Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(23)

I tell myself it’s not the girl he’s looking at, but that’s a lie, because if you trace the line of his gaze and triangulate from her hand, it’s obvious that he’s staring right at her face.

But who can say what she’s doing with the other hand?

I decide she’s holding a pork chop in front of her face with her other hand, and she’s about to bite into it. And it’s the pork chop—and not her—that Max is staring at, lusting over.

New Caption: Why the hell didn’t I order the pork chops? I wonder if she’ll trade with me. I am Max Hilton, after all.

I shut off Instagram. Max Hilton’s Instagram feed is not helping my mood. But then there’s that slice of his tower, right out my window.

“Yeah, I'm not done with you,” I say. I give his tower the finger and go get my uniform. I empty the sequins out of my pocket from when I ripped them off my ears in fury—oh my god how Max would’ve loved to see that.

Carefully, I sew them back onto my ears. Because I’m doing this thing. I’m fighting him on behalf of all the women who ended up going home with losers because of his stupid book.

I sit in bed, hand-sewing them on. I don’t care what it takes, I’ll keep alpha-signaling and reverse-chasing and all of the rest until Max sees what he’s done.





7




Women are like dogs. They enjoy knowing you’re in charge.

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





* * *



Mia

Sienna slips from her pose of leisure into a pose of attentiveness when I arrive at today’s meet place. “So?” She looks my blingy self up and down. “You’re wearing it again. Does that mean the tips stayed good?”

“Oh, they stayed good, my friend,” I say.

“Really? Forty percent good?”

I smile. Raise my brows. Yes.

“And you didn’t do more deliveries? It’s per delivery?”

“Per delivery, an average of forty percent better.”

“That settles it,” Sienna says. “I’m doing it.”

“You should.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” I say, feeling happy that I could help pretty Sienna. We may be in bitter competition for musical theater roles, but we’re a family at Meow Squad; one of us getting better tips doesn’t take away from the others.

“So is this the sort of shit you’ll be wearing for the Anything Goes tryouts?”

“Not sure yet,” I say. “Did you pick yours?”

“Not sure,” she says, resuming her picture-perfect pose of leisure.

Neither of us want to reveal what we’re wearing. The audition outfit is a delicate balance—you want to feel like that character to the casting director, but it’s a rookie move to go full-on dressing the part.

Sienna could be real competition. She has a bell-like voice and perfect diction. She has a big ballet pedigree, too, but I’m the better overall singer, and a way better soprano.

A few hours later, I’m heading into the lobby of Maximillion Plaza with my trusty cart. I’ll be doing the Show You’re in Charge rule, which is exactly what you’d think it is.

It’s not easy to take charge when you feel like a tiny little plastic figurine living in a snow globe on Max’s desk. And Max gets to shake up your world and make it snow whenever he pleases.

But that doesn’t stop me. I have a little something in store for him. I may not be in charge of much, but there is one thing when it comes to Max—his lunch.

I practice showing I’m in charge to the customers on the lower floors. I give people unasked-for mustards when they’ve ordered sandwiches that should have mustard, and instruct them to use it. Or I override their chips selection, or tell them to eat their cookie before the sandwich.

Going bossy like that was scary at first, but people love it. Max’s book is kind of brilliant, aside from being the pickup guide that helped to ruin Kelsey’s life.

There’s a sweet guy on the twentieth floor who has lots of Blade Runner stuff in his office. The first day he was all, the cat thing is working for you! and we had a charming exchange. Today I tell him he has to eat his barbecue chips after he eats his sandwich, because otherwise it spoils the taste, and I’m very firm about it. He seems surprised, but then we bond over Blade Runner, and I tell him I’ll be calling him Blade from now on.

Blade is the kind of guy I’d normally fall for if Max wasn’t looming up there, poised for another round of his favorite new game, jerky billionaire vs. delivery cat.



* * *



Playboy billionaire executive and supposed woman expert Max Hilton is on the phone when I arrive.

I busy myself with my cart.

It’s a problem that he’s on the phone—I need him to be paying attention. I’ve taken the liberty of changing his order. He’ll be eating a lunch of my choosing.

He motions to the corner of his desk, not even looking at me. Like I’m a dog who needs a hand signal to understand that the master needs his food laid out.

So arrogant.

I look away, because maybe I can’t be bothered to glance at him.

Looking away turns out to be worse, because there’s that giant photo of models hanging all over him. I avert my eyes after a quick, hate-drenched glance. Those models need to buy a clue about the cynical, soulless robot they have their sights set on.