Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(51)

I straighten his lapel. “Of course, I knew what you were up to the last ten years, being that your picture is everywhere.”

“That’s not really my picture.”

“It’s your face.”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. How am I so comfortable with him? “I knew you were delivering sandwiches. I know you’ve been working. Congratulations on the reviews for Sir George and the Dragon. That one in the Times that specifically pointed out your stage presence?”

“You read the reviews?”

“I went to it. You were the best thing in it. I’m not just biased. Everyone saw it.”

I pull away. “You went to a show of mine?”

“Mia. I went to all of them. That I was in town for.”

He was out there all that time? In my world? I’m reviewing every show in my mind. What did he think? “You’ve been going to my shows.”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“Well, I didn’t hear about it.”

“I wore a hat.”

“You know, a hat doesn’t disguise your face. God, you were at them? I can’t believe—”

He puts a finger over my lips. “You were amazing,” he says. “And when you played Missy Bee in Glenda Rayborne Girls? That solo?”

I grin and pull away his finger. “God! Right? That solo!” It was the least flashy solo, but the range it demanded was madness, and I was proud how I nailed it, night after night. Not a lot of people noticed. Only the musicians.

“I was on the edge of my seat for you,” Max says. “As soon as the progression started, I knew you were going to end up on a sustained high C. You made it sound easy.”

I love that he noticed, that we have this language in common, even though he quit music. “Thank you. I’ve been working like a dog preparing for the Anything Goes revival.”

“That’s going to be huge.”

“I’m going out for the part of Reno Sweeney.”

“Mia,” he says. “God, yes. It’s so you. And your dancing is right there with your singing and acting. You have the trifecta now.”

“It’s gonna be brutal choreography, but I’ve been working so hard on it. My roommate Kelsey is a dancer and we do trades. I’m helping her level up on her acting and singing and she’s helping me level up on dancing.” This is the place where I should bring up the book. But the car is stopping, and the door opens as if of its own accord, but of course it’s a driver.

Max gets out and extends a hand down to help me out. I take it, and he pulls me up to meet him. I feel fully like a princess now. He kisses me and introduces me to his driver, Kenneth, who seems happily surprised about the introduction.

“Hi,” I say.

Kenneth nods. “Miss.” It’s such a small thing, Max introducing me to his driver, but it feels like he’s bringing me deeper into his world.

The place is glorious inside, all potted palms and towering French windows that flood the place with natural light. The place is a full white tablecloths and chandeliers explosion.

Max sets his hand on the small of my back as the host leads us to our table. Guys I’ve dated never touch me there unless they’re being ironic or playing it for a joke. Like everything’s just a joke.

Man things aren’t a joke with Max. He leans in toward my ear. “I can’t tell you what a perfect Reno you’d make.”

Everybody turns and watches us as we’re seated next to the window. A few people come up and say hi to Max. He introduces me to some, but not to others. The ones he introduces me to, he always says something like, we go way back.

“You make a point of saying we go way back,” I observe between interruptions.

“That’s for anybody connected to the press or blogs who might conclude you’re a Max Hilton girl, and that they can get all sorts of access. What we’re doing isn’t PR.” He picks up the menu. “You’re the opposite of business.”

“I’m pleasure?” I say.

He gives me a look, that frank, open face of his that never appears on the ads. “You’re my real life.”

Heat steals over my face.

“And pleasure.”

I snort. “Touché.”

His half smile appears. The waiter comes up, but I don’t want to take my eyes off Max and his half smile. He covers my hand with his and orders two New York teas and champagne, and the waiter leaves.

“Aren’t we gonna eat?”

“The tea is sandwiches.”

“No comment,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“So all of those models, you don’t go out with them?”

“The models are my co-workers. Lana Sheffidy is one of my oldest friends. She’s a good friend who’ll show up places. Business. I forget that everybody just doesn’t know that. Mia, tell me you don’t think those ridiculous shots are real life.”

“I don’t think they’re literally real life.”

“A woman in a Givenchy gown gazing at me as we stand in the ruins of the Coliseum? That is not what a date with me looks like.”

“Speak for yourself. That’s what always happens on my dates,” I say.

He gives me a look. “Come on. What do you do on dates? Or just for fun. Like with your friends. Where do you go?”