Blitz: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Blast Brothers Book 3), стр. 41
On the upside, his personality was a perfect reminder on why thoughts like these were best left under the covers, in the world of fantasy where guys like Chase Blastoviak belonged.
Plus, he found me repulsive. And crazy. So there was that.
Almost a full month had passed since I'd given him my initial proposal, the one where I'd suggested cakewalks and other nice, safe activities.
After his scornful rejection of my ideas, I'd gone back to the drawing board and revamped the whole plan to include things that were more manly, more dangerous, and more likely to get news coverage.
I had demolition derbies, mud bogs, tractor pulls, mini motorcycle races, and a whole bunch of carnival games involving giant orange hammers. I'd even managed to come up with a few miniature versions of these games for kids.
I'd submitted all of this in my revised proposal.
This time, Chase had loved it.
Oh sure, he hadn't said so, but I'd seen the look in his eyes when I'd presented the new plan. Afterward, he'd even handed off some of the logistics to his own admin team to make sure that everything got done in time, including all of the sponsorship agreements with various festival planners across the Midwest.
Today, Chase and I were planning to walk through the Hazelton Fairgrounds, where I'd be giving him a tour of the facilities that would be used for the event that had inspired the whole campaign.
Yes, I meant the Tomato Festival.
In just over two months, the Hazelton Fairgrounds would be packed with carnival rides, tents, tomatoes, and all sorts of festive things.
But today, there wouldn't be much to see – just a basic barn, a big open field, and a large cinderblock building called Hazelton Hall with its standard commercial kitchen, some public restrooms, and lots of open space for dancing, dining, or whatever.
Three of my cousins had used the building for their wedding receptions, and I was very familiar with the setup.
Still, that didn't explain why Chase wanted to see any of this. To me, today's excursion seemed so far below his paygrade, it was almost laughable.
But it had been his idea, not mine.
And who was I to object? He was paying me so much money, I'd gladly tour every festival site and consider myself lucky.
In the living room, my dad whispered to my mom, "She's all dressed up."
My mom whispered back, "You mean the skirt? Oh, come on. It's almost to her ankles."
"But she's wearing lipstick."
"So?"
"It's a Saturday afternoon. She doesn't wear lipstick on a Saturday afternoon."
"Oh, come on, Bob. It's not real lipstick. It's basic gloss."
I reached up to touch my face. By now, I was feeling seriously self-conscious about my lips, and maybe my eyes, too, because I'd also put on some mascara and a hint of eyeshadow.
But that didn't mean anything. And besides, my dad was reading way too much into this. I wasn't wearing a slinky cocktail dress. I was wearing a long floral skirt and basic white blouse.
As far as the makeup, sure, I was wearing more than I'd normally wear on a Saturday afternoon, but the amount wasn't more than I'd be wearing for a business meeting.
And that's all this was.
A business meeting.
Nothing more.
As they whispered back and forth, I ran a nervous tongue between my lips and tried to pretend that I didn't hear what they were saying.
As far as the debate, both of my parents were at least a little right. The stuff on my lips was gloss, but it was the colored variety, nothing fancy, just a light pink something-or-other so my lips wouldn’t feel naked when dealing with Chase.
In the end, my dad muttered, "Call it gloss all you want, but I know lipstick when I see it."
I gave the front window another nervous glance. By now, the orange sports car had traversed most of the long driveway and was nearing the house.
Finally.
I hoisted my purse over my shoulder and bolted for the front door.
Before Chase's car came to anything resembling a stop, I was already on the front porch, tossing a quick goodbye to my parents.
I figured they'd stay inside.
I was only half right.
Mom stayed.
Dad didn't.
Instead, he followed me out onto the porch and stopped at the front railing.
Oh, boy. I picked up the pace and kept on going, making a beeline for Chase's car. By the time I reached the passenger's side door, Chase had already pushed it open from the inside.
I practically dove into the car and slammed the door shut behind me. I looked to Chase and said, "Alrighty then. I guess we should head out, huh?"
When I looked back to the porch, my dad was still there. His arms were crossed, and he was staring at Chase's car the way Grandma Lipinski used to stare at squirrels whenever they got into her bird-feeder.
In the driver's seat, Chase gave a slow shake of his head before shifting the car into reverse.
I didn't know what the head-shake was for, and figured I was better off not knowing. So I didn't ask. Instead, I watched in silent wonder as Chase backed all the way out of the long driveway just as easily as if he'd been going forward.
When he reached the end, I said with a nervous laugh, "Too bad there's not a contest for that."
He gave me a sideways glance. "For what?"
"You know, driving backwards."
He smiled. "Who says there isn't?"
At his smile, my stomach gave an irritating little flutter. "You mean like a car race in reverse?"
"No." His smile turned into a grin. "I mean demolition derbies."
Finally, I knew what he meant. Over the years, I'd attended an embarrassing number of demolition derbies. A popular strategy was to ram the other cars while driving in reverse, destroying their cars with your back end while keeping your front end – where the engine was located – intact and operational.
After a whole lot of crashing and smashing, the driver of the last