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

  Now, the festival was short one major sponsor – the major sponsor, not that anyone realized it. Even now, everyone assumed that Globalton Holdings would honor the original agreement.

  I could totally relate. Until three days ago, I'd assumed the same thing.

  Still, I'd been working like crazy to confirm it, even while searching for a new job – meaning a real job, not the barista gig, which I'd only accepted because I needed some source of income in the meantime.

  The whole thing was incredibly frustrating. Here I was, twenty-five years old and back to working the same sort of job I'd had while getting my marketing degree.

  On top of that, just last week, I'd felt compelled to give up my own apartment and move back in with my parents on the family farm.

  I loved the farm. Really, I did. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that every time I pulled into my parents' long driveway, I felt just a little bit ashamed to be sponging off them when they had problems of their own.

  These days, money was tight for nearly everyone, especially farmers, thanks to last year's drought – which is why I was so determined to find a replacement sponsor for the festival.

  We all needed something to celebrate, right?

  By the time my shift ended at the coffee shop, I was exhausted – not from making lattes and mochas, but from trying to come up with some sort of alternate solution.

  But it wasn't until later that night, when my parents returned from dinner with friends, that I started to seriously panic.

  I was at the kitchen sink, doing dishes, when my mom burst through the back door and announced, "There she is!"

  I turned to look. "There who is?"

  My mom was petite with curly blonde hair, an impish smile, and a seriously wicked streak whenever something got her riled up. But she wasn't riled now. She was beaming as she replied, "You."

  With an awkward laugh, I said, "Yup, here I am, alright."

  As my dad hung his coat on the nearby hook, my mom rushed toward me and said, "So tell me. Were your ears burning tonight?"

  It was one of my mom's favorite sayings, and I knew what she really meant. Did I realize that I'd been the topic of conversation?

  No. I didn't.

  But I realized it now. And yet, I wasn't sure how this could be a good thing, considering that I was practically living in my parents' basement.

  Reluctantly, I asked, "So…what were you talking about?"

  "The festival," she laughed. "What else?"

  Oh. The festival.

  Still, I tried to smile. "Oh, yeah?"

  She gave a happy nod. "Get this. We're out to dinner with three other couples, right? And guess who walks up to our table."

  "Who?"

  My mom grimaced. "Ginger Hawthorne."

  At the sound of that name, I grimaced, too. Ginger was my mom's old rival from their high school days. They'd been frenemies for as long as I could remember.

  Oddly enough, the tradition had continued onto the next generation – my generation, because Ginger had a daughter my own age.

  We'd been frenemies, too – until she'd run off to Florida with my boyfriend. Now, we were just enemies, considering that the "friend" part of the equation had evaporated the moment she'd lured Bryce into her Corvette for that impromptu road trip.

  Or at least, Bryce had claimed it was unplanned, not that it mattered. I'd dumped him by text long before he returned. But it had hurt. A lot.

  As the memories churned like bad seafood, I asked, "So, how is she?"

  "Ginger?" My mom's smile vanished. "The same. She was bragging about Emory. As usual."

  I could see why. Unlike me, Emory was doing fantastic. Just yesterday, I'd seen an update on the high school social media group. Apparently, Emory had just opened her own yoga studio only two blocks away from the coffee shop – the one where I worked as a barista.

  It was too close for comfort, especially considering that my current job was nothing to brag about – which made my mom's next statement all the more confusing.

  With another smile, she said, "And you should've seen her face when I told her what you'd accomplished."

  I wasn't following. "What do you mean?"

  Her smile widened. "You saved the Tomato Festival!"

  Oh, God.

  My mom continued. "And you know how much that means to Ginger."

  I did know. For the last seventy years, the annual festival had begun with the crowning of the Tomato Queen – a local girl chosen to serve as a goodwill ambassador, not only at the festival itself, but at similar events throughout the state.

