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“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?
