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

  Blitz

  By Sabrina Stark

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  CLICK HERE to download your FREE novel.

  You'll also join my special mailing list and be among

  the first to know about hot new releases!

  Copyright © 2020 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  Mina

  His name was Chase Blastoviak, and he didn't want to pork me.

  Only he didn't use the word pork. No. Not him. What he did was drop a genuine f-bomb while informing me that he wasn't interested in doing the horizontal hokey-pokey.

  With me.

  As if I'd just offered.

  Just for the record, I hadn't.

  God, what a total jackass.

  I wanted his money, not his body, even if his body was pretty darn spectacular. And as far as the money? Well, it's not like I wanted it for myself.

  I'm no gold-digger. In fact, the only thing I'd ever dug was potatoes on my parents' farm. And even this activity was pretty rare, considering that tomatoes were their primary crop.

  But I digress.

  Already, I'd known Chase for less than five minutes, and I hated him the way my dad hated those little striped beetles that sometimes got into his tomato plants.

  On the upside, Chase and I obviously agreed on one thing. We would never, ever be friends, much less anything more.

  Apparently, he found me repulsive.

  I didn't find him repulsive. But then again, who would? I mean, just look at the guy – not that it mattered. Underneath that pretty façade, he was rotten to the core.

  It was unfortunate, too, because just ten minutes ago, I'd thought that Chase Blastoviak might be the answer to all of my prayers.

  What a joke.

  From the looks of things, I'd been praying in the wrong direction – not up, but down, if you know what I mean.

  Okay, so maybe he wasn't technically the devil, but Chase Blastoviak was no angel, that's for sure.

  But of course, I'd known that already, hadn't I?

  Chapter 2

  Mina

  Ten Minutes Earlier

  If I were smart, I wouldn't do it.

  And yet, I wasn't feeling smart. I was feeling determined and just a little bit lucky. For the past three days, I'd been burning brain cells, trying to solve one heck of a sticky problem.

  And there he was – my solution, standing just outside the coffee shop, where I'd been working as a barista for less than a week.

  It was mid-afternoon, and the coffee shop was utterly empty, except for yours truly. See? It was luck. It had to be.

  From behind the counter, I studied my quarry through the big front window. The guy was tall, dark, and impossibly handsome, with the kind of looks that would make anyone stop and stare, even if they didn't know who he was.

  He was standing in profile near the coffee shop door, talking on his cell phone – or rather, listening to his cell phone, considering that his lips hadn't moved once since I'd spotted him standing there.

  Whatever he was hearing, it wasn't making him happy. In fact, he looked downright ticked off, which surprised the heck out of me.

  I'd seen the guy hundreds of times, but I'd never seen him looking like that. Then again, this was the first time I'd seen him in person and not on my TV screen.

  Still, I knew his name as surely as I knew my own.

  Mina Lipinski. That was mine. Not his. Obviously.

  No. His name was Chase Blastoviak of Blast Tools. The guy was beyond famous, and not just here in Bayside, Michigan, where Blast Tools was headquartered.

  Chase, along with his two brothers, starred in Blast, a weekly cable show on the Home Network, where the three brothers used their own brand of tools to remodel older homes or sometimes build new ones.

  Blast was a huge hit, and was it any wonder? All three brothers were insanely gorgeous, packed with muscle, and fascinating on their own.

  But together? They were a force to be reckoned with.

  Thankfully, I was only reckoning with one – my preferred one for what I had in mind.

  I bit my lip and continued to stare as I debated doing the unthinkable.

  On the TV show, Chase wore regular work clothes – jeans and T-shirts mostly, along with classic work boots and the occasional flannel overshirt.

  Not today.

  Today, he was dressed for business in a dark, tailored suit that fit his masculine form to perfection, not that it mattered. A guy like him? He'd probably look terrific in a potato sack.

  From the privacy of the coffee shop, I let my gaze rake the length of him. His shoulders were broad, and his hips were narrow. His legs were long, and his stance was easy, even as his face betrayed his displeasure at whatever he was hearing.

  When he frowned, I frowned, too.

  Sure, I was feeling lucky, but I'd be feeling a whole lot luckier if he were getting good news – and not whatever he was hearing now. From the look on his face, you'd almost think he'd just tested positive for one heck of a social disease.

  My frown turned into a grimace as I recalled who I was watching. Chase Blastoviak was a notorious womanizer. Cripes, maybe he had tested positive for something-or-other.

  But I couldn't let that stop me.

  He was here.

  I was here.

  And odds were, I'd never get such a chance again – so before my courage slipped away, I sidestepped the counter and scurried toward the entrance, intending to pounce the moment he got off the phone.

  In what had to be a sign, he ended the call just as I reached the glass door. Without pausing to gather my wits, I yanked the door open wide and blurted out, "Hey, can I buy you a coffee?"

  He turned to look, and his mouth tightened. "No thanks."

  Crap.

  And of course, I felt beyond foolish. Still, I dug deep and summoned up a friendly smile. "Then how about a mocha? Or maybe a smoothie. Everyone likes smoothies, right?"

