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?
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.
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!"