Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(24)

I go around and extract the sandwich and work really hard on flattening the bag out to form his little placemat. He’s talking scheduling, something about Tuesday night being out.

“No, it’s out, always out. The entire evening. A foundation commitment.”

Slowly I unwrap his sandwich. I’m detecting a definite emotional charge around this Tuesday-after-work thing. Somehow, I know he’s lying.

It’s not like I interacted with Max all that much in high school in terms of volume—aside from Oklahoma!, anyway, but I interacted with him a lot in terms of intensity.

The relationship of prey and predator is a fierce form of intimacy, especially in high school.

I watched him closely. Listened to conversations across the halls and classrooms with rapt attention, tuning out all else. And it wasn’t just real-time stuff; I kept his every utterance alive in my mind for later dissection and analysis. Understanding your enemy is an important survival skill.

So I really think he’s lying to whoever is on the other line. Foundation commitment is the sort of vague term a man like Max would use as a lie. Maybe he’s really going to be out having a foursome with his three best friends’ wives. Or visiting a children’s hospital dressed as an evil clown.

I set the sandwich he didn’t order on the perfectly flattened bag-bed, showing meticulous care, adjusting it just so. I’m close enough to feel the heat of him, the electricity of him, and something else—annoyance, maybe. Anger. Some high emotion.

It feels amazing. I don’t know why, it just does.

I decide to push things even further by making presentation hands, like a game-show hostess presenting a special prize.

A muscle in Max’s jaw fires.

I bite back a smile, imagining how Sienna’s jaw would drop if she saw me doing the presentation hands like this. Especially if she knew that this wasn’t even the sandwich Max ordered.

I spin around and go back to my cart. I can literally feel his eyes on me, like an angry caress, waking up my skin.

Probably mocking my outfit in his mind.

The only good thing about my outfit is the short multipocket apron that covers most of my middle and is designed to hold utensils and stirrers and salt packets and things, and in my case, it doubles as a really effective tummy hider.

I fuss in my cart, like I can’t find something, trying not to smile or laugh.

I sneak a glance. Quickly he looks away. My pulse races.

He totally hasn’t noticed the sandwich, yet.

“Yes, that works. The nineteenth. It’s a go.” I hear the click of the latest model of iPhone being set on a soulless glass surface.

Call ended.

Most people say goodbye when they hang up, but Max dwells in a special world where people don’t say goodbye when they get off the phone. They just hang up. Like in movies.

I finger the smooth packets of mustard feeling his gaze on my back. The sensation is physical, as if the Lycra cat suit has taken on an electric charge, making my skin underneath feel intensely alive.

“You like it?” he asks.

I turn. “What?”

He tips his head at the wall. “The photo. You look at it enough. I could get you a copy for your bedroom wall. For…personal purposes.”

I snort. “As if.”

“And to save you the extra labor, I could have my assistants angrily pre-snip the women out of the picture. Or would you prefer I have them scratch their eyes out? Or maybe both? A two-step process?”

“Do those poor women know you’re a robot with no feelings?” I ask.

He leans back, so cool. “I like to keep that a surprise to whip out on the second date.”

Heat steals over my face. Is he dating one of them? All of them? I can’t think of what to say back. Never mind; he’s looking down. He’s noticed the sandwich.

I bite back a smile as he lifts the bun. “What is this?”

“Grilled whitefish with a spicy curry sauce. It’s only available in December.”

“I ordered the roast beef and swiss cheese croissant sandwich.”

I fix him with a steady gaze. Max’s book stresses the importance of believing in yourself, or at least looking like you do. Fake it until you make it is a recurring theme, though he never puts it like that.

“I know what you ordered,” I say sweetly, “but this is the sandwich that you want. You’ll like it much better.”

“I’d like a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich much better.”

“Wrong.”

He frowns. “You can’t just change my order.”

I tilt my head, all sunshine and innocence. “This special-edition grilled whitefish sandwich comes from a food truck on Seventh that was recently purchased by a five-time Michelin-rated chef. Way better than your stupid croissant sandwich.”

He looks between me and the sandwich, baffled. “You can’t just...”

I cock my head, feeling happy and excited. Max needs to do a revised edition of his book, because nowhere does it say how crazy fun the process is. “It’s the superior lunch.”

The secret truth is, he will like it best. Not only is it the objectively superior meal, but it matches his taste. I might not be able to tell you what my best friend in junior year preferred for lunch, but I can tell you what kinds of food Max always went for, yet another unfortunate side effect of the kind of concentration it took to be enemies with him.