Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(11)

His.

There’s always been a strange, sizzling line of knowledge between us like that. Not sizzling hot, but sizzling painful. A sizzle that stings and leaves a terrible scar.

My heart pounds. It’s fear, but something more—a kind of dark exhilaration. I’m going in there. I’m gonna do this.

I make my way to the building, steeling myself. The other deliveries were easy audiences, but Max zeroes in on your weak points. He sees through your bullshit. Queen of the cats is pure bullshit—bullshit that he invented. Will he know?

I keep going back to what Kelsey said, though—her sister never remembers what she wrote even a year ago. Max is running a men’s lifestyle empire now; surely the things he put in a book nearly a decade ago have faded into the dust heap of time. Also, his system was for men. He’ll never recognize it coming from a woman…right?

Can I actually bring him to his knees with his own system? People rarely see their own weak spots, even if they wrote a book on those weak spots for others.

And my sisters are counting on me. It’s this most of all that gives me the rush of courage that propels me through the gleaming steel-and-glass doors of Maximillion Plaza; this that gets me across the high-ceilinged lobby.

It’s dizzyingly lux inside, an assault of white marble and exposed pipes and polished metal beams with an ultra-mod lighting scheme, like somebody threw a basket of enchanted glowing orbs toward the ceiling, and they froze midflight in an arrangement that’s entirely random, yet utterly perfect.

Naturally.

What you also can’t miss are the mammoth photographs of Max on the towering walls. Black-and-white on-brand photos.

I recognize some of the shots from magazine and billboard campaigns for his eveningwear line, his sportswear line, his exclusive wristwatch line.

There’s Max leaning in a darkened doorway, all merciless charm in a tux that looks lived-in and maybe even fought in and now clings wantonly to his muscular chest and shoulders.

There’s Max leaning on a railing looking thoughtfully out over some Mediterranean cliffs wearing a Maximillion brand watch on his very muscular forearm, shot with some type of photographic trickery that makes you really, really want to touch his skin.

Further down, there’s a shot of Max surrounded by beautiful women, but not in a cheesy way. Max never gives you openings. He’s like a steamship with massive, iron-clad sides. Your puny little shots ping right off of him as he looks on amused, at ease, a glorious god accustomed to the sparkling waters in which he floats.

It’s no wonder that millions of men emulate Max, strive to be the cool, handsome man of mystery with the world at his feet. Max walks into a party on a yacht and everyone on board scrambles for his attention, competes to offer him his favorite cocktail, ready to smile at his quips, but not too hugely, because you don’t want to be sycophantic!

The security people wave me into an elevator area. I wait alongside a bunch of beautiful people with respectable jobs that don’t require them to wear ears and make animal sounds.

Sweat trickles down my spine.

I shouldn’t have been surprised Max found out I was a delivery cat. Max always finds out everything that is wrong. Everything you want to hide, he finds it and exploits it.

I should be surprised he took as long as he did. That’s what should surprise me.

The elevator doors open and I get in with the group. A few of them glance discreetly at me. I hold my head high.

I go over various self-confidence mantras I have.

Many successful actresses were still struggling in their late twenties and thirties.

Another: You made a choice to reach for the stars, to have a career on Broadway. There’s no shame in doing what it takes. It’s called paying dues.

And when things are at their worst: You have a right to dream.

The lines all crumble as I ride up the elevator. Only Max has the ability to pre-crumble me.

Max’s is the highest floor, but I’m not going to deliver to him first, though in a different building, I would.

The efficiency of delivering up versus delivering down is a raging debate among us Meow Squad delivery cats. I’m a deliver-down girl, especially before three in the afternoon, a decision that has to do with my personal theories of elevator traffic patterns. I’m going against my normal way, partly because I want to make Max wait the longest, and also, I might have to cry afterwards.

So I hit floor five first, in and out of the elevator. Five orders on the sixth floor, mostly sushi; lots of falafels and some wraps to the conference room on seven, nothing else until twelve, and so on.

I deliver in the persona of most wonderful cat ever, but it’s fraying at the edges.

I dispatch food to the twenty-first floor and get back in with my cart. Max is next. I remind myself to breathe. I picture Kelsey’s and Jada’s faces when I check off the first box when they see I’m stepping up for them. And I’ll keep checking off the boxes.

Assuming he makes me deliver his lunch more than once. But he will. Max has no mercy. He never did.

The floor buttons blink. My pulse races.

A lot of successful actresses were still struggling in their late twenties and thirties.

The doors squeech open.

The twenty-fifth floor is a crystal palace of breathtaking views featuring the cool angularity of Manhattan beneath a soaring blue sky. A beautiful woman not in an embarrassing cat squad delivery outfit sits behind the desk.