  It was late March, and although the sky was sunny, the air was crisp and cold. Still, I held the door firmly open as Chase Blastoviak silently appraised me like a farmer sizing up a prized hog.

  As he did, I almost started to squirm because even I realized that I didn't look my best. My blonde hair was tied into a tight ponytail, and my red apron was marred by a long streak of brown – not coffee, but chocolate from a wayward squirt of mocha sauce.

  When he finished his appraisal, all he said was, "Sorry, I'm not interested."

  I blinked. "You mean, you're not interested in a smoothie, or—"

  He sighed. "Look, I don't want to fuck you, okay?"

  I stifled a gasp. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  Yes. I had. And I didn't appreciate it one bit. Coldly, I informed him, "That's not what I was offering."

  His gaze was too jaded for words. "Wasn't it?"

  My jaw clenched. What a total jackass.

  "No," I gritted out. "As a matter of fact, it wasn't." I put my hands on my hips, and immediately regretted it when the door – now free of my grip – whacked me in the ass.

  Ignoring this indignity, I focused on the larger issue at-hand. As I glared up at him, I demanded, "And just where you do you get off, anyway?"

  With a low scoff, he replied, "Well, not at your place, if that's what you're asking."

  "Oh, for God's sake," I said. "I wasn't trying to get into your pants. I was trying to talk to you."

  "Is that so?"

  My chin jerked upward. "Yes, actually."

  From the look on his face, he didn't believe this for one minute. "
Oh yeah? About what?"

  "Well, actually…" Damn it. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Still, I took a deep, calming breath, summoned up my best professional smile, and just said it. "I was hoping you could sponsor the Hazelton Tomato Festival."

  Chapter 3

  Chase

  What the hell?

  I stared down at her. "What?"

  "The Hazelton Tomato Festival," she said. "We need a major sponsor, and um, well, I was thinking that since you're a local company…" She didn't bother finishing the sentence. I knew why, too.

  She was full of it.

  They all were.

  During the past few years, I'd heard it all. At first, it had been funny as hell. I'd had plenty of laughs – and more – as I'd taken far too much of what was offered. But now, like a glutton who'd been camped out for too long at the same buffet, I was bored and sickened by the whole scene.

  It was a damn shame, too, since the pretty blonde in front of me might've been just the thing back in the day – or hell, even a couple of months ago, when I was still hungry.

  But now, all I felt was disgust, especially after that voicemail from Angelique. But that was a problem for another time, when I wasn't being pestered by someone new.

  To the blonde in the coffee shop doorway, I said, "The festival's four months away."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So I know the drill," I said. "A major sponsor, right?"

  She straightened. "That is what I said."

  "Right. Except those are lined up a year in advance."

  Her eyebrows furrowed. "Wait, how would you know?"

  "Because this isn't my first barbecue."

  Sure, it was a cliché, but that didn't make it untrue. I oversaw all of the publicity for Blast Tools. It was a multi-billion-dollar company with an advertising budget to match.

  This meant I knew exactly how much planning went into the smallest of campaigns. And nothing – not even a local festival – would be trolling this hard for a major sponsor at such a late date.

  In front of me, the blonde said, "Good. Then you can sponsor one."

  I wasn't following. "What?"

  "A barbecue," she said. "Just think of it. Tomatoes, tomato sauce, barbecue sauce. They all go together, you know?" She smiled. "And you could be a judge or something."

  Holy shit.

  This chick was serious.

  Either that, or my bullshit detector was majorly on the fritz.

  I gave her a look. "A judge?"

  "Well, yeah," she stammered. "I mean, you are a celebrity, so you could, oh, I dunno…like see who makes the best chicken or something."

  I was still staring. "Chicken."

  "Or ribs." She gave a shaky laugh. "I'm just saying…a tomato is a tomato, right?"

  Now I was the one frowning. This chick wasn't serious. She was nuts. This shouldn't have been a surprise.

  I was a magnet for crazy chicks.

  If you'd asked me six months ago, I'd have said this wasn't a bad thing. But the truth was, I was reevaluating everything these days, including my history of taking up with the mentally unbalanced.

  And even though the blonde in front of me was claiming that her proposition was all-business, I could practically smell her desperation. I'd smelled it before, and never on the business side.

  On top of that, her mood swings were one hell of a red flag.

  Just a minute ago, she'd looked ready to slap me. But now, she was smiling so wide it looked painful. The smile was still there when she asked, "So, what do you think?"

  I wasn't one to lie. "I think you're nuts."

  Her smile vanished. "What?"

  "You're nuts," I repeated, "which is why I'm not interested."

  "You mean…" She shook her head. "In sponsoring the festival?"

  "No." I gave her a meaningful look. "In anything."

  Now she was glaring again. "For the last time, I'm offering you a business proposition. That's it."

  Yeah, right.

  That's what they all said. "Nice story."

  "It's not a story," she said. "It's the truth."

  "Uh-huh."

  She made a sound of frustration. "Will you please just step inside so I can explain?"

  Nope. Not a chance. The last time I'd done such a thing – in this same coffee shop, by the way – it had ended with the barista's lips around my cock. Her idea, not mine.

