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

by Sabrina Stark

I reached up to rub the back of my neck. "I think it's called a tiara."

  Whatever it was, Mina was wearing it right now, as she stood inside her car with her upper body poking up through the gap left by the open sunroof.

  I couldn't see her face, but I'd recognize the back of her anywhere, especially with her blonde hair and little white dress.

  Brody and I were still staring when Mason joined us at the window. After a long moment, he asked, "Who the fuck is she waving at?"

  I had no idea.

  But she was doing a royal wave, stiff and formal, like she was Queen of England greeting her subjects.

  But there were no subjects. There was nobody at all, just an empty street.

  Brody asked, "Do you think she's celebrating?"

  Mason replied, "She's doing something."

  We were all quiet for several beats as we watched our new spokesperson wave to subjects only she could see.

  Next to me, Brody said, "So… if I can't call her crazy, can I call her something else? Like…" He paused. "Nutjob?"

  At this, I came dangerously close to sighing. But sighing was for pussies, so all I did was turn and leave Mason's office.

  But I didn't return to my own. What I did was take the elevator down to the first floor, looking to repeat what I'd done yesterday – to walk over there and see what the hell was going on.

  But when I arrived, there was no sign of Mina – or her tiara. Even her car was gone.

  Huh. Maybe she was crazy. But there was no turning back now.

  Chapter 33

  Mina

  During the next two weeks, I worked harder than I had in my whole life – and that included summers when I'd helped out on the farm.

  Turns out, it wasn't so easy to find the appropriate contact-person for a hundred festivals, much less track these people down – whether by phone, email, or in person – and convince them that you were sincere in wanting to give them money.

  But I'd done it – which made Chase's reaction to my progress report especially aggravating.

  He was still frowning behind his desk. "You serious?"

  I'd just handed him a printed list that contained the name of each festival, along with its sponsorship level and details on what Blast Tools would be getting in return for its money.

  I replied, "Of course I'm serious. Is there a problem?"

  He gave me a look. "We sell tools, not aprons."

  I stiffened in his visitor's chair. "Excuse me?"

  He placed the report on his desk and turned it around so it was right-side-up from my vantage point, not his.

  He pointed to a line-item on the first page. "A cakewalk? You're kidding, right?"

  I loved cakewalks.

  I loved cakes.

  I felt my fingers tighten around my pen. I didn't love Chase Blastoviak.

  And he most certainly didn't love me.

  During the past two weeks, he'd given me very little guidance as far as the sponsorships went. We hadn't even met in person, mostly because he'd spent one of those weeks in Colorado doing something for the Blast TV show.

  Probably, he'd been doing construction work in front of the cameras to make girls like me drool over him whenever the Colorado segment aired. But I wasn't drooling now, even if he did look annoyingly sexy in his suit and tie.

  Over the last couple of weeks, we'd had only one brief phone conversation, during which he'd told me that I could allocate the money as I saw fit, as long as I got something good in return.

  When I'd pressed him on what, specifically, he'd wanted, he'd suggested sponsoring events with prizes. What kinds of prizes, he never specified.

  He'd told me to surprise him.

  From the look on his face now, he was surprised, alright – just not in a good way.

  I asked, "What's wrong with cakewalks?"

  He was still frowning. "For starters, what the hell are they?"

  "You don't know?"

  "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking."

  I tried not so sigh. "But how can you hate the idea if you don't even know what it is?"

  "I know what it isn't," he said.

  "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

  "Exciting."

  I felt my eyes narrow. "I'll have you know, cakewalks can get pretty feisty." I leaned forward. "One time, maybe three years ago, Mrs. Pelt and Tina Stonewell both thought they won, and there was quite a bit of drama."

  Looking more jaded than ever, Chase said, "Did they wrestle for it?"

  "What?"

  "The cake. Did they wrestle for it?"

  Was he serious? From his expression, I couldn’t be sure either way. Grudgingly, I replied, "No."

  "Were they wearing bikinis?"

