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."
