This alone wouldn't have been enough to change my habits. But it had gotten me thinking – not upstairs, but down below.
Yeah, I meant in my pants.
Oh sure, I could still get it up. No problems there. But it was like both of us – me and my cock – were bored and restless. In the spirit of figuring out what the hell was going on, I'd decided to take a short hiatus.
That was two months ago, and the hiatus had turned into a habit. A bad habit?
I was still trying to decide.
The truth was, now that I'd stepped back from the easy sex, I'd been thinking more clearly than I had in years, and not just about business either.
I'd been thinking about my life – or lack thereof.
Oh sure, from the outside, I had it all – looks, money, and enough names to fill ten little black books.
But on the inside, I was feeling emptier than I had in years.
Erin's voice interrupted my thoughts. "And I'm supposed to give you a message."
"From who?"
"From the blonde."
I recalled the name. "Mina Lipinski."
"Right." Erin gave her notepad a long, worried look. "But it doesn't make any sense."
With a scoff, I replied, "It wouldn't be the first time."
"Alright." Erin looked up. "I'm supposed to tell you that she's got a hundred festivals."
I felt my eyebrows furrow. A hundred festivals?
What the hell did that mean?
And then, it hit me.
Shit.
It was that blonde.
Chapter 7
Mina
The receptionist was an icy blonde in her mid-forties. By now, she and I should've been on a first-name basis. I knew her full name – Gretchen Vogel – assuming the nameplate on the edge of the reception desk belonged to her and not to somebody else.
And she knew my full name, because I'd given it to her at least a dozen times during the past four days.
I'd begun my vigil bright and early Monday morning, when I'd walked into the main entrance of Blast Tools and asked to see Chase Blastoviak.
I'd been polite, professional, and very persistent – not just on Monday, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, too.
Each day, I'd been told the same thing – that I couldn’t see him without an appointment. And each day I'd replied that I'd be happy to wait for his next opening.
The first time I'd said this, Gretchen had coldly informed me that he had no openings. Undaunted, I'd taken a seat anyway, telling Gretchen that I'd wait as long as it took.
Sure, it had been a gamble, but what did I have to lose? Even if I was never ushered into his office, I'd still have a decent chance of catching him in the lobby, whether on his way in or out.
Unfortunately, the gamble didn't pay off – not on Monday, anyway.
I'd stuck around until the lobby closed, but never spotted him, not even once.
On Tuesday, Gretchen had told me that I was wasting my time. On Wednesday, she'd spent hours giving me dirty looks, even as a steady stream of employees and visitors came and went.
But it wasn't until Thursday – meaning today – that she'd begun to make serious noises about calling security. Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn't. But I knew one thing for darn sure.
I wasn't letting him off the hook.
Was I being foolish?
Probably.
But it had been one full week since I'd lost my barista job, and I was still hopping mad – and more motivated than ever.
During the past week, I'd been doing research, lots of research. In fact, I was doing research on my little notebook computer right now, even as I waited for Gretchen to either call security or get me that appointment already.
At the moment, she was giving me an ominous look, as if to say, "Boy, are you gonna be sorry."
But didn't she know? I was already sorry.
I should've slapped Chase Blastoviak when I had the chance. But I hadn't.
And even now, a good slapping wasn't part of my plan.
I was still planning to make him pay, just in a different way, that's all. And maybe, later on, when the debt was settled, I'd give him the slapping he so richly deserved. Or at the very least, I'd tell him exactly what I thought of him.
Until then, I'd keep my cool even if it killed me.
It was such a noble idea, and I cherished it for another ten minutes until I happened to glance around and see who else, but Chase Blastoviak, exiting the nearest elevator.
At the sight of him, my pulse quickened, and heat flooded my face. On raw instinct, I leapt to my feet. Finally.
When our gazes locked, I strode toward him, taking my notebook computer with me. He stopped just outside the elevator doors and frowned like I was a dog preparing to hump his leg.
Was he going to bolt?
Not if I could help it.
Chapter 8
Chase
It was her, alright. In the sunlit lobby, she was just as pretty as I remembered – prettier, in fact. She was wearing a tailored blue dress that perfectly matched the blue of her eyes.
On purpose?
Without a doubt.
The dress covered more than it revealed, but her hair was long and loose. It fell past her shoulders in long, sun-kissed waves that shimmered in the light of the afternoon sun.
I frowned. Sun-kissed?
Shimmered?
What the fuck?
Next, I'd be spouting poetry or breaking into song. I'd never done either of those things, and wasn't about to start now.
So instead, I held my ground and waited for the collision.
No joke. The way it looked, she was about to tackle me right here in my own lobby.
Hell, it wouldn't be the first time.
As she moved, I gave her a good, long look. Over her shoulder, she'd looped a basic brown purse. At her other side, she was clutching a small notebook computer. My guess? She'd brought it with her to pass the time while camping out in the lobby.
Either that, or she was serious about that whole PowerPoint thing. She had mentioned something about PowerPoints, hadn't she?
