Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(13)

“Wait.”

I brace. I turn.

And meet his gaze.

He beams at me, his amused resting face turned to eleven. After a perfect amount of time, he crosses his legs, leisurely king upon his throne.

“What is it?” I ask.

He takes a nice long look at me in my stupid outfit, and finally his gaze rests at the top of my head where my glittering cat ears perch. It’s the part of the outfit I hate the most right now, which just goes to show that Max’s ability to zero in on my weak spot is still intact.

He lifts the white bag with the Meow Squad logo and website URL and delivery promise spelled out in a fab orange font. “It says right on the bag that I get to choose from an array of chips.”

“When no choice is made, you get plain Lay’s.”

He frowns. “I’d prefer to choose from the array.”

I raise my eyebrows, but just a tiny bit, because I’m so rising above this power play. “I have Lay’s, cheesy puffs, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.”

“Let’s see them.” He circles his finger, a shadow of a grin playing on his generous lips.

“Well…I just told you what they are.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But presented with an array is a visual concept. I’d like to be presented with my array. I think I’m entitled, don’t you?”

My pulse races. So this is how it’s going to be. Max going full asshole. Milking every bit of evil pleasure out of my servitude.

“Oh, I definitely think you’re entitled,” I say, and I’m definitely using entitled as an unflattering adjective. “Very entitled.”

His stare is all cold sparkles. “Present my array, Mia; I don’t have all day.”

My belly twists. I’d thought I’d had Greek yogurt for breakfast, but maybe it was daggers that I ate. And somehow I can’t move. I really should hop into action. The longer I wait, the more obvious it’ll be that he’s getting to me.

Rule number one: never let Max know he’s getting to you.

And of course, there’s the little matter of my job. Meow Squad is a customer-is-always-right place, and Max Hilton is more important than most. He could get me fired with the slightest complaint. One disparaging word on Instagram and Meow Squad could go supernova.

I turn to my cart. I grab two bags in one hand and three in the other and walk his floor of glamour—slowly—head held high. If nothing else, I’ll waste his time, one of the few ways the powerless get revenge on the powerful.

I smile coolly, an old technique from my Max wars. I recite the names in the manner of a game show hostess, “Lay’s, cheesy puffs, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.”

He makes me stand there while he decides, demoting me from delivery girl to human chip display rack.

“Hmm.” He’s not looking at the chips, though. He’s looking at me. I stand proudly, foot out front, a model with attitude. Eat your heart out, Max Hilton, that’s what my stance says. You have your empire but you’ll never have me. I’m queen of the delivery cats.

Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping it says. Max’s book is really strong on projecting confidence. I project with everything I have.

The seconds tick away. My pulse whooshes in my ears.

“Very good,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

Whoosh whoosh whoooooosh.

Literally is an overused word, just as worst nightmare come true is an overused phrase. But put them together and you have the perfect description of Max finding himself with the ability to order me around. Literally my worst nightmare come true.

And maybe this awesome power to humiliate me is his dream come true. We always were on opposite sides of things like that.

“Well?” I say.

“Hmm.” He puts his finger on his chin.

Seriously?!

Time slows. Humiliation is a buzz inside my body, growing more and more intense with every passing moment, until it reaches the level of an agitated hornets’ nest. The hornets trapped, frantic.

“I’ll take the cheesy puffs,” he says, voice rough.

I force myself to give him a mocking smile.

“Open them and set them here, please.”

I walk back around the desk, feeling his gaze—not just on my skin, but deeper than that, like he can hear those hornets.

I really want to rip open the bag in a way that either smashes the puffs or sends them flying, but then he’d know I’m upset, so I open it nicely, channeling the dancerly grace of Kelsey. Coolly I set it next to his sandwich.

“Thank you,” he says.

I head for the door, feeling warm in my cat suit, and like the ears-headband is too tight on my head. I need to get out of there. And I so don’t want to say meow. But what if he decides to make me? I can hear him now: Did you forget your line, Mia?

Though that wasn’t his criticism of my acting back at the Shiz. It was that my acting was obvious. Without nuance. Jerseygirl, he’d call me, mocking my south Jersey accent.

My accent definitely put me at a disadvantage. So did my lack of training—all the other kids at the Shiz had grown up with lessons in everything, but I was lucky to get a bowl of Cheerios for dinner some days.

Still, I’m proud of where I’m from. And I can be proud of who I am. I don’t have a tower, but I have friends who I fight for.