Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(62)

I look over. It’s a couple of college kids, phones in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the one says, “but it’s my friend’s birthday…would you mind…”

Max kisses me on the cheek and stands to do a selfie with the strangers. “As long as you don’t give the location,” he says.

“God, right?” Jada says, eyes shining with emotion.

I exchange glances with Kelsey while they’re doing the selfies. She’s smiling huge, her dimples deep. “Okay, okay,” she says. “That works.”

The night goes on. Some of Jada’s cast mates come by and things get raucous. People are surprised that Max is in our group, but the novelty wears off and he blends in easily. I sit back, watching my friends. It’s easy to forget how we all have the same performing arts roots.

And he loves me.

And I love him. I want to tell him that, but not in front of everybody.

Around midnight everybody wants to play eighties songs on the old-fashioned jukebox, and Kelsey and Antonio are sexy dancing on the tables. The bartender does his usual scolding, then turns back to serve more beers.

Lizzie announces she’s hungry, and we hatch a plan to order ten of our official apartment pizzas. Snow has started to fall in huge, pretty flakes. We run to our place in a group, laughing and screaming, desperate to arrive before the pizzas.

A few minutes later, we’re all crowded into the elevator, rosy-cheeked and out of breath.

And he loves me.

I find his hand. Squeeze.

On the way up, I tell them about the chandeliers in Max’s elevator. He stands straight and tall, acting weary of my teasing, but I think he kind of loves it. Minutes later, we’re walking into my apartment.

People are shedding winter coats, getting places. Max strolls around the living room, eyes sparkling. “So this is where you live.”

“Don’t laugh,” I say.

“It’s…” His face changes. His eyes seem to lose their sparkle. I’ve never seen a man’s face change so fast.

So fast, I think he’s joking. I trot out my best Oliver Twist accent. “I know it’s not much, but we like it.” He doesn’t seem amused.

Then I trace the direction of his gaze.

The Bring-Max-Hilton-to-his-grovelly-knees chart.

My blood goes cold. Breath whooshes out of me. “No, Max.”

He turns to me. His voice, when it comes, sounds casual. “What do we have here?”

“Max. It’s nothing.” My heart is a panicked bird in a cage.

“Nothing.”

I hate the light way he says it. As though it doesn’t have meaning. As though it doesn’t hurt.

“It’s bullshit. Just a bullshit thing.”

“It’s just a joke thing,” Kelsey says. “A stupid joke.”

“Doesn’t look like a joke to me.” He goes to it. He slides a finger over the grid, so many boxes with X’s, each corresponding to one of his golden rules. Adorn yourself with symbols of your superiority. Do something outrageous. “I was wondering how you all knew so much about the book.”

And then he finds the Max Hilton dartboard.

“I did that.” Lizzie says. “That was all me.”

“Max,” I say. “It was a stupid thing.” I can feel his heart breaking. That’s how connected we are. His heart breaking is my heart breaking. “That was how it started, but it’s not how it ended.”

The way he looks, so calm and steely, I know he doesn’t hear me. I can see that isolated boy, going at the piano he hated like a robot.

He showed me his vulnerabilities. He showed all of us. He laid down his Max Hilton armor.

I grab his arm. He used to be warm and pliable, but now he’s a stone statue. “Stop staring at those stupid things! It was before I realized how I felt about you, before I—”

“Yet you kept them up,” he says softly, shaking me off. “Look at all the X’s.”

“Max, no! Look at me.”

“You didn’t complete a few of the rules.” This like he’s amused, eyes brighter and harder than diamonds. “Then again, you brought me to my knees, didn’t you?”

“It was a dumb thing. From when I thought you arranged the visits. Please, listen to me! I freaked out when I saw you on my roster. I was scared. Look at me, Max!”

He goes over presses his hand to the picture of the shoes, cut out from the magazine. It’s as if he needs to touch it, to see it’s real. Glitter stars around them. He snorts. That’s the only sound he makes—a derisive snort that cuts me like a knife.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say pathetically.

He turns. “Grovelly isn’t an adjective.”

With that he walks out the door, shutting it behind him.

I rush out into the hall after him. “It’s not like that, Max. You have it so wrong.”

He stabs the elevator button. “Darts? Really?”

“Let’s talk. We can work this out. History doesn’t have to repeat itself.”

“It already has,” he says.

The floor seems to tilt beneath me. This can’t be happening. “This doesn’t have to be us.”

The door squeeches open. He gets in and turns, arms outstretched, barring my way. “Word of advice. If you’re going to sell your soul for a pair of Louboutins, at least make them this year’s model.”