Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(56)

She tilts her head. Interested. Caring.

I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses. I never talk about my late nanny, Annette, not even to Parker. I never wanted to. But I want to tell Mia.

So I pour the wine, and I tell her the story. What an important part of my life Annette was—more important than my parents in many ways. How I didn’t even know how to be playful until Annette came along. “I didn’t have any electronics or playmates or anything. It was just the music. But Annette brought those songs. She had dyed blond hair and huge rings on her wrinkly hands and an actual record player in her room. And when my parents went on trips, she’d bring it down the living room and we’d sing and laugh. I suppose it gave her deniability. She could always report that we were working on music.”

Mia threads her fingers into mine. Listening. Caring. When did I stop sharing things? When did I build this wall around myself? When did I stop letting people in? Always deflecting. Everything Max Hilton. Jokes and cocktail hour.

I don’t know if I'm telling the story right.

I’m sure I’m not.

It’s hard to explain about Annette, the only sunshine in a grim childhood of scales and drills. Sitting on that bench until I was dropping from fatigue. And then she died in that crash. And a few years later, the Shiz was my escape.

“It was your escape, but you still hated it,” she observes. And then I see when the understanding dawns. “And then you were in Oklahoma! with me. I assumed it was like a punishment to you.”

“It was the best thing that could’ve happened,” I say.

“For me, too,” she says.

“That summer,” I say. There’s nothing much to add to it. We tossed it away. Retreated to our corners. Insecure teens.

“Do you see your parents?”

“Not much. They’re in France now.”

“I’m so sorry about Annette,” she says.

I shrug.

“I hate that you were made to hate music,” she says.

“Not this music. It represents everything good. Your turn to pick,” I say. “Go ahead.”

She trolls through the streaming menu, looking for a new musical to watch.

I wind my fingers through her hair, thinking how there’s nobody else I could do this with. Talk. Sing. Nobody else in the world. “We need to go to Calle Corrientes,” I say. “We could fly down next weekend.”

She widens her eyes. Calle Corrientes is the Broadway of Buenos Aires. “Just fly down? Just like that?”

“I’ve never been and I’ve always wanted to. Haven’t you always wanted to go?”

“Of course I have. I’m surprised you haven’t taken your jet down there if you wanted to go so bad.”

I tuck her hair behind her ear. I rarely take trips for just pleasure. I never had the urge until her.





20




Never ask a woman what she wants. Tell her what she wants.

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





* * *



Mia

It’s hard to go back to reality after that long weekend with Max. Hard to put the Meow Squad uniform back on.

The good news: Max is still on my route.

The first day back, I bring him a lunch of my own choosing. Which is convenient because, even though I left him just hours before, I suddenly have a whole list of things I need to tell him about. Plus an insatiable need to touch him.

“I have to go,” I say, kissing him. “The Edgar building has been complaining.” I tear myself away and turn the cart.

“Hey, before you go, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

I still. It’s a Tuesday night. The night he customarily goes to the secret yoga place. “Umm…a few errands. Nothing, really.”

“You think you’ll be done by seven or so?” I nod. He scribbles down an address. “Meet me here at eight-thirty. Call when you get there.”

“What…do you have planned?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

“Should I wear something special?”

“Whatever you want.”

I finally see Kelsey at home after work. She’s already in her dance workout clothes. “Chop chop,” she says. “Get in your leotard and you’re going to give me the Ryan details on the way to the studio.”

I go in and change, feeling like an asshole.

“Every last one,” she calls out.

Five minutes later we’re traipsing the block avenue to her dance studio, and she has her arm in mine. “Well?”

I take a deep breath. “Ryan is out of the picture,” I say.

Her dimples deepen. “Uh-oh, already?”

I take my arm from hers and stop, pulling her from the stream of pedestrian traffic.

“What?”

“Max,” I say.

Her dimples disappear. “Max…w-what?”

“That’s who I was with all yesterday. All the night before.”

“Excuuuuuuse me? No! Mia, no!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been so torn and just…I don’t know. You have this experience with his book—”