Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(59)

It’s a marvel to watch him run through enough of it to get it down. I’d forgotten how well he can sight read, just a few stops and starts to get it in his bones and he’s on his way, making it his own. His phrasing is everything. Like he’s discovering the heart of the song. He could always do that.

He goes to the top, giving me my way in.

My chest feels light—I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement. We’re doing music together. I want to jump in, but something stops me.

“Train’s leaving,” he says, repeating the prelude, a musical question he knows I have to answer.

We’re two pieces of a puzzle. We always were.

He goes back to the top. I watch his face.

He glances at me and groans and starts again. It’s a leap what I’m about to do—more intimate than fucking him. He knows it. He’s pulling me.

I stand. I launch in. The first verse lyrical and sad—the whole song is. I sing it like I’ve been practicing.

It was good how I did it, and then I look at him and his eyes are sparkling. Shivers go over me because he’s right in there with me.

He comes back at me with the next verse. Max makes it seem easy. Max has a distinct piano voice, but he knows how to use it to support my voice. We sang together that summer and he knows how to make me shine. The perfect tone to enrich mine.

We head into the song, like heading into the wilderness together.

And then everything falls away, and it’s just us, meeting in the music. The song is heartbreaking, and toward the middle it soars operatically. When we come to the end, he moves his finger in a circle to show he’s circling back to the beginning. I head in again and we’re off.

Flying again. Back in that magical summer, but so much better.

He pauses when I falter, returning to just the right point to get me back. We go again and again and then back around to the front. Like if we never stop the song, this doesn’t have to end.

It’s so beautiful and right that at one point this wave of grief washes over me. All the years of being stupid.

He stops. “Where did you go?”

“I feel sad.” Like sad could even begin to describe it. “We really do deserve that award. For friggin’ boneheadedness.”

He looks at his hands, poised over the keys. Does he feel it?

“You want to stop?”

“Hell no.” I sit next to him on the bench and show him on the score where I’m thinking of trying something new.

He starts back a few bars, posture erect, color high. He’s the opposite of the Max Hilton that’s offered for public consumption. He’s the old Max. Genuine. In my corner. I try the new thing. He goes back again and again. I feel like we could play forever. I want the shine of our music to push away reality. But finally I have to stop or I’ll burn out my vocal chords.

He looks over at me.

Smiles.

Not his Max Hilton smile, but his goofy smile. “You are gonna kill it,” he says. “And the role is for you.” He’s up, crossing the room to a small refrigerator. He tosses me a bottle of water. To soothe my throat. “You hungry?” he asks. “I’m hungry.”

“If you’re hinting that you want me to serve you a sandwich, you can forget it.”

“Let’s go out. I have a standing reservation at Ralazzio. We have more than enough time to get there.”

Ralazzio is one of the most amazing restaurants in the city; there’s a month’s waiting list for tables at least.

“Don’t tell me you have plans after this?” he says.

“My friend Jada has invited people to join her for drinks for her wrap. At The Wilder Club. This little place near our apartment.”

He unscrews his own water. “Jada is your friend with the jungle kiss experience?”

“Yeah, but she always has wrap parties. She’s in a lot of small quick shows. It’s not like, mandatory.”

“Will Kelsey be there, too?”

“Kelsey’ll be there.”





22




Never beg a woman for anything. She should be begging you.

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





* * *



Mia

The Wilder Club is hopping. I can tell where my group is just from the laughter in the far booth. I take Max’s hand, feeling jittery about having him meet my friends. “You good?”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to meet the people who draw moustaches on me,” he says.

I snort and drag him around a group of bright-haired neighborhood people and up to the bar. Sweat beads on my forehead underneath my hat, and it’s not just because it’s hot inside.

Several sets of eyes follow us. People have recognized him. “Two local brews,” I say.

“Is that the drink here?”

“Yup.” I turn and watch him look around. It’s strange seeing The Wilder Club through Max’s eyes. It always struck me as wonderfully old school, full of aged woodwork and plants and vintage maps. Tiny brass lamps on thick, plain tables. I love the coziness of it, but Max’s habitat is made up of limos and places of airy glamour that are lit by chandeliers.

And he looks larger than life in here, a sleek, magnificent hawk at a gathering of colorful songbirds.