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Chapter 3

  • “You self-conceited prick,” I whisper.
  • He tilts his chin to the sky and smiles proudly. “Nice guys come last, Claire.”
  • My heart begins to beat faster as my anger builds.
  • “Think about it.” He takes out his business card and slides it across the table.
  • TRISTAN MILES
  • 212-555-4946
  • “I know this is not how you want to sell your company. But you need to be a realist,” he continues.
  • I stare at him, sitting there all cold and heartless, and I feel my emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
  • Our eyes are locked. “Take the offer, Claire. I’ll email you a figure this afternoon. You will be taken care of.”
  • My sanity rubber band snaps, and I sit forward. “And who will take care of my late husband’s memory, Mr. Miles?” I sneer. “Miles Media sure as hell won’t.”
  • He twists his lips, uncomfortable for the first time.
  • “Do you know anything about me and my company?”
  • “I do.”
  • “Then you’ll know that this company was my husband’s labor of love. He worked for ten years to build it up from the ground. His dream was to hand it down to his three sons.”
  • His eyes hold mine.
  • “So . . . don’t you fucking dare”—I slam my hand on the table as my eyes fill with tears—“sit there with that smug look on your face and threaten me. Because believe me . . . Mr. Miles, whatever you’re dishing out isn’t half as bad as losing him.” I stand. “I’ve already been to hell and back, and I will not have some rich, spoiled bastard make me feel like shit.”
  • He rolls his lips, unimpressed.
  • “Don’t call me again,” I snap as I push back my chair.
  • “Think about it, Claire.”
  • “Go to hell.” I begin to storm to the door.
  • “She’s just having a bad day. We’ll definitely think about it,” Marley splutters in embarrassment. “Thanks for the cake—it was yummy.”
  • I angrily wipe the tears from my face as I run down the stairs and out the front doors. I can’t believe I was so unprofessional. Tears fill my eyes again. Oh well, at least I stood up to him, I guess.
  • Marley runs to keep up with me. She wisely stays silent and then looks up and down the street. “Oh, screw this, Claire—let’s not go back to work. Let’s go get drunk instead.”
  • Tristan
  • I stand at the window and stare over New York. My hands are in my suit pockets, and a strange feeling is burning a hole in my stomach.
  • Claire Anderson.
  • Beautiful, smart, and proud.
  • No matter how many times I’ve tried to wipe her out of my mind over the last three days since our meeting, I can’t.
  • The way she looked, the way she smelled, the curve of her breasts through her silk shirt.
  • The fire in her eyes.
  • She is the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in a long time, and her heartfelt words are playing on repeat.
  • “So . . . don’t you fucking dare sit there with that smug look on your face and threaten me. Because believe me . . . Mr. Miles, whatever you’re dishing out isn’t half as bad as losing him. I’ve already been to hell and back, and I will not have some rich, spoiled bastard make me feel like shit.”
  • I take a seat at my desk and roll a pen beneath my fingers as I mentally go over what I need to say. I have to call her and follow up on our meeting, and I’m dreading it. I exhale heavily and dial her number. “Claire Anderson’s office.”
  • “Hello, Marley. It’s Tristan Miles.”
  • “Oh, hello, Tristan,” she replies happily. “Are you after Claire?”
  • “Yes, I am. Is she available?”
  • “I’ll put you straight through.”
  • “Thank you.”
  • I wait, and then she answers. “Hello, Claire speaking.”
  • I close my eyes at the sound of her voice . . . sexy, husky . . . enticing.
  • “Hello, Claire. It’s Tristan.”
  • “Oh.” She falls silent.
  • Fuck . . . Marley didn’t tell her it was me.
  • An unfamiliar feeling begins to seep into my bones. “I just wanted to see if you were okay after our meeting. I’m sorry if I upset you.” I screw up my face . . . what are you doing? This is not in the plan.
  • “My feelings are no concern of yours, Mr. Miles.”
  • “Tristan,” I correct her.
  • “How can I help you?” she snaps impatiently.
  • My mind goes blank . . .
  • “Tristan?” she prompts me.
  • “I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night.” My eyes close in horror . . . what the fuck am I doing right now?
  • She stays silent for a moment and then replies in surprise, “You’re asking me out on a date?”
  • I screw up my face. “I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
  • She chuckles in a condescending tone. “You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth.” Then she whispers, “Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
  • I bite my bottom lip . . . ouch. “Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
  • “It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.” The phone clicks as she hangs up.
  • I stare at the phone in my hand. Adrenaline is pumping through my system at her fighting words.
  • I don’t know whether I’m shocked or impressed.
  • Perhaps a bit of both.
  • I’ve never been rejected before and definitely never been spoken to like that.
  • I turn to my computer and type into Google: Who is Claire Anderson?