  Oh, for God's sake. "No. Of course not – because for one thing, Mrs. Pelt is almost eighty years old."

  "Then I’m not interested."

  I wasn't even sure what he meant. He wasn't interested in Mrs. Pelt? Or in cakes? Obviously, he was very interested in bikinis – like that was a surprise.

  As far as Mrs. Pelt, I didn't bother pointing out that she'd been the reigning Tomato Queen sixty years ago and that she was still an attractive lady – bikini or no bikini.

  I made a sound of frustration. "But you just admitted, you don't even know what they are." I gave Chase a stiff smile. "Meaning cakewalks, not bikinis."

  Knowing Chase, he was a huge expert in bikinis – not to mention all the parts they covered.

  Without much enthusiasm, he said, "Alright, what are they?"

  Again, I leaned forward. "A cakewalk is where maybe thirty people walk in a circle as festive music plays. And there are squares or circles or whatever on the floor with numbers on them. And when the music stops, everyone moves to the nearest number. And then, someone else draws a number from a hat, and the person standing on that number wins the cake." I paused. "See?"

  From the look on his face, he did see and wasn't any more impressed. "And Mrs. Pelt?"

  "What about her?"

  "The drama," he said. "What was it?"

  Oh, that. The longer we talked, the less dramatic it seemed. Still, I put some extra pep into my voice and explained. "See, what was happened was, Mrs. Pelt was standing on number nine, and Tina Stonewell was standing on number six. And when number six was called, they both thought they won, because whoever drew the nine on the floor didn't make it clear which end was up." I smiled. "See?"

  Chase leaned back in his chair. "Still not interested."

  I gave the printout a worried glance. "But what about the other items? You don't hate all of them, do you?"

  Without much enthusiasm, he reached across the desk and retrieved the printout. He scanned the first page, and then flipped to the second. He studied this page for only a fraction of a minute. Without bothering to flip to the third, he tossed the printout vaguely in my direction and said, "Yup."

  I shook my head. "Yup what?"

  "I hate it all."

  My shoulders slumped. "But you didn't even read the third page – or the summary at the end."

  I was particularly proud of the summary. For every single festival, I'd gotten agreements for major signage – banners across the midway, the name of Blast Tools featured prominently in nearly every program. I'd also gotten every single festival to agree to unlimited media access and a whole booth dedicated to Blast Tools – even if most of the booths were actually tents, because the events were usually outdoors.

  Still, the point remained the same. I'd gotten Blast Tools plenty of exposure for their money.

  In Chase's office, I spent the next few minutes explaining all of this to him in great detail until he cut me off by saying, "Pretend you're a guy. Are you gonna be hot for a cakewalk?"

  Hot? Seriously? "Hey, plenty of guys like cakes, too, you know."

  "Not as much as they like bikinis."

  Obviously, he'd never seen my dad devour a chocolate fudge cake. Stubbornly, I replied, "Well maybe it depends on the guy. Or the cake."

  Chase gave me a long in
scrutable look before saying. "Or the bikini."

  "So, what are you saying? You want me to propose some bikini-related events?" I hesitated. "Because I've got to be honest with you, I don't think the festival planners would go for it. And I can't exactly blame them."

  "Forget the bikinis," he said. "That's not what I'm asking for."

  "Then what are you asking for?"

  "Well, not a cakewalk, I can tell you that. Think of your target audience."

  I saw what he meant, but in my own defense, there were only two cakewalks on the whole list. And neither one had been my idea.

  Rather they'd been something personally requested by the festival planners.

  To Chase, I said, "Just look at the list again. They're not all cakewalks. What about the T-shirt giveaway? Or the sponsored barbecue?" As I spoke, I reached out and nudged the printout closer to Chase's side of the desk.

  He didn't even glance at it.

  Instead, he steepled his fingers and said, "What about the demolition derby?"

  I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. "There is no demolition derby, or least not one sponsored by Blast Tools."

  "Yeah, but there should be."