  Back in the day, Ginger had nudged out my mom to claim the local crown, along with a modest scholarship and bragging rights. And my mom? She'd been runner up.

  Over twenty years later, history had repeated itself when I'd served as runner up to Emory. I hadn't minded too much, until I'd been relegated to runner-up for Bryce's affections. That, I'd minded.

  In the kitchen, my mom was still talking. "You should've seen Ginger's face. To think, she had no idea the festival was in danger."

  My stomach lurched. The festival was still in danger. Mom just didn't know it.

  But I did.

  The whole thing had started last August when the festival's biggest sponsor, Skeezak Hardware, had gone out of business. They'd been sponsoring the festival for nearly three decades, and the truth was, the festival committee had gotten a little complacent.

  Okay, a lot complacent.

  Skeezak Hardware had not only supplied the festival with a large donation in return for a modest amount of advertising, they'd also supplied free rental of all kinds of equipment and supplies – tractors, tents, tools, you name it.

  When they'd gone under, they'd almost taken the Tomato Festival with them – until I'd talked Farmland Financial into picking up the slack.

  It had been a major triumph on my part – well, until three days ago, anyway.

  And here we were.

  I listened as my mom went on to tell me that everyone at her table had chimed in to tell Ginger how I'd saved the day by finding another sponsor just in the nick of time.

  Time. Even now, I could hear the mental clock ticking in my head, reminding me that if I didn't find a replacement sponsor soon, we'd be back to square one.

  No major sponsor. No festival.

  And I'd be the one who let everyone down.

  Yikes.

  Chapter 5

  Mina

  "Oh, my God," Natalie groaned. "You still haven't told them?"

  Natalie was my younger sister – three years younger, to be exact. She was in her junior year at Eastern Michigan University, where she was studying to become a psychologist.

  This was a good thing, too, considering that I'd been calling her for sisterly therapy at least once a week, ever since losing my job – and now the related sponsorship.

  It was the day after that unpleasant encounter with Chase Blastoviak, and I was back in the coffee shop, where the morning rush had already come and gone, just like the coffee shop's owner, a woman named Abigail, who owned another business across town.

  As usual, I'd tucked my cell phone into my apron pocket. And now, with nobody else in the shop, I was using my cell phone's earbuds – the kind with a microphone included – to talk to Natalie while I wiped down the tables.

  I had to remind her, "Hey, I just found out this week."

  "Yeah. On Monday, which was four whole days ago."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So you should've told them by now."

  I wasn't sure if she meant the festival committee or my parents, but my response was the same either way. "Tell them what? That the festival's screwed? I can't do that."

  "Why not?" she asked.

  "Because that's admitting defeat. And I still have a few more sponsors on my list."

  "You mean potential sponsors."

  "Okay, fine. Potential sponsors, then."

  "So, how many have you contacted?"

  Reluctantly, I said, "Al
most all of them."

  "And?"

  I sighed. "And they all said basically the same thing. They can chip in a little, but not enough to make a difference."

  I'd been disappointed, but not surprised. The local economy wasn't terrific, and times were tight for everyone, especially small, local businesses.

  And yet, just down the street from where I stood right now, there was a huge business – a global business with local owners. This should have been a no-brainer. Blast Tools would've been the perfect sponsor for all kinds of reasons.

  Unlike the other businesses on my list, Blast was on a huge upswing. Thanks to that reality show, their brand had become a household name, not just here in Bayside, but all over the globe.

  The company was privately owned, too, which meant the decision could be made on the spot – if only someone, anyone, at the company would give me the chance to make my pitch.

  Until yesterday, I'd had zero luck in securing anything resembling a meeting. I'd called. I'd emailed. I'd even stopped by in person – only to be given the brush-off by the main receptionist.

  That was part of the reason I'd been so excited to see Chase Blastoviak standing out there on the sidewalk. As everyone knew, he was the one who handled all of the promotional activities for Blast Tools, which meant that he'd been the contact of my dreams.

  Some dream.

