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“Do you have a hearing problem? I said no.”
“Something tells me you’ll change your mind between now and then.”
“How the hell would you know?”
“Because you seem like a smart woman.”
“Hence my answer,” I fire back.
“It’s one date. Hell, we don’t even have to call it a date. Let’s call it dinner.”
“Dinner…” My forehead crinkles as I stare back at a man so freaking gorgeous I wonder how I’m still breathing, let alone talking.
Then again, beauty is only skin deep, and I have a feeling he doesn’t have much to offer beyond what the eye can see.
“A free meal at a nice restaurant and then you walk away half a million dollars richer and never have to see me again.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
He said I’m smart. He’s right, I am. And I’m smart enough to know that a man as famous and well known as Treyton Tyler does not work this hard for a date unless there’s something in it for him.
“The pleasure of your company.”
What a cliché line if there ever was one…
“I think you’re full of shit.” I call it as it is because honestly, professionalism went out the door pretty much the moment Treyton walked through it.
“Maybe.” His smile deepens. “So, what do you say? One dinner and then I sign on the dotted line.”
My mind battles back and forth. Indecisiveness has never been my playing field. When I want something, I do it, when I don’t, I won’t. It’s that simple. But this isn’t a simple do I or don’t I decision with little to no consequence. This is a half million dollars on the line. And really, do I dislike this man so much that I can’t sit across the table from him for an hour? Hell, I don’t even know him so can I really say that I don’t like him, let alone enough to let that kind of money slip through my fingers?
“Seven o’clock?” I start to waver, knowing that I really don’t have a choice in the matter. I need the money. It would take so much pressure off of me. I could go from working non-stop to taking actual days off. The thought is more than a little enticing.
Could I really risk losing the money because of stubborn pride? It’s not like he’s asking me to sleep with him. He’s asking me to share a meal with him. Surely I, the queen of the fake face, can find a way to get through one evening.
He nods, his expression amused. He knows he’s won which pisses me off so much that I almost back out…Almost.
“Fine. Give me your phone.” I reach out my hand.
“Why?” He looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head.
“So I can plug in my phone number.”
“I already have your number.”
“How?” I ask before realizing that my phone number is pretty much everywhere. Business cards, pamphlets, billboards, benches. You name it, I’ve probably plastered my name and number on it. “Actually, never mind. I know how.” I drop my hand. “So I guess just text me and I’ll send you my address.”
“No need. I know where you live.”
“How do you know where I live?”
He clearly knew what he was doing when he came here tonight. But still the burning questions go unanswered. Why? How? What’s his end game? And how do I fit into the story?
“You’d be surprised what you can accomplish when money is no object.”
I internally cringe. Okay, that’s a lie. I cringe externally too. Because really? Some people have the world at their feet and instead of being a decent human being that could make some real change, they squander their fame and money for their own selfish gain.
“A very Hollywood thing for you to say.” I roll my eyes and do not for one second try to hide it.
