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 gave 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?"
"You said there was research. I'm assuming you're about to show it."
Oh, crap. "Yes, well…the thing is…my research is all firsthand, primary, I think they call it."
At his desk, he looked unimpressed. "So you've gone to a festival? That's the basis for this?"
"Not just a festival," I said. "I've probably gone to fifty at least."
His eyebrows lifted. "Fifty of the same? Or different?"
It was a trick question. Or more likely, he was just mocking me, as if I couldn’t do basic math. "Well…since I'm only twenty-five years old, it's obviously not fifty of the same. I mean, each festival only happens once a year, right?"
In reply, he made a forwarding motion with his hand. "Go on."
I glanced toward my computer. "You mean with the presentation, or…?"
"No. With your explanation. Give me a breakdown of your festivals."
"My festivals?"
"The ones you've attended."
"Oh. Right." With a nervous laugh, I said, "Well, I've been to the Tomato Festival twenty-five times, and I've hit most of the other festivals—"
"Hang on," he said. "So you're telling me you've gone to the Tomato Festival every year since you were born. You sure about that?"
What kind of question was that? "Definitely."
He gave me a dubious look. "So…your first festival, what was it like?"
I gave my computer a worried glance. I was only a few slides into my presentation, and already, he was throwing it off-kilter.
Was he doing it on purpose?
Probably.
I looked back to Chase and felt my gaze narrow. "Wait a minute. Is this coming out of my ten minutes?"
"Meaning?"
I gestured toward the projector screen where the Blast logo remained. "I'm just saying, if I've got only ten minutes, I'll never get through it at this rate."
"Alright," he said. "Then consider this off the clock. Your first festival – tell me about it."
I studied his face for a long, tense moment. Was he serious? He looked serious. As for myself, I was feeling seriously rattled. "Well…there's not much to tell, considering that I was just a baby."
"Uh-huh. But you're sure you went."
"Of course."
"You got any proof?"
I tried for a laugh. "What? You want a picture?"
"You bet I do."
"Seriously?" I hesitated. "Honestly, I'm not sure I have one."
He frowned. "Is that so?"
With growing trepidation, I said, "Let's say I don't have a photo. Would that be a problem?"
"It would be now."
"Why?"
"Because you just offered one." He gave me a hard look. "What, you thought I wouldn't take you up on it?"
Yes. I had thought that, in fact. But the reason for this was obvious. "It was a joke."
And now, he was looking more jaded than ever. "So you don't have a picture? That's what you're saying."
My stomach twisted. I was blowing this, bigtime. "If a picture's that important, I'll find one."
"You mean you'll try to find one? Or you will find one?"
My chin lifted. "Oh, I'll find one, alright."
"You're on," he said. "Same time tomorrow then?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"We'll take this up again tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Let's say four o'clock."
So I was being dismissed? With growing confusion, I glanced toward the projector screen.
When I did, I swear, my face burst into flames.
Once again, my computer had gone into wallpaper mode.
Instead of the logo for Blast Tools, I was looking at another picture of myself. In this one, I wasn't wearing a bikini.
That was the good news.
But the bad news? Instead, I was wearing a long silver prom dress along with a sparkly crown and white sash that proclaimed in big red letters, "Tomato Queen 1st Runner Up."