  I considered all of my hard work, which apparently, had been a total waste. "If you wanted a demolition derby, why didn't you say so?"

  "I guess I forgot you were a chick."

  At this, I felt my teeth literally grind together. "A chick?"

  I wasn't even sure what was more insulting. That he'd called me a chick, or that he'd actually forgotten I was female at all.

  Obviously, he really did find me repugnant.

  Across from me, he said, "Tell me. When's the last time you purchased a tool?"

  I knew exactly what he was getting at, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. "Just a few weeks ago." My chin lifted. So there.

  "Oh yeah? What was it?"

  "A screwdriver. And I'll have you know, I use it all the time."

  The words had barely left my lips when I recalled that he'd actually seen me using the screwdriver only a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, I'd been using it not on a screw, but to pry open my sunroof, which wasn't exactly a standard use of the thing.

  Quickly, I added, "And I don't only use it on my sunroof."

  "Good to know."

  "Oh, and I also bought a foldable shovel just six months ago. I keep that in the trunk." I hesitated. "Meaning the trunk of my car, not a trunk-trunk."

  He studied my face for a long moment before asking, "And what about the crown?"

  Huh? "What crown?"

  "You keep one of those in your car?"

  What kind of question was that? "No. Why would I?"

  "You tell me."

  I laughed. "I can't tell you, because I don't do it."

  His eyebrows lifted. "Alright. A tiara then."

  I gave him a perplexed look. "I don't keep one of those in my car either."

  Looking less than convinced, he asked, "You sure about that?"

  "Of course I’m sure. I think I'd know if…" My words trailed off as I realized something totally awful. "Oh, my God." I winced. "You saw that?"

  Chapter 34

  Chase

  I'd seen it, alright. So had my brothers. And they'd been giving me shit ever since.

  In reply to her question, I said, "That depends."

  Mina's cheeks were flushed, and she was shifting uneasily in her seat. "On what?"

  I replied, "On what you think I saw."

  She shifted again. "Well…if I had to guess, you probably saw me acting like a Tomato Queen." She winced. "I mean, like a pageant queen, riding in a parade."

  Yup. That was the gist of it.

  I was still watching her. She was cute when she was flustered, but that didn't make her any less crazy.

  I'd be smart to remember that.

  I asked, "So…you do that a lot?"

  "No," she scoffed. "Do you?"

  "Hey, I wasn't the one waving."

  At this, she literally cringed. "You saw me wave?" She lowered her face into her hands and groaned, "Oh, my God." But then, she looked up, and her eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Where were you?"

  I flicked my head toward Mason's office, just a couple of doors to my left. "In my brother's office."

  "So you saw me from up here? In the building?" Abruptly, she stood and strode to the nearest window. She looked out through the glass and cursed so quietly, I might've missed it, if only she didn't have my full attention.

  I'd swiveled in my chair to keep an eye on her. I kept watching as she gazed out the window, looking unhappy with whatever she saw.

  But me? I wasn't unhappy.

  My view wasn't half-bad.

  Mina had a nice profile, even when she frowned. With her attention elsewhere, I took a long moment to appreciate it. Her hair was long and loose, just the way I liked it, and she was wearing a tailored cream dress and matching heels – not high, but not flats either.

  She had nice legs, and they weren't the only things I liked. Her body was slim with soft curves in all the right places. As I studied some of those curves, I had to remind myself that I'd given up on crazy chicks for a reason.

  They weren't worth the hassle.

  In case I ever forgot, Angelique's book was a good reminder.

  But Mina – she was crazy in a different way. What way, I still didn't know.

  But I was interested in finding out.

  Too interested.

  Suddenly, she whirled to face me. "Wait a minute. Did you see me the first time, too?"

  I wasn't following. "What first time?"

  "When I was locked out of my car. Did you see me trying to get in through the sunroof? I mean, from all the way up here?"

  "I saw something." And that something was Mina crawling onto the roof of her car for reasons that weren't apparent at the time.

