Blitz (Blast Brothers #3) - Sabrina Stark Page 0,48
the appropriate contact-person for a hundred festivals, much less track these people down – whether by phone, email, or in person – and convince them that you were sincere in wanting to give them money.
But I'd done it – which made Chase's reaction to my progress report especially aggravating.
He was still frowning behind his desk. "You serious?"
I'd just handed him a printed list that contained the name of each festival, along with its sponsorship level and details on what Blast Tools would be getting in return for its money.
I replied, "Of course I'm serious. Is there a problem?"
He gave me a look. "We sell tools, not aprons."
I stiffened in his visitor's chair. "Excuse me?"
He placed the report on his desk and turned it around so it was right-side-up from my vantage point, not his.
He pointed to a line-item on the first page. "A cakewalk? You're kidding, right?"
I loved cakewalks.
I loved cakes.
I felt my fingers tighten around my pen. I didn't love Chase Blastoviak.
And he most certainly didn't love me.
During the past two weeks, he'd given me very little guidance as far as the sponsorships went. We hadn't even met in person, mostly because he'd spent one of those weeks in Colorado doing something for the Blast TV show.
Probably, he'd been doing construction work in front of the cameras to make girls like me drool over him whenever the Colorado segment aired. But I wasn't drooling now, even if he did look annoyingly sexy in his suit and tie.
Over the last couple of weeks, we'd had only one brief phone conversation, during which he'd told me that I could allocate the money as I saw fit, as long as I got something good in return.
When I'd pressed him on what, specifically, he'd wanted, he'd suggested sponsoring events with prizes. What kinds of prizes, he never specified.
He'd told me to surprise him.
From the look on his face now, he was surprised, alright – just not in a good way.
I asked, "What's wrong with cakewalks?"
He was still frowning. "For starters, what the hell are they?"
"You don't know?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking."
I tried not so sigh. "But how can you hate the idea if you don't even know what it is?"
"I know what it isn't," he said.
"Oh, yeah? What's that?"
"Exciting."
I felt my eyes narrow. "I'll have you know, cakewalks can get pretty feisty." I leaned forward. "One time, maybe three years ago, Mrs. Pelt and Tina Stonewell both thought they won, and there was quite a bit of drama."
Looking more jaded than ever, Chase said, "Did they wrestle for it?"
"What?"
"The cake. Did they wrestle for it?"
Was he serious? From his expression, I couldn’t be sure either way. Grudgingly, I replied, "No."
"Were they wearing bikinis?"
Oh, for God's sake. "No. Of course not – because for one thing, Mrs. Pelt is almost eighty years old."
"Then I’m not interested."
I wasn't even sure what he meant. He wasn't interested in Mrs. Pelt? Or in cakes? Obviously, he was very interested in bikinis – like that was a surprise.
As far as Mrs. Pelt, I didn't bother pointing out that she'd been the reigning Tomato Queen sixty years ago and that she was still an attractive lady – bikini or no bikini.
I made a sound of frustration. "But you just admitted, you don't even know what they are." I gave Chase a stiff smile. "Meaning cakewalks, not bikinis."
Knowing Chase, he was a huge expert in bikinis – not to mention all the parts they covered.
Without much enthusiasm, he said, "Alright, what are they?"
Again, I leaned forward. "A cakewalk is where maybe thirty people walk in a circle as festive music plays. And there are squares or circles or whatever on the floor with numbers on them. And when the music stops, everyone moves to the nearest number. And then, someone else draws a number from a hat, and the person standing on that number wins the cake." I paused. "See?"
From the look on his face, he did see and wasn't any more impressed. "And Mrs. Pelt?"
"What about her?"
"The drama," he said. "What was it?"
Oh, that. The longer we talked, the less dramatic it seemed. Still, I put some extra pep into my voice and explained. "See, what was happened was, Mrs. Pelt was standing on number nine, and Tina Stonewell was standing on number six. And when number six was called, they both thought they won, because whoever drew the nine on the floor didn't make it clear which end was up." I smiled. "See?"