By now, I didn't know what to think, except that she was just as crazy as the rest of them.
Her smile was a dead giveaway.
It was all wrong, like it belonged on the face of somebody else – someone who stole lunch money from little kids or fleeced the elderly for fun.
I decided that if I ever woke up to that smile, I'd cover my privates and get the hell out of there fast.
I braced myself, but the collision never came. Instead, she skidded to a stop a few feet away and announced, "I'm here for the meeting."
I gave her a look. "What meeting?"
"You promised me a meeting."
"That's not what I remember."
"Well, you should remember." Her chin jerked upward. "You said – and I quote, 'Bring a hundred festivals, and we'll talk.'"
I made a show of looking around. "Yeah? So where are they?"
She hesitated. "Excuse me?"
"You just told me you brought a hundred festivals. Shouldn’t there be a Ferris Wheel or something?" I gave a half shrug. "Maybe some cotton candy? A funnel cake? Anything?"
Her smile vanished. It was a good thing, too, because it was the kind of smile that could freak a guy out.
In a tight voice, she asked, "Was that a joke?"
It was. And it wasn't. "You tell me."
"What, like I'm supposed to read your mind?"
"Sure," I said. "I'm thinking of a number."
"What?"
"It's from one to a hundred. You wanna take a shot?"
Her hand – the one not holding the computer – tightened into a fist. Oh yeah. She wanted to take a shot, alright.
Her fist, my face.
See, crazy, just like I thought.
And now, the smile was back.
I resisted the urge to cover my privates.
The smile was still there when she said, "No. What I brought was a
list."
"A list, huh?"
"Yes. A list of festivals." She paused. "For you to sponsor."
I held out my hand, palm up. "Alright, let's see it."
Her smile faded. "I don't have a printout or anything."
"Right," I chuckled. "And I suppose you don't have the commitments either."
She shook her head. "Commitments?"
"Right. From the hundred festivals."
"Not yet," she said. "But I will."
Sure she would. "Oh yeah? When?"
"When you authorize me to do it."
Now, this I had to hear. "To do what?"
"To sponsor them."
"So let me get this straight," I said. "Your proposition is for me to give you a wad of cash for you to spread around?"
"It wouldn't be cash," she said. "It would be checks."
"Uh-huh. And what would I be getting?"
"The same thing you mentioned last week – exposure. A hundred times the exposure, just like you said." She lifted her notebook computer. "I have a presentation."
Ah, the PowerPoints. "Is that so?"
"Yes, and if you'll just give me ten minutes, I'll run through it."
Ten minutes, my ass. I knew how this went. I consulted my watch. "Alright. You've got seven left."
"What?"
"Seven minutes," I said. "You've used three already."
Was I being a dick?
Hell yeah.
But she'd been stalking me, not the other way around.
When her only reply was an irritated look, I made a forwarding motion with my hand. "So go ahead. Make the most of them."
She sighed. "I meant ten minutes for the actual presentation." She glanced toward the elevators. "So…maybe we could go up to your office?"
Normally, I was a decisive guy. And yet, I hesitated.
Crazy or not, there was something about her. And I was curious. Or maybe I was bored. It had been weeks since anything had held my interest.
But she was holding it.
I stared down at her, wondering why she was so different. Sure, she was pretty. But I'd seen prettier. And yeah, she was on the crazy side. But I'd had crazier.
Maybe it was her eyes. Even though her smile was enough to send a guy running, her eyes were the kind you could get lost in if you weren't careful.
I hadn't always been careful.
In fact, I'd been downright reckless.
In the end, my curiosity won out. "Alright. Ten minutes."
She perked up. "Really?"
"That is what you asked for. Wasn't it?"
"Yeah. I mean, yes. Definitely."
She was cute when she was flustered, and I tried not to smile. No need to encourage the insane, right? So instead, I gestured toward the nearest elevator and said, "Ladies first."
Chapter 9
Mina
His office was incredible – spacious and tasteful in its décor. And although the building also housed a tool-production facility, you'd never know it from up here.
His floor was gleaming hardwood, and his ceiling was creamy white with an elaborate decorative pattern that spanned the whole surface.
Just inside the open doorway, I stopped to give the ceiling a longer look. It wasn't paint. It was plasterwork, obviously original.
As I stood staring upward like a small-town tourist on my first trip to the big city, Chase Blastoviak moved past me and headed straight for his desk.
The desk was huge and ornate, with stylish wood carvings all along the edges. It was situated in front of a wall of mostly windows – the old-fashioned kind, with real window panes.
Thanks to all of my research, I knew a little something about this building. It was over a hundred years old, full brick, and eight stories high.
In a larger city, this would've been nothing to brag about. But here in Bayside, it was the tallest building around, giving me a spectacular view of the modest downtown area and the river beyond.
The building had originally been a soap factory and had sat vacant for nearly four decades until the Blastoviak brothers had purchased it for a song.
