Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(17)

“We won’t need a stage kiss,” I tell him. “Your character sounds protective and macho. Maybe he prefers his woman to appear modest. I doubt he’d wanna go all PDA.”

“Unless he feels his woman is being ogled,” he rumbles. “Then he would want to claim her publicly.”

“Yeah, but what if she gets carried away and messes up his hair?” A threat. He hates when you touch his hair.

“She must not do that,” he growls.

I snort. “Well, it luckily won’t come to that. It would just be you looking adoringly at me.”

If and when the time comes. Which is looking less likely with every new twist in his backstory.





5




Nice guys wind up in the friend zone.

~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room





* * *



Mia

Sienna is down at the rendezvous point when I arrive. She is sitting today, draped elegantly over a bus bench, arms splayed to either side. You can almost hear the lush electronica playing in the background.

She looks me up and down, from my shiny silver boots sticking out under my wool overcoat to my sequined cat ears. “Again? Seriously?”

I put on a Cheshire cat smile, and do a little shimmy-dance right up to her, in time with music blaring out of somebody’s car.

She sits up. “Seriously? How much did it raise your tips?”

“Does it matter?” I tease. “Sienna, only one cat can be alpha queen.”

“Cats don’t have alphas,” she says. “They’re not pack animals.”

I hold up four fingers.

“Four percent better?” she asks.

I smile even more widely, shaking my head.

“Forty?!?”

“Forty.” And that’s not counting Max’s great tip. Far more than the cost of his meal.

“Are you messing with me?”

I shake my head. “Not messing with you.”

She narrows her eyes. “It could’ve been the shock of the new outfit.”

“Possibly.”

She studies my getup. “Lemme know if the tips stay good. If this thing holds, I’m doing alpha-queen cat, too.”

“I’ll let you know,” I say.

And I will. Sienna’s not the nicest, but we all deserve more money.

I do my route, taking my pair of financial industries buildings first, because those guys are all at work at five in the morning, so lunch for them is around ten. I head to the next building, a mammoth office complex. I check my tips between buildings, and they are definitely staying high. In fact, the more expressively I do my meow, the higher they go. I’ll definitely let Sienna in on that.

It’s half past twelve by the time I hit Maximillion Plaza. I deliver up, and before I know it, I’m on the twenty-fifth floor. I walk down past the glorious receptionists and continue on down the glorious hall and knock. “Meow Squad,” I say.

“Come.” Because he can’t be bothered to say come in.

I push in with my cart.

My belly turns upside down like it always does when I get into the presence of Max. His beauty crackles through the air like an electric charge. It gets inside you and melts your will to hate him.

He sets down his phone and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms slowly upward, then places them behind his head as a lazy smile overtakes his face. It’s as if every fiber of his being is saying, Ah! A big, delicious dish of humiliation. Can’t wait to dig in!

I grab his bag of cheese puffs from the cart and head toward his desk—that’s a Meow Squad thing; you’re not supposed to pull the cart right up to people’s desks. It gives more of the illusion of table service, I suppose. In an office with as much square footage as Max’s, I have to cross several feet of tundra.

He nods at a space that’s been cleared in front of him. “Lay it out here.”

I put down the bag that contains his roast beef croissant sandwich, and set the cheese puffs next to it. Now’s my chance to reverse-chase him. I have a few ideas.

“Mia,” he says. “Did I not say to lay it out?”

“What?”

“Lay. It. Out.” He waits, all sparkling arrogance with a streak of smug pleasure.

I suck in a small breath and hold it. Like maybe if I don’t breathe, somehow this won’t be happening.

Lay it out.

Lunch layout is definitely something he has a right to request, but it’s designed for conference scenarios, in order to minimize distractions during meetings. So that people can keep their attention on the project instead of on crinkling bags and switched orders and extra napkins.

What is it not designed for? A jerky billionaire in an office ordering you around.

Now I have to set his place for him like a servant? But of course, it’s what he wants.

I give him a cool stare. “You’re asking me to lay it out?”

“Yes,” he says.

I regard him with amused consternation, like it’s such a ridiculous request I can barely process it. Acting skillz!

“Is there a problem?”

I give him my trademark cool smile. “If that’s what you need,” I bite out. As in, If that’s what you need to feel good, jackalope.