out. Why? Because she was runner up? Or because she'd already shown it yesterday?

  It wasn't important. But the fact she was balking only fueled my curiosity.

  Across from me, she said, "It's simple, really."

  I doubted that.

  She continued. "I didn't use it because I didn't need to. I had a different photo for that year."

  The answer was fine enough, but unsatisfying for reasons I couldn’t quite decipher. "Yeah? Which one?"

  "It was that picture with the truck." As she spoke, she reached out and reclaimed her portfolio. She flipped through it and stopped on a page near the back.

  She returned the portfolio to my desk and shifted it around so the image would be right-side-up from my vantage point, not hers.

  I'd seen the photo already. Still, I studied it again. It was a snapshot of Mina standing in the bed of a white pickup, surrounded by bushel-baskets of tomatoes. She wore cut-off jeans and a little white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid, and she was smiling for the camera.

  Her cheeks were flushed, and her smile was playful.

  She looked like every teenage boy's fantasy – a hot farmer's daughter who had no clue how beautiful she was.

  But I was no teenager, and I wasn't about to be distracted.

  I asked, "So, why'd you pick that one?"

  "You mean the photo with the truck?" She hesitated. "I picked it because it was the right year."

  Doubtful. Still, I replied, "And which year was that?"

  "The year I graduated." She paused. "From high school, I mean."

  "So that's when you competed for the crown, huh?"

  "Yes." Her mouth tightened like she thought I was mocking her. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't.

  Either way, I was having a hard time figuring her out. Yesterday, she'd flaunted two beauty shots – the bikini picture and the one from the pageant. But today, she'd gone all family-friendly.

  A change in tactics?

  Or maybe it was all about the festival.

  Hey, stranger things had happened.

  Across from me, she said, "So, are you satisfied?"

  I gave her a good, long look. No. I wasn't satisfied. The truth was, I'd been feeling distinctly unsatisfied ever since she'd wheedled her way into my office yesterday afternoon.

  Usually, I was good at figuring people out – learning what made them tick and what they were really after.

  But Mina was a mess of contradictions. And, as I studied her from behind my desk, I started to wonder if maybe she wasn't the crazy one.

  Maybe I was. Because for better or worse, I wanted to figure her out.

  In reply to her question, I reached into my top desk drawer and pulled out the remote for the projector screen. I pointed it toward the far wall and told Mina, "Go ahead. Make your pitch."

  Chapter 17

  Mina

  As his words echoed out between us, I felt a surge of relief along with a tiny twinge of annoyance. Make your pitch?

  It was a long way from an apology or cripes, even the barest admission that he'd misjudged me.

  Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, so with a tight smile, I stood and returned to the conference table where I'd left my computer. By the time I lifted its lid, the projection screen across the room was already down, waiting for me to begin.

  This time, the oversized screen held no surprises – no random bikini shots or pictures of me with a sash and crown. And there'd be no surprises either.

  Last night, I'd moved every personal photo from my primary image folder. Afterward, I'd filled the folder with images from my slide show – meaning the fifty or so slides that I'd tacked onto end of my PowerPoints.

  I'd done this not only to avoid embarrassment, but also to ensure that if my computer went into sleep-mode, Chase Blastoviak would be treated to a nice, safe festival photo – and not a random shot of me, looking like I wanted to party in his pants.

  The image on the screen now showed workmen – local guys, mostly – setting up a big festival tent. All of them wore toolbelts, and a few of them carried hammers. One of the guys was using his hammer to pound a tent stake into the ground.

  I was particularly proud of this photo because the guy's hammer had a blazing orange handle in the trademark style of Blast Tools.

  At his desk, Chase Blastoviak said, "Subtle."

  I stiffened. Was he mocking me again?

  But when I glanced in his direction, he looked quietly impressed, as if he liked the fact that I'd snuck a photo of his product in there.

  Huh. Maybe in this case, he meant "subtle" as a compliment.

  Yeah, right. And maybe a whole carousel of ponies would fly out of his butt.

  On the screen, I let the image linger for another moment before I brought up my actual presentation. Just like yesterday, the opening slide read, "Blast Tools Summer Sponsorship Blitz."

  Conscious of the time, I moved quickly to the next slide, the one showing the logo for Blast Tools.

  Finally, I took a deep breath and launched into my pitch. "As I mentioned yesterday, the summer season is filled with festivals all over the Midwest. Those festivals represent a huge opportunity for some goodwill advertising."

  As Chase listened, I went on to explain that most festivals had at least some sponsorship, usually from local businesses. However, when local companies went under, they were often replaced with national chains.

  Without local ownership, these newer businesses didn't always feel the same ob
ligations as the mom-and-pop places they'd replaced.

  Looking to drive the point home, I explained what had happened with the Tomato Festival, how it had been sponsored by Skeezak Hardware for three decades until the hardware store went out of business.

  I was just about to tell him how this left a gaping hole in the festival's finances when Chase asked, "Are you serious?"

  I stopped to look at him. Of course I was serious. "Yes. They went out business last August."

  He frowned. "Last year."

  Was that a question? Or a statement? Choosing to split the difference, I replied, "Right."

  He leaned back in his chair. "So, why are you coming to me now, half a year later?"

  Wasn’t it obvious? "Because we need a new sponsor – a major sponsor, in fact."

  "I got that," he said. "What I mean is, why the emergency now? Aren't you a few months late?"

  Boy, was I ever. But it hadn't started out that way. "Well, the thing is, we did get a replacement sponsor, but they backed out."

  "So I'm your second choice."

  Now if that wasn't a loaded question.

  Even now, as he grilled me like a cheeseburger, he looked too delicious for words. His face was gorgeous, and his hair was thick and lush. And his body was nothing to sneeze at either.

  Plus, he was filthy rich.

  Chase Blastoviak would be nobody's second choice.

  But of course, he wasn't talking about himself. He was talking about Blast Tools.

  Happily for me, I had the perfect response. "Actually, we did approach you, but you turned us down."

  He gave me a skeptical look. "You sure about that?"

  Under his penetrating gaze, I felt a tiny twinge of doubt. But I had seen the documentation. Last year, the festival committee had sent an official letter asking Blast Tools for sponsorship support.

  When the festival committee received no reply, a committee member had paid Blast Tools a personal visit. The member had been turned away. By who, I had no idea.

  Chase himself?

  Not likely, unless he was lying to me now, pretending to doubt my story just to throw me off my game.

  Regardless, I explained, "Your company received a letter. And a visit, too."

  His eyebrows lifted. "From you?"