Blitz (Blast Brothers #3) - Sabrina Stark Page 0,26

I couldn't help but sigh. Why, oh why, wasn't I wearing sneakers?

And hey, while I was at it, jeans and a long-sleeve shirt would've been a whole lot better than a dress. Still, I tried to look on the bright side. At least the weather was unseasonably warm, and it wasn't raining. Otherwise, I'd be in real trouble.

I'd parked on a narrow side-street with very little traffic, probably because most of the nearby businesses were closed – meaning for good, not simply for the day.

I should've known this street was bad luck.

As I stood just outside my driver's side door, I took a long look around. Although my car wasn't the only one parked along this stretch, I saw nobody else nearby.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I reached into my purse and pulled out a screwdriver. The screwdriver was brand new, purchased only two days ago as a prop for my presentation. And even though I'd ended up ditching the whole prop idea, I was still lugging the tool around.

It was a good thing, too, because it was about to come in very handy.

With the screwdriver in-hand, I set my computer, along with my purse and portfolio, on the sidewalk beside my car. And then, I circled around to the vehicle's front.

After verifying once again that I was alone, I kicked off my shoes and crawled up onto the hood and then onto the roof.

My car was old, but reliable – with one exception. My sunroof was a real lemon. I'd had it installed maybe four years ago, and it had never worked quite right. Not only did it leak during heavy rainstorms, it also made annoying wind noises whenever I drove over fifty-three miles an hour.

Yes, I did know the exact speed.

And why?

It was because the sound was that annoying – so annoying that for years now, I'd been driving no faster than fifty-two miles an hour. Happily, this wasn't a huge deal, considering that I didn't do much highway driving, anyway.

As far as the sunroof itself, after several failed attempts at fixing it, I'd given up and focused on saving up for a new car.

On the upside, I'd learned the hard way last summer that if I pried on the sunroof hard enough from above, it would pop open just enough for me crawl into the car.

So that was my plan.

Unfortunately, just as I'd managed to wedge the screwdriver between the sunroof and the seal surrounding it, who did I see exiting a nearby building?

Emory Hawthorne.

I almost groaned at the sight of her.

She was leaving Hank's Deli – a local sandwich shop that had gone out of business last winter. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing pink yoga pants along with a cut-off white tank top that looked fabulous with her tanned, tight stomach.

She was carrying a pink duffle bag that perfectly matched her yoga pants, as if the whole outfit belonged in a fitness commercial, the kind where no one ever looked rumpled or sweaty.

As for myself, I was sprawled across the roof of my car, jabbing at it with an orange screwdriver.

When Emory spotted me – as if I'd be hard to miss – she smiled like she'd just caught me masturbating to tentacle porn.

Unlike Emory, I wasn't smiling.

Then again, I never smiled when I saw Emory, not since she'd run off with my boyfriend seven years ago.

Emory was still smiling when she sat down on the deli's top step and stretched out her long, tanned legs over the two steps below. Under the deli's faded green awning, she looked perfectly at ease, sitting there like she owned the place.

I gave a snort of disgust. It was vintage Emory, making herself perfectly at home where she didn't belong.

Like in my boyfriend's pants.

Deliberately, I looked away and started prying once again at the sunroof. The last time I'd done this, it had popped open in a matter of seconds. This time, it was proving to be a lot more stubborn.

From under the awning, Emory called out, "You need to put more oomph into it."

My jaw clenched. What I really needed was to put my fist in her face. In my whole life, I'd never done such a thing, and I didn't plan to either. Still, if I were about to get violent, she'd be number-one on my list of punchable people.

I muttered, "I'll give you oomph, alright."

With obvious delight, she called out again, "What was