Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(12)

I suck in a breath. There’s still a chance this is all coincidence, or that somebody else in the building requested me. If this is not a setup personally designed by Max, she’ll take the delivery for him. One of the main things big money does is to insulate you from commoners. “Meow Squad delivery.”

“Go ahead and bring it down. All the way down.” She turns her head to indicate the direction.

With that one command, she shows me that she had instructions to let me through.

Which means Max is expecting me.

She’s still looking at me. Again she does the head motion, or more like a graceful torque. It’s the kind of move I might memorize and fold into my catalog of character details if I weren’t feeling like I was wearing a Lady Gaga-style meat suit on my way to a rabid dog convention.

I head down.

The floor is sparkling white marble and the walls are something white that glows, as though with lights behind; skylights above showcase the blue sky.

All in all, this hallway could be somebody’s idea of what the path to heaven is like. But being that every ten feet there’s a photo of Max Manwhore Hilton looking like he’s Adonis himself, and I’m dressed up as an animal that eats from a bowl on the floor and poops in a box, it’s more like the highway to hell for me.

My neck feels unpleasantly clammy. Sweat is pouring down my back.

I don’t have to go in. I could turn around. I could ditch the cart and turn around. It’s a still free country. I slow my steps, thinking seriously about going back to waiting tables. Except insurance. Flexibility. My friends.

I reach the door and do an acting exercise where I breathe in the feeling that I wish to convey. I breathe in confidence and success.

I’m cool and confident, never doubting the path I’ve taken.

Max is nobody special to me. I barely even remember him from high school.

With trembling hands I knock. “Lunch delivery.” Because I can’t quite bring myself to say Meow Squad.

“Come,” he says, sounding bored.

I push in my cart.

There across an expanse of white marble tile stands a massive desk. And behind it sits Max.

My mouth goes dry. Butterflies scatter in my belly.

He’s typing something onto a laptop, eyes fixed on whatever he’s writing. The light from the screen seems to kiss his cheekbones, brushing them with an imperious glow.

People talk about resting bitch face, but Max has the opposite. He has resting amused-and-confident-god face, the default expression of a man with incredible beauty and wealth and a magnetic presence that people can feel in their bodies when they get within ten feet. Not to mention an uber-cool mythology about himself where he lounges by pools in sunglasses and likes his women hot and his scotch cold.

I stand there flooded with loathing and something else that I don’t have a category for.

He doesn’t even see me.

On his wall is a massive photograph of him sprawled upon a princely chair; three gorgeous gown-wearing supermodels hang on him. They’re all laughing.

I recognize Lana Sheffidy, the most famous Max Hilton girl. She parlayed her association with Max into one of the world’s top handbag brands.

“Mia?”

I turn.

Our gazes lock.

And for one skin-shivering, heart-thundering moment, I forget how to breathe.

Because it’s Max. The familiarity of him buzzes through my veins like a drug. He tilts his head, dark brows a bold slash over blue eyes.

Maybe it’s the surprise that makes him look vulnerable for a second, that lets me imagine I see the boy I knew that summer, the sweet kid who sang with me and brought me snow cones and helped me with my music theory class.

“Mia. What are you doing?”

I straighten. He’s acting surprised? Seriously? Who arranges for his high school rival to deliver him a sandwich and then acts surprised?

For a second, I think it’s real. That this is some kind of mix-up.

Then the corner of his lip quirks up, all baffled amusement. Like something’s funny. Like it’s all a joke. Because of course he knew.

My body heats. More than heats. I’m a nuclear reactor of mortification.

God, when will I learn my lesson? How many times will I think Max Hilton is having a real emotion, only to be slammed in the face with the cynical, cold-hearted truth of him?

I smile my hugest smile. It’s not for nothing that I attended Manhattan’s most elite performing arts high school. “Max,” I say. “Looks like somebody’s getting a delicious croissant sandwich.”

I park my cart and move across the elegant white marble floor of his airy office like he’s just another customer. I set the bag and his complimentary mini-bag of potato chips in front of him.

He just watches me. Saying nothing. Savoring his victory, I suppose. There’s a lot of victory to savor.

But either way, alpha-signaling unlocked!

It’s here that I get my flash of brilliance. I put my hand on my hip. “Very nice, Max,” I say. “All of this is very impressive.”

To most people, that would sound like a compliment.

But Max and I aren’t most people.

His lip twitches—that’s how I know my little zinger hit home.

I strut back to my cart and push it toward the door, biting back a smile at my cleverness. Still he says nothing. I really, really, really don’t want to do the outrageous meow—or really, any meow—but I need to. So I’m thinking about that when he speaks just one more word.