Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(46)

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Ryan smiles. “Not your fault.”

Partygoers in their glamorous garb are heading out to take selfies. People have brought awesome coats, because some of this takes place outside. That’s how you collect the clues, you do a selfie with your partner with an Instagram tag. There’s even a special glam black-and-white filter for the party that nobody else gets to use.

“A lot of women would kill to do the hunt with Max,” Ryan says unhelpfully.

“I would kill to not to do the hunt with Max. Does that mean we can have peace? Or does everybody have to die?”

Ryan smiles. “You are so funny.”

Ryan’s partner comes up. She’s a perky redhead, an intern who is super pumped about the game. She reads their first clue off her phone and tells him her theory. Everybody’s clues are different because this is a scavenger hunt created exclusively for this party. Max probably flew in a team of turtleneck-and-monocle-wearing Viennese game designers.

“We should go,” she says.

I smile. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says.

The intern isn’t listening; she’s staring at Max, strolling toward us, a tiger in a tux, New York’s most eligible Prince Charming.

I’m angry, but there’s something else—this warm buzz of familiarity as he nears.

People head away, leaving us standing there, an island in the ballroom. “Ready?” Max says.

“I get it—you’re in charge, not me. You really had to change the whole game to prove it?”

“You think that’s why I changed the game? To prove a point about who’s in charge?”

I raise my brows. A yes.

He tips his head near mine. Lowers his voice. “I couldn’t let you go out there with him.”

Butterflies swirl in my belly. “Why? Why’d you have to do that?”

He comes nearer. “Because I couldn’t let you walk out of this ballroom with him. It’s not about control.”

“Why would you do it?”

People are coming up. Max is a magnet for people. “Let’s get out of here,” he says.

I narrow my eyes.

“Humor me.” His tone is serious, like this is really something.

I grab my coat and we head to the elevator. His touch on the small of my back seems to radiate across my body.

We wait with a crowd of rowdy partygoers and get in. People are talking to him, jokingly trying to get him to give clues. A few of them have bottles of champagne, and the mood is jolly.

He says that he didn’t create the game. “We’re all on equal footing,” he insists.

It’s not the elevator he got me off in, but it’s the same décor. I give him the side eye, but he not joking around.

Eventually we all spill out onto the sidewalk in front of Maximillion Plaza. It’s a magical night; snow falls in thick, lazy flakes, dramatic as a snow globe, frosting the dirty horizontal surfaces in sparkling white. The air is warm-ish, almost balmy, and the traffic sounds are subdued.

Max shakes a few hands and poses for a few selfies and then people rush off.

“So…do we have a clue to follow or something?”

Max looks up and down the street. More people are shouting to him. Waving. He waves. The partygoers want a piece of him, or at least a selfie. “I need to tell you something and…” Somebody else waves. “Come on.” He takes my hand.

We cross at a lull in the traffic and duck around the side of the Maximillion studio building—the one that used to be some kind of industrial building, the one he visits every day. He punches in a code and pulls open a door.

In we walk. The door shuts, sealing us away from the din of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve. It’s spacious inside, with just the lights of the city pouring in through the high arched windows, making glowing squares on the wood floors.

He locks the door and fixes me with a serious look. “We have to talk.”

More laughter sounds from out there. Somebody knocks at the door. “Max?”

“Christ,” he says.

“Your party just won’t quit,” I whisper.

He scowls. There’s something achingly real about him. He feels genuine; raw, even. No liquor carts in sight. “Come on.” He leads me across a giant expanse of moonlit floor past hushed workspaces.

“This game has taken a mighty strange turn,” I say nervously. “Are the enemies of yore to retreat?”

“I’m done with the games.”

We end up in an interior space lit by skylights from above. A lounge for workers, maybe.

He sets me down on a chair and bends over me, hands on the armrests. His brows are furrowed, eyes without the ironic twinkle. “I need you to know something. I didn’t arrange the Meow Squad deliveries. I didn’t have anything to do with them. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wait, what?”

“I know you thought I did. I don’t blame you for thinking that. But yeah, it was Parker.”

“Parker?” I say. “I thought…”

“He only just told me back there at the party. I couldn’t believe it. Making you be my delivery person like that?”

“I totally thought you did.”

“Mia.” One word. My name. Mia. The low rumble of it pulls at something inside me. And I’m so acutely aware of us alone in this space, and of the dominating way he looms above me.