Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(38)

I stir my coffee. How did he think to connect those things? None of the reporters at the time made the connection. The narrative was that I was trying to get out of a concert.

“It was a big loss,” I say. “Annette was a sweet, caring woman. She’d been with us since I was a toddler and she was…” Everything, I think. The one who kissed my skinned knees and sung me lullabies. The one who brought laughter to my grim childhood. The one who took the sunshine when she died.

I stare into my coffee. “Annette was full of life. Missed by the whole family. She loved custard, as I recall.”

I look up, pulse racing, relieved to see that he’s back on his notes.

We discuss my upcoming pet project, Catwalk for a Cause. I give him some red meat on that one—warring factions in the fashion world. A juicy celeb cameo. I’ll let him announce it.

We talk food. A restaurant opening we’re attending. I tell him about the special-edition grilled whitefish sandwich from a food truck on Seventh. The chef with the Michelin rating.

How did she know I’d love the sandwich like that? Did it give her satisfaction to be right? She always did have excellent taste—that’s something I remember from high school. She’d cultivated excellent taste and her own unique opinions on everything. Little Jerseygirl, scrabbling her way up. And she always, always wanted to show you that she was in charge.





13




Show your sense of humor—you never want to take yourself too seriously, and you definitely don’t want to take her too seriously.

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





* * *



Mia

I’m still fuming on my way to work the next day.

He’s a complete and utter jerkalope who loves to mess with me. One furious, utterly mind-blowing kiss and he thinks he owns me.

Why do I keep falling for it? Yes, it was a good kiss. Max is good at things. Ruthlessly so.

He was good at making me think he cared that summer.

Sienna is at the meeting spot the next day, posed next to a fire hydrant. She has pink fur on her ears and a pink feather boa. She springs up and hugs me. “I should give you the two hundred dollars extra I made yesterday from your idea to pimp out these stupid cat getups. But I need it for rent. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It wasn’t really my idea,” I say, eyeing her boots. “I adapted it from Max Hilton’s playbook. You know, that pickup book?”

“Seriously? Why would you read that?”

“I deliver to his tower. I wanted to be ready.” I explain alpha-signaling.

Sienna is just laughing. “The playbook. Thanks, Hilton,” she says. “What else are you doing? I want more tricks.”

I cross my arms. “Here’s another: Be playful and outrageous. You need to show you just don’t give a shit. Like, give people funny nicknames and boss them around.”

“Seriously?”

“Say, if there’s any sports stuff in in their office, you call them that—like Bengals or Cubby if it’s Cubs. A guy with a Blade Runner sticker on the outside of his laptop is Blade. Or if they order something unusual, like Shasta, you call them that.”

“You just say, here ya go, Shasta?”

“Or Dr. Pepper. Whatever.”

“I could do that,” Sienna says.

Rollins arrives with our go-sheets. I grab mine to see what Max ordered.

Nothing. No order from the twenty-fifth floor. Again.

My heart sinks. But it’s for the best. I’m supposed to be fighting for my friends, not kissing Max Hilton, king of careless trysts and liquor carts, the player responsible for Kelsey’s misery.

It’s just that he didn’t feel like a player—not when he’s with me, anyway.

I run through my financial building delivering meals. Trying to be bright, calling everybody by their assigned names. I hit my next buildings, one by one, and then I’m at Maximillion Plaza. The people are upbeat. It seems like a good place to work. Blade, in particular, is all smiles.

“What’s up, Blade?” I like calling him Blade.

He launches into some funny story—not from Max’s book. But still. I give him a sideways look. Is he flirting with me?

He says, “I know this is last minute, but what are you doing Saturday night?”

My mind goes blank. Not only flirting; he’s asking me out.

“It’s the Maximillion party,” he says. “I want you to feel free to say no and know that I’ll never ask you out again or be weird, and I don’t want you to feel any pressure to say yes because I’m a delivery client,” he adds. “But before you answer, let me add that it’s one of the hottest parties in town. Because of the scavenger hunt. Have you heard about it?”

“I thought people hated scavenger hunts.”

“They don’t hate them when there’s actual treasure to be scavenged—like cruises and thousand-dollar bills. And there’s a trivia component and you seem to know a lot of useless music trivia and I know sports. We could clean up.”

“What was that, mister? Useless music trivia?”

He pulls open his chips, which he in no way gives me a hard time about. “Seemingly useless…”