Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(33)

Max has his jacket off again, his tie is a little bit loose, and his dress shirt is tight over his sternly crossed arms, creating a definite guns-n-stuff effect. Arm muscles ahoy. Just looking at him makes my head feel light.

He says, “I think of it as a Jean-Luc Picard from Star Trek: The Next Generation thing.”

I snort, as if that’s so uncool, though in my own personal hierarchy of pop culture references, Jean-Luc Picard beats Deckard from Blade Runner. Leave it to Max.

I pull his lunch from my cart. “I’m going to guess you want layout.”

I go around without his telling me to. I flatten out the bag, feeling his stare, hungry and heavy on my skin.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a sesame chili salmon sandwich with kimchi fried rice today,” I say. I’m thinking about the knuckles kiss, much as I’m trying not to.

He probably forgot about it by now. A brief knuckle kiss is just a drop of water in the vast ocean of Max Hilton’s daily moves.

His arms are still lusciously crossed. I imagine flattening the shirt fabric over them, smoothing the shirt so that it perfectly outlines the contours of his muscles, and then I’d smooth some more, soft fabric over steely strength, like a party for my hands. And then maybe my lips could get involved. And then maybe my teeth.

“Am I ever going to get what I ordered again? You’re not a very proficient lunch-cart girl.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Go ahead and play this sad little game if you want,” he says, “just know that I don’t like mushrooms, bacon, ham, or cilantro.”

“Oh, I’m not the one playing a sad little game, my friend.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

I place a napkin and knife and fork next to his new sandwich. He knows exactly what it means. Ordering from the Meow Squad. Requesting me.

“Who’s your little friend out there?” he asks.

I still. He saw Antonio and me out there? Was he pretending he didn’t see? “Out where?”

“Out where,” he snorts. “The strapping fella in Hugo Boss out by your lunch-cart truck?” I get the sense he’s going for lightness in the strapping fella bit, but it sounds slightly adversarial, too.

Is he jealous? Excitement surges through me. I’ve never been somebody excited by jealousy before.

“Ah,” I say with faraway eyes. “Antonio.” I’m stoking it now. What’s going on with me?

I continue my machinations, reveling in his covetous gaze. I set out his mustards with my usual flourish. He picks up a pen, moves it carelessly around in his fingers. His hands really are large. And warm and soft.

“Please,” he says.

“What?”

“Ah, Antonio,” he echoes, matching my intonation exactly. “He’s a friend. You look at him like a friend. Like one of your galpals.”

I give him a sympathetic look. “Poor Max Hilton. I think that’s maybe what you wanted to see.”

“I know what I saw.”

“That was not a galpal face,” I say. I set a bag of Lay’s plain potato chips next to his sandwich.

“What is this?” He picks them up, brow furrowed. “Where’s my array?”

“Can’t you just access the image from the last time I displayed them in your robot memory files?”

He shakes his head.

“Ungh.” I go back to the cart and pluck out four bags of chips. I hold them up. “We have Lay’s, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.”

“No cheesy puffs today?”

“I ran out.”

He zeroes in on the bright orange cheesy puff crumbs. “You’re telling me you ran out?”

I show him the empty cheesy puffs box, quivering with maybe too much excitement. “The very last bag was eaten. Quite recently!” I bite my tongue—hard—applying intense, anti-laughter pressure.

He stands.

I’m fighting not to smile. Bite bite bite.

He’s coming for me.

I back up.

He keeps coming. I’m a deer in the blazing headlights. If a deer ate the car’s dinner. And the car is barreling down the road.

I hit the wall. His hands hit the wall on either side of me.

My knees are jelly.

“What are you doing, Mia?”

I can feel his warmth deep in my chest—it’s like he has his own personal force field.

His eyes bore into mine, and then he drops his gaze to my shirt.

My pulse pounds.

He picks a bit of cheesy puff off my chest and holds it between us, evidence of my impudence. “Who ate my cheesy puffs?”

Excited shivers rain over me. “I did,” I whisper into his face.

We both seem to hold our breath. It’s like we’re in some kind of strange limbo.

Sexiest. Re-enactment. Of Goldilocks. Ever.

His pulse drums hot and steady beneath the hard line of his jaw. I imagine pressing my lips to the tender skin there. Desire floods my veins.

“You think it’s funny?”

“I don’t know.” Something’s melting in my belly.

He drops the puff bit, his face lit with beautiful fury.

He brushes some bits off the center of my chest, my shoulder. The feeling of his hand on me is electric.