Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(27)

He’s not even pretending to work this time. He just sits there enjoying my servitude. Maybe thinking about the way he touched my cheek.

God knows I’m thinking about it. I blot all sexy thoughts from my mind. I’m on a mission.

I position the knife and fork perfectly. I clear my throat. “You know, I can see your tower from my bedroom window.”

“Can you,” Max rumbles, velvety cool.

“It’s a beautiful building, it really is, but…” I trail off.

“But what?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give it more than three stars.”

His expression is just a little bit stony; no sign of emotion whatsoever unless you count that muscle twitching at the side of his jaw.

“I know you would’ve wanted at least a four-star rating from me, if not a five. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he says dryly. “Disappointed is not the word I’d use.”

“I’m glad.”

“And what piece of Manhattan real estate would the lunch-cart girl have me purchase?” he asks.

Again with the lunch-cart girl. Deep inside my chest, small demons stoke a fire of outrage. Somebody needs a demerit.

“That’s not something I can solve for you, unfortunately.” I arrange the mustards, feeling his gaze fixed on me, which makes it difficult to think. I keep thinking about the way he touched me. Feeling the sizzling path of his finger. Imagining primal moves.

I nod at the picture on the wall. “Three stars,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“The Max Hilton girls. Please. They’re not as pretty as I am, and probably not as fascinating as I am, either.”

Everything in him seems to go still, except his eyes, which are busy boring holes in the side of my face. Maybe stunned at how deluded I am.

Because let’s face it, they are all objectively prettier than me.

I mean it—they are prettier by every pretty parameter, killing it in the categories of nose-straightness, hair silkiness, and symmetry of features. They especially dominate in the willowiness-of-limbs area, whereas I’m short and sturdy. My boob size disqualifies me from being able to pull off the drapey dresses they’re wearing. They might be more fascinating, too.

But I’m going with it, even though, standing there under his stern scrutiny, I feel less and less confident.

Never let them smell blood in the water, that’s one of the concepts in his book that comes to me now. Like women are sharks, always ready to attack.

The only shark here is Max, of course. With his harsh good looks and his merciless precision and his billion-dollar empire that eats other billion-dollar empires for lunch.

I lower my voice to a confident whisper. “Probably not as fascinating or as fun. I think you know it’s true. I might even give them a two. As compared to me. Especially…” I adjust my sequined ears. “Oh, what the hell, two-point-five. I’m feeling generous.”

He clears his throat. “Are all of your visits going to be this disruptive?”

I sigh like I have a wonderful secret. The world is your cocktail party—that’s an attitude Max suggests in his book. I actually liked that one—it really resonated with me. “We’ll see.”

I grab the five bags of chips before he can demand his array. He watches, expression intense.

Of course, in the cocktail party I’m imagining, I’m not acting as a human sandwich dispenser. I’m having fun and laughing, and Max is watching me, besotted.

And it’s not because I have a pork chop lifted to my face.

“Are we going with cheesy puffs today?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.

“Cheesy puffs,” he says hoarsely.

“Good job,” I say. “You made an excellent choice. And just for that, you get an extra bag!”

He tightens his jaw as I snatch up an extra bag.

I’m keeping him off-balance. I feel like I’m really nailing his system today. I head right for him, all the way around his desk, holding his gaze, because that’s what you do to show a dog that you’re in charge.

It hits me here that holding a man’s gaze and walking steadily toward him, never looking away, is also an incredibly sexy thing to do. Every inch of my skin feels alive with excitement.

He swivels away from his desk as I near, facing me with that strangely serious expression. His shirt cuffs are rolled partway up his muscular forearms. His hands rest on his hard thighs, fingers relaxed. Nails trimmed short. Pianist-short. Some habits die hard.

And those thick thumbs. They’re the same thumbs he stuck in his belt loops while he sang with all of that sweet goofiness during that lost summer. Though science tells us that the cells of the body replace themselves over time—nine years for an entirely new body. So he really is a different person in every way.

But god, the way he’d sing to me.

Even when there was a full auditorium, it was as if he was singing to me and me alone, gaze dancing under that floppy hat, red bandana around his neck. And he’d make these jerky motions, pointing this way and that, singing about how the farm animals will scurry when he gets a surrey with a fringe on top to drive me around in.

The song was about young, hopeful love. It’s how I felt that summer.

It meant nothing to him. A dalliance of proximity. The second we were back at school, he went back to his cold and cynical mode. Too cool for me.