  "Oh, my God," she groaned again. "And you didn't tell me the first time? I mean, you could've mentioned it. You even gave me a ride home."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So I'm just saying, you could've told me that you saw me from above."

  "What'd you think?" I laughed. "That I just happened to be strolling by?"

  "Well, yes, actually." Her mouth tightened. "I mean, it wasn't the first time I saw you 'strolling' around."

  Obviously, she was referring to the first time we'd met, when she'd come out of the coffee shop to hit me up about the festival.

  At the time, I'd thought she'd been hitting on me.

  If I were the type to be embarrassed, my face might've been just as flushed as hers. But I didn't embarrass easily, and unlike Mina, I hadn't been caught riding in an imaginary parade.

  Today, her car was parked along the same street where I'd spotted her crawling on the sunroof – and later, waving to crowds that only she could see.

  I knew her current parking spot because I'd seen her exiting her vehicle thirty minutes ago. I'd been watching from my office window and not by accident.

  What was that about?

  Nothing good, that's for damn sure.

  Mina left the window and reclaimed her seat. As she sank back into it, she asked, "So, why didn't you say something?"

  "About what?"

  "About spotting me from your window."

  "Which time?" I laughed. "The sunroof time? Or the parade time?"

  With a little huff, she said, "I meant the parade time."

  "What's there to say?" I shrugged in my chair. "I mean, we all get our kicks somehow, right?"

  Mina eyed me like I was the crazy one. "I wasn't 'getting my kicks'," she said. "I was helping out Laura Foster."

  I hadn't seen any Laura Foster, because I hadn't seen anyone.

  As far as Mina, I couldn’t resist tweaking her. "So this Laura person, is she what, an imaginary friend?"

  Mina bristled in her seat. "No."

  I made a show of looking around my office. And then, I leaned forward and said in a low voice. "Tell me. Is she with us now?"

&nb
sp; Mina made a sound of annoyance. "What are you implying? That I'm crazy?"

  "Hey, you said it, not me."

  "I'll have you know, Laura is designing the promotional pieces for this year's Tomato Festival."

  I didn't care about Laura. She wasn't the one who'd been haunting my thoughts. Absently, I murmured, "Good to know."

  "Yeah, it is. She's terrific. And she does it pro bono, too. But you're missing the point."

  I pulled my thoughts to the present. "Which is…?"

  "See, I'm in my car, talking to my sister on my cell phone, and I see Laura coming around the corner. So I roll down my window and wave—"

  I held up a finger. "Quick question."

  "Yeah?"

  "Are we talking a royal wave? Or the other kind?"

  She frowned. "What?"

  I put on my best poker face. "I'm just asking, trying to get a sense of it."

  Judging from Mina's expression, she knew better. Through gritted teeth, she replied, "It was a regular wave."

  "Well, we can't all get the royal treatment."

  With a tight smile, she said, "Which royal treatment? A nice, elegant wave? Or the kind that ends with a severed head in a basket?"

  I drew back. What the hell?

  Now, she was smiling for real. In a voice that was far too sweet to be genuine, she said, "Hey, I'm just asking. You know, trying to get a sense of it."

  I had to give her credit for the comeback – not out loud, because hey, there was no need to encourage the insane.

  Instead, I made a forwarding motion with my hand. "Go on. Tell me the rest."

  "So, anyway…she comes over and asks for a quick favor."

  Now this, I had to hear.

  As I listened, Mina went on to tell me that Laura's niece had agreed to pose for some sketches that Laura was doing for the festival's promotional materials. But the niece had backed out last-minute, leaving Laura short a model.

  When she'd spotted Mina by chance, she'd asked Mina to pose for a few photos to fill in the gaps.

  Photos, huh? It was a nice story, but full of holes. I said, "I thought she was doing sketches."

  "She is," Mina said. "But those take time, and I had only a few minutes. So she took some pictures with her phone instead. She'll do the sketches based on those."

  "And the crown?"

  "What about it?" she asked.

  "Was it yours?"