Blitz (Blast Brothers #3) - Sabrina Stark Page 0,22

the truth. In my world, this wasn't as common as you'd think.

Maybe she wasn't quite as crazy as I'd thought.

After studying the final photo, one obviously taken last summer, I closed the book and looked back to Mina.

She smiled as if to say, "I told you so."

Yes. She had.

But if she thought this gave her the upper hand, she didn't know who she was dealing with.

I said, "What, no pageant photo?"

Her smile faded. "What do you mean?"

I gestured toward the portfolio. "Where's the photo from yesterday?" I gave her a significant look. "And I don't mean the bikini shot."

Her eyes narrowed. "Which really was an accident."

For the first time, I was tempted to believe her. Tempted, but not willing. "So you said. But that's not the photo we're talking about."

"I know. I'm just saying."

"No. You're not saying. So answer the question."

I wasn't sure why I wanted to know. But my curiosity was more piqued than it had been in a while. The pageant photo would've been solid proof that she'd attended in whatever year that was.

But she'd left it out. Why? Because she was runner up? Or because she'd already shown it yesterday?

It wasn't important. But the fact she was balking only fueled my curiosity.

Across from me, she said, "It's simple, really."

I doubted that.

She continued. "I didn't use it because I didn't need to. I had a different photo for that year."

The answer was fine enough, but unsatisfying for reasons I couldn’t quite decipher. "Yeah? Which one?"

"It was that picture with the truck." As she spoke, she reached out and reclaimed her portfolio. She flipped through it and stopped on a page near the back.

She returned the portfolio to my desk and shifted it around so the image would be right-side-up from my vantage point, not hers.

I'd seen the photo already. Still, I studied it again. It was a snapshot of Mina standing in the bed of a white pickup, surrounded by bushel-baskets of tomatoes. She wore cut-off jeans and a little white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid, and she was smiling for the camera.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her smile was playful.

She looked like every teenage boy's fantasy – a hot farmer's daughter who had no clue how beautiful she was.

But I was no teenager, and I wasn't about to be distracted.

I asked, "So, why'd you pick that one?"

"You mean the photo with the truck?" She hesitated. "I picked it because it was the right year."

Doubtful. Still, I replied, "And which year was that?"

"The year I graduated." She paused. "From high school, I mean."

"So that's when you competed for the crown, huh?"

"Yes." Her mouth tightened like she thought I was mocking her. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't.

Either way, I was having a hard time figuring her out. Yesterday, she'd flaunted two beauty shots – the bikini picture and the one from the pageant. But today, she'd gone all family-friendly.

A change in tactics?

Or maybe it was all about the festival.

Hey, stranger things had happened.

Across from me, she said, "So, are you satisfied?"

I gave her a good, long look. No. I wasn't satisfied. The truth was, I'd been feeling distinctly unsatisfied ever since she'd wheedled her way into my office yesterday afternoon.

Usually, I was good at figuring people out – learning what made them tick and what they were really after.

But Mina was a mess of contradictions. And, as I studied her from behind my desk, I started to wonder if maybe she wasn't the crazy one.

Maybe I was. Because for better or worse, I wanted to figure her out.

In reply to her question, I reached into my top desk drawer and pulled out the remote for the projector screen. I pointed it toward the far wall and told Mina, "Go ahead. Make your pitch."

Chapter 17

Mina

As his words echoed out between us, I felt a surge of relief along with a tiny twinge of annoyance. Make your pitch?

It was a long way from an apology or cripes, even the barest admission that he'd misjudged me.

Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, so with a tight smile, I stood and returned to the conference table where I'd left my computer. By the time I lifted its lid, the projection screen across the room was already down, waiting for me to begin.

This time, the oversized screen held no surprises – no random bikini shots or pictures of me with a sash and crown. And there'd be no surprises either.

Last night, I'd moved every personal photo from my primary image