Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Our eyes lock, and he raises an eyebrow.
Game on, asshole . . . don’t fuck with me.
“Ah . . . but, Claire, how sad that the best thing you recall about your own life experiences is one that revolved around another. I think that says a lot more about you than it does him. I want a real answer this afternoon. Reflect on it until then.”
He smiles out at the audience, completely unfazed.
I step back, infuriated. What in the actual fuck does he think I’m going to learn from reflecting on what kind of person I am? I know who I am, and I’m completely happy with her.
Jerkoff.
This conference is just so typically him.
“And besides.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile as he continues to pace back and forth across the stage. “You’ll probably be begging that soul-sucking bastard to ask you back out one day . . . not that he ever would.”
The crowd laughs, and he moves on to his next victim. “You, the girl with the long blonde hair. What is your proudest memory? And I want you to really dig deep on the answer.”
I feel my blood pressure rise. Perspiration begins to bead on my forehead, and I want to march down and kick Mr. Fancy Pants straight up the ass and knock him off the stage.
Damn him . . . can I not have one fucking week away from life and forget who I am?
Why the hell is he here?
Over the next hour, Tristan Miles holds the audience captive, and I stare into space as I imagine myself torturing him to a grizzly death.
I should have stayed in my seat. Not only do I have to listen to his crap—I now have to stand up for it. I’ll just look stupid if I walk out now.
Wind it up already.
He’s only here today, and then he goes back to New York, I remind myself. I’m so annoyed with myself that I gave him the satisfaction of saying he wouldn’t ask me out again anyway.
How uncool can a person be?
God, he’s probably happily married by now . . . to a supermodel or an Instagrammer.
Ugh, I hate this guy. He turns me into an idiot.
“There will be a short recess now. Morning tea is catered in the lounge, and then we will go into our goal workshops. We set our goals on the first day and then again on day five to see how much you’ve grown.” He looks at his watch. “See you in the Boronia Room in half an hour from now.”
I exhale heavily and make my way down to the lounge for morning tea. Everyone is chatting and happy. I make myself a coffee, grab a slice of chocolate cake, and then stand in the corner and take out my phone. I google massage parlors in this area.
Screw this; I’m out of here.
My only goal for today is to get a massage and drink two liters of champagne.
I sip my coffee and click on the list that comes up.
Tristan walks into the room, and all heads turn. He has this powerful aura that surrounds him; you can’t help but look his way. His dark-brown hair is short on the back and sides, with a bit of length to it on the top. It has that perfect just-fucked look.
His posture is straight, and his jaw is square and strong. He has the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. His eyes find mine across the room, and he holds me to attention. His stare is potent; I can feel the heat of it on my skin. Electricity bounces between us, and I snap my eyes away angrily.
Damn him for being good looking.
“Hello.” A male voice comes from beside me. “Mind if I join you?”
Oh, it’s the man I met at reception yesterday. What was his name again? “Not at all.” I smile. “Please.”
“I’m Nelson. We met yesterday.”
“Yes. I remember. Hi, Nelson. I’m Claire.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll say.” He chuckles. “Mr. Miles picked on you a bit in there.”
“Oh.” I sip my coffee, wishing the earth would swallow me up whole. “Did he? I didn’t notice.” I try to act casual.
“I mean, I’m not one to openly fawn over someone, but,” he gushes, “have you read his portfolio?”
“No.” I sip my coffee and glance up, straight into the gaze of Tristan. Our eyes lock for a few seconds, and then one of the five women clambering around him says something, pulling his gaze from me, and I snap my eyes away.
“He’s got six degrees and speaks five languages,” Nelson continues. “Has an IQ of one hundred and seventy. That’s even higher than a genius; that’s like a mentalist.” He nods, as if he is relaying some life-changing information.
“Wow.” I fake a smile.
Oh please, give me a break. I widen my eyes . . . big fucking deal. Go away, Nelson; you’re annoying, and I want to google massages. I’ve got better things to do than talk about mental smart assholes.