  Our encounter had been a total nightmare.

  Even now, as I gazed out the same front window, I could practically hear his voice in my head, telling me, "Look, I don't want to fuck you, okay?"

  The jerk.

  And yet, I'd actually managed to be polite and professional, even after he'd been such an arrogant tool.

  On the phone, Natalie was in the process of encouraging me yet again to tell everyone what had happened when a soft thud from somewhere behind me made me turn to look.

  When I did, I spotted Abigail standing behind the coffee counter, looking seriously ticked off.

  I wasn't even sure why. Was it because I was talking on my cell phone? I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. Did she even realize I was on it?

  As far as I knew, there was no rule against talking on my personal cell, especially in an empty shop.

  And yet, I could tell by Abigail's scowl that I'd done something to displease her. After all, she'd seemed perfectly happy two hours ago, when she'd left the coffee shop to open her fabric store across town.

  Still, I tried to smile as I said, "Oh hi." I glanced toward the back room. "So I guess you came in through the back, huh?"

  Abigail was around my mom's age with short black hair and an upbeat demeanor, well, usually, anyway.

  Not now.

  In a strained voice, she replied, "Yes. Is that a problem?"

  It shouldn’t have been a problem. I mean, it was her shop, not mine. But obviously, something was a problem. With growing unease, I asked, "Is something wrong?"

  She eyed me with obvious disgust. "You might say that."

  In my ear, my sister had gone totally silent, which was probably for the best. With my boss glaring daggers at me, I chose to ignore the microphone near my face as I said a silent prayer that Abigail would conclude that I was simply listening to music or a podcast.

  Or maybe this was frowned on, too.

  I wasn't quite sure. All I knew was that I'd obviously done something wrong. With a nervous smile, I held up the damp cloth and explained, "I was just wiping down the tables."

  "Good," she said. "When you're done, you can leave."

  I glanced toward the nearby clock. It was barely ten-thirty in the morning. My shift didn't end for six whole hours. "So…you're letting me go early?"

  "No. I’m letting you go, period."

  On the phone, I heard my sister gasp. Or maybe that was me. I didn't get it. Even if the phone thing was a problem, surely I'd get a warning before I'd be fired.

  By now, my heart was racing. Even though this wasn't my dream job, I was too mortified to speak. I'd never been fired before. Even the thing with the bank, that was part of a mass layoff. It wasn't personal or related to my performance.

  But from the look on Abigail's face, this was personal and then some.

  Somehow, I managed to say, "Can I ask why?"

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You know why."

  I reached up and practically yanked the earbuds from my ears. As I stuffed them into my apron pocket, I said, "Is it the phone thing? Because—"

  "No," she snapped. "It's not the 'phone thing' – whatever you mean by that."

  I shook my head. "So what is it?"

  She crossed her arms. "Did you, or did you not, make a run for Chase Blastoviak?"

  I blinked. "Make a run?"

  "Yes," she said. "As in chase him down the sidewalk."

  "What?" My head was spinning now. "I wasn't 'chasing' him." As far as I could recall, I'd never even left the coffee shop doorway.

  "Oh," she said with a bitter laugh. "So you weren't trying to lure him inside, huh?"

  I hesitated. "You mean…into the coffee shop? Well, yeah, but—"

  "You know what? I've heard enough." As she spoke, she strode around the counter and stalked toward me. I stood frozen in horror as she lunged forward and practically ripped the damp cloth from my hand. "On second thought," she said. "I'll wipe down the tables. Now get your stuff and go."

  I sputtered, "You can't be serious."

  "Oh yeah? Why not?"

  "Well…because for one thing, all I did was try to talk to him."

  "Not the way I hear it."

  "From who?" I demanded.

  "That's not important."

  "It is to me."

  "Want to know what's important to me?" she said.

  "What?"

  "That I have employees who listen." Her mouth tightened. "On your first day, you remember what I told you?"