  But I hadn't said no. And that, too, was a problem. I'd felt like a scuzz-bucket ever since, and not only because we'd been caught by the shop's owner, who hadn't been nearly as enamored of me as the barista.

  Or should I say former barista?

  "Forget it," I said. "I've got someplace to be."

  The blonde gave me a pleading look. "Then maybe can I schedule a meeting or something?"

  "With who?"

  "You." She cleared her throat. "And me. Obviously." She extended her arm and pointed toward our company headquarters. "Look, your office is what? Six blocks away? Come on. Just give me ten minutes. You name the time. I'll be there. With PowerPoints and everything."

  Already I'd heard enough. Whether she was full of it or not, the answer remained the same. "Look, even if you're serious, it's too small."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's small potatoes, which means you're talking to the wrong guy." This was true. Yeah, I oversaw the whole marketing and advertising budget, but I had plenty of people below me. They were the ones who handled the local do-gooder stuff, not me.

  And I wasn't going to waste their time any more than my own.

  The pretty blonde shook her head. "But it's tomatoes."

  "What?"

  "It's tomatoes," she repeated. "Not potatoes. You did hear that, right?"

  Was she serious? I almost laughed. "What, you've never heard the phrase 'small potatoes' before?"

  She bit her lip like she didn't know what to say. She had nice lips, sweet and full, and I couldn't help but wonder if she was drawing attention to them on purpose.

  Probably.

  Too bad for her, she was months late to the party. I turned to go, only to stop when she called out, "But wait!"

  Against my better judgment, I turned back to look. I said nothing, even as she hit me with those baby blue eyes of hers. Shit. A guy could get lost in those eyes if he wasn't careful.

  I hadn't always been careful, especially where women were concerned. But I was a new man – or least, I was trying to be.

  Shit like this wasn't making it any easier.

  She said, "You did hear it was a major sponsorship, right?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So that's hardly small potatoes."

  "It is to me," I said.

  "But—"

  "Listen, bring me a hundred festivals, and we'll talk."

  Was it a lie?

  No. Not the way I saw it.

  The odds of her bringing me a hundred festivals were just above zero. I was a gambler at heart, and I was liking my odds of never seeing her again.

  From the open doorway, she eyed me with obvious confusion. "But…if I were asking for a hundred sponsorships, that would be a hundred times the money."

  "Yeah. And a hundred times the exposure." I made a show of looking at my watch. "Like I said, I don't deal with small stuff."

  And now, she was back to biting her lip. "Oh. I see."

  Did she? I had no idea. All I knew was that I had better things to do than pass the time with someone who was either nuts or trying to scam me – because her story was filled with all kinds of holes.

  Whether she realized it or not, I was familiar with the festival in question. The Tomato Festival – it took place every July in Hazelton, Michigan, which was maybe thirty minutes north of Bayside.

  As a teenager, I'd hit the festival every year, going on the cheapest nights and overstaying my welcome.

  There was no barbecue contest – just carnival rides, fresh tomatoes, and locals looking to drum up excitement for a pretty generic vegetable. Or was it a fruit?
<
br />   I didn't know, and I didn't care.

  I studied the blonde's face for a long moment as she did that thing with her lip. It was sexy as hell, and it might've captured all of my attention, if only her eyes weren't just as sexy.

  I felt myself frown. Just what was her angle, anyway?

  In the end, I didn't take the time to find out. Instead, I turned away, leaving her to shut the coffee shop door – or not.

  Sure, I felt like a dick walking off like that, but I was done being distracted by a pretty face – or even worse, a pretty face wrapped around the mind of a crazy person.

  From behind me, she called out, "I'm gonna hold you to that!"

  See? Crazy. Just like I thought.

  I didn't stop – and with good reason, too. Crazy or not, she was the most tempting thing I'd seen all month. And the last thing I wanted now was to be tempted.

  So I kept on walking like any sane man would do.

  And I didn't look back.

  Chapter 4

  Mina

  Didn't he get it? I wasn't worried about a hundred festivals. I was only worried about one.

  The truth was, I'd gotten myself into a bit of a pickle. It wasn't my fault, but that didn't make it any easier when I considered how many people I'd be letting down if I didn't figure out some sort of solution to the whole sponsorship thing.

  Two months ago, I'd lost my corporate communications job when the local bank I'd been working for – Farmland Financial – had been bought out by a much larger bank, a global powerhouse named Globalton Holdings, which was headquartered in London.

  London was a long way from Hazelton, Michigan, which probably explained why Globalton Holdings had not only fired most of Farmland's local staff, but had also terminated all local sponsorship agreements, including yup – you guessed it – the Hazelton Tomato Festival.

  I'd gotten this bit of bad news only three days ago when I'd called Globalton Holdings to follow up on the sponsorship agreement.

  Their response? Sorry, that was with Farmland, not us.

  Supposedly, they'd sent an official letter – not that I'd ever seen it.

  Regardless, the news had been the final pickle in the crap sandwich that I'd been munching on since mid-January, when I'd lost my job with no warning whatsoever.