Not only had they restored the building to its former glory, they'd also provided good jobs for thousands of people in our local community. If I were dealing with anyone but Chase Blastoviak, who'd proven himself to be a total asshat, I might've felt all warm and fuzzy about whatever role he'd played in making this happen.
But all I felt was warm – no fuzziness included – as Chase sat behind his desk and told me, "You can set up on the table."
I glanced around and spotted a classic conference table located near the other bank of windows.
Yes, he had a corner office, but this wasn't surprising. He was, after all, an owner of the company.
I gave the table a worried frown. "Are you sure you want me to set up there?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"Well, it's just that I'm not sure you'll be able to see my presentation from your desk." I winced. "My screen isn't that big."
In response, he opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a small remote control. He pointed it toward the far wall, and soon, a white projector screen slid down from a wall-mount that I hadn't noticed until now.
As he settled in at his desk, Chase said, "There's a cord on the table. Just plug it into your computer."
Yeah, right. It was never that simple. I'd given plenty of presentations while employed at the bank. Equipment never worked the way it was supposed to.
And there was something else that Chase didn't know. My presentation was longer than ten minutes – several times longer in fact, but only if I included the slide show at the end. Although the slides weren't necessary, they were a huge selling point.
But already, the clock was ticking. I scurried toward the table and set my computer onto its glossy surface. I found the cable and plugged it into the appropriate slot.
To my surprise, the system worked without a hitch. Already, the image on my computer screen was showing up oh-so clearly on the much larger screen across the room.
This should have been a good thing.
It wasn't.
Like a total idiot, I hadn't taken into account my wallpaper – meaning the random image my computer showed when I'd been away for more than five minutes.
This particular image was of me.
In a bikini.
Oh, God.
The bikini was red and skimpy – not obscene, but not modest by any means. I was striking a sexy pose, as if I were a high-end fashion model, and not merely a local girl hitting the beach with her sister.
Natalie had emailed me the picture just last week to remind me that life was filled with good things, too.
With a little gasp, I dove for my keyboard, even as I silently cursed myself for not changing the image to something else beforehand. But in my own defense, the images rotated from my primary image folder, which had plenty of respectable pictures, too.
Still, this was a huge rookie mistake, and I felt my palms grow sweaty as I worked frantically to bring up the actual presentation.
From behind his desk, Chase Blastoviak said, "Subtle."
Oh, for God's sake. As my fingers flew across the keyboard, I muttered, "Sorry about that. I mean, that's not what I wanted to show you."
When he made no reply, I reluctantly glanced in his direction. He looked vaguely amused and just a little bit jaded, as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time. Cripes, maybe it did.
I told him, "It was a mistake. That's all."
"Suuuure, I believe you," he said in a tone that suggested otherwise.
Well, this wasn't humiliating or anything.
By now, I wanted to crawl under the table and hide, but I'd come this far, and I refused to give up now. With trembling fingers, I managed to bring up my actual presentation. I gave a sigh of relief when the bikini shot was replaced by my first PowerPoint slide.
The title page read, "Blast Tools Summer Sponsorship Blitz."
I cleared my throat and gav
e Chase another wary glance before beginning my sales pitch, the one I'd practiced at least a dozen times in my parents' basement. "All over the Midwest, families gather for good times at local festivals throughout the summer. In fact, within a fifty-mile radius of where we're standing right now, we have the Auburn Corn Festival, the Munger Potato Festival, and my personal favorite, the Hazelton Tomato Festival."
I stopped to explain. "That was the festival I mentioned last week. It's only a half-hour away."
"I know," he said. "I've been there."
This shouldn't have been a surprise. As everyone knew, Chase and his brothers had grown up right here in Bayside.
Chase was only a few years older than myself, so there was a decent chance that we'd crossed paths sometime in our lives.
As our gazes locked, I quickly changed my mind.
No. I'd never met him until recently. Of this, I was suddenly certain.
He was too gorgeous to forget, whether in person or on the TV screen. Last season, I'd actually caught a glimpse of his abs as he lifted his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow.
And just for the record, his abs were very fine.
At the memory, I felt myself swallow. Oh, yeah. He was the kind of guy a girl would definitely remember.
Even now, as he sat in silent judgment, I couldn’t help but wonder what it might've been like if we had met years ago – before he got rich and famous, or even before I lost my job, meaning my bank job, not the barista thing.
I stiffened. Right. The barista thing.
That asshat had cost me my job.
I yanked my gaze from his and returned to the presentation. As I brought up the next slide, I said, "According to my research, festival attendees are more likely to live in the country, work on their own houses, and use tools on a regular basis."
I tapped to the next slide, which showed the logo for Blast Tools. The logo was orange and rugged, just like their products.
My dad had purchased one of their hammers just last summer, and swore it was the best one he'd ever owned. But that might've been local pride talking. Everyone knew that Blast tools were made right here in our own area. Or at least some of them were.
I was just about the hit the next slide when Chase asked, "What research?"
I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. "Excuse me?"
Blitz: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Blast Brothers Book 3) Page 3