  I tried to think. This wasn't my first barista job, so she hadn't had to tell me much. Stupidly, I shook my head. "No. What?"

  In a low voice, she gritted out, "No hitting on the customers."

  "What?"

  "I'm not gonna say it again." She pointed to the front door. "Now are you gonna leave peacefully? Or do I have to call the police?"

  By now, I didn't know whether to scream or cry. The whole thing was so stupidly unfair. It wasn't even accurate.

  I hadn't hit on anyone, especially Chase Blastoviak, who was quickly becoming my least favorite person in the known universe.

  Yesterday, he'd been a total prick. And today, he'd gotten me fired.

  This was his doing.

  It had to be. After all, no one else had been around while I'd been trying to talk to him. So of course, it was easy to guess where Abigail had heard such an insane story.

  From Chase himself.

  I felt my fingers tighten into fists. Boy, he'd fucked me alright, just not the way he'd meant.

  But if he thought I'd simply go away, he was dead wrong. One way or another, I vowed, I'd make him pay for this.

  Chapter 6

  Chase

  I was sitting at my desk when Erin, my new assistant, appeared in my open doorway to say, "You've got another one."

  I frowned. "Another what?"

  Erin hesitated. "Actually, I'm not sure what to call them."

  Erin was a fresh-faced brunette in her mid-twenties. She'd been my assistant for less than two weeks, and she was still settling in. My last assistant – a real pistol named Ruby – had recently moved to Vegas with her fourth husband.

  At times like these, I missed Ruby's bluntness. Unlike Erin, Ruby wouldn't be standing there looking uneasy as she tried to come up with the right word to describe whatever I supposedly had.

  But Erin was a nice person – a hell of a lot nicer than I was – and was turning out to be an exceptional assistant in every other way, so I steepled my fingers and waited patiently for her to just spit it out.

  Finally, after a long moment, she said, "Um…a blonde?"

  I gave Erin a look. "So I'v
e got another blonde. That's what you're telling me?" I made a show of glancing around. "So, where is she?"

  "In the downstairs lobby. According to Gretchen, she's been camped out there for days."

  The more Erin talked, the less I understood. "So, she's sleeping in the lobby?"

  My office was located on the top floor of our largest factory. We made tools and plenty of them. And even though our lobby was nice enough, it was no five-star hotel.

  Erin replied, "No. But she's been there every day this week."

  Today was Thursday. "So four days then."

  Erin nodded. "She told Gretchen that you agreed to meet with her, but she's not on your schedule."

  Again, I frowned. "You get a name?"

  Erin glanced down at her notepad. "Mina Lipinski."

  Mina, Mina… I searched my memories and came up empty.

  In the doorway, Erin added, "Gretchen said to tell you that if you want, she'll call security and have them handle it."

  "Security, huh?"

  Erin nodded. "Apparently, she's been getting pushier every day." Obviously, she meant the blonde, not Gretchen.

  I'd seen my share of pushy blondes – brunettes and redheads, too. There was a time – and it wasn't too long ago – that this might've been the highlight of my afternoon.

  Not anymore.

  And yet, I wasn't so big of a pussy that I'd call security over a single wayward blonde. If it came down to it, I'd tell her to shove off personally.

  Erin cleared her throat. "And apparently, she might be crazy."

  By now, I was an expert in crazy. Like ice cream, it came in plenty of flavors. "Crazy how?"

  With obvious reluctance, Erin replied, "Like stalker crazy."

  So the blonde was a fan. This was nothing new. At least twice a month – and sometimes more often than that – I had some new superfan show up and refuse to leave.

  I'd met some of my best girlfriends that way – if you ignored the fact that my relationships tended to be on the short side.

  But I was done with all that. It wasn't just because the game had gotten old. It was because both of my brothers had pussied out and decided to settle down.

  During the last year, both of them had gotten engaged – Brody maybe ten months ago and Mason just last week. But they'd gone exclusive long before that.