Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules Page 4

  “What?” I press.

  He starts to say five different things and then stops himself each time, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Then he says, simply, “You’re gonna kill with tips out there.”

  I blink. “You think?”

  He nods. “Queen of the cats. You know you are.”

  I grin. I just want to hug him.

  In fact, Rollins turns out to be right. My first two towers have been on my route forever, but when I appear as a fabulous alpha cat, people sit up and take notice. They smile. They engage with me more. They give me compliments and say things like, New ears? New boots?

  I play up the queen thing, strutting around and having fun. When they ask me about the change, I say things like, I’ve decorated my outfit because I’m the most wonderful delivery cat ever, or, I’ve declared myself queen of the delivery cats.

  My tips go through the roof.

  I’m stunned. The more I work it, the higher the tips.

  I’m back out at noon getting the cart for Maximillion Plaza.

  I’m checking the order on my Meow Pad, which is an iPad that they decided they needed an embarrassing name for, and enter the cart number to check the roster. And there it is. An order for a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich. Twenty-fifth floor. No office number.

  His.

  There’s always been a strange, sizzling line of knowledge between us like that. Not sizzling hot, but sizzling painful. A sizzle that stings and leaves a terrible scar.

  My heart pounds. It’s fear, but something more—a kind of dark exhilaration. I’m going in there. I’m gonna do this.

  I make my way to the building, steeling myself. The other deliveries were easy audiences, but Max zeroes in on your weak points. He sees through your bullshit. Queen of the cats is pure bullshit—bullshit that he invented. Will he know?

  I keep going back to what Kelsey said, though—her sister never remembers what she wrote even a year ago. Max is running a men’s lifestyle empire now; surely the things he put in a book nearly a decade ago have faded into the dust heap of time. Also, his system was for men. He’ll never recognize it coming from a woman…right?

  Can I actually bring him to his knees with his own system? People rarely see their own weak spots, even if they wrote a book on those weak spots for others.

  And my sisters are counting on me. It’s this most of all that gives me the rush of courage that propels me through the gleaming steel-and-glass doors of Maximillion Plaza; this that gets me across the high-ceilinged lobby.

  It’s dizzyingly lux inside, an assault of white marble and exposed pipes and polished metal beams with an ultra-mod lighting scheme, like somebody threw a basket of enchanted glowing orbs toward the ceiling, and they froze midflight in an arrangement that’s entirely random, yet utterly perfect.

  Naturally.

  What you also can’t miss are the mammoth photographs of Max on the towering walls. Black-and-white on-brand photos.

  I recognize some of the shots from magazine and billboard campaigns for his eveningwear line, his sportswear line, his exclusive wristwatch line.

  There’s Max leaning in a darkened doorway, all merciless charm in a tux that looks lived-in and maybe even fought in and now clings wantonly to his muscular chest and shoulders.

  There’s Max leaning on a railing looking thoughtfully out over some Mediterranean cliffs wearing a Maximillion brand watch on his very muscular forearm, shot with some type of photographic trickery that makes you really, really want to touch his skin.

  Further down, there’s a shot of Max surrounded by beautiful women, but not in a cheesy way. Max never gives you openings. He’s like a steamship with massive, iron-clad sides. Your puny little shots ping right off of him as he looks on amused, at ease, a glorious god accustomed to the sparkling waters in which he floats.

  It’s no wonder that millions of men emulate Max, strive to be the cool, handsome man of mystery with the world at his feet. Max walks into a party on a yacht and everyone on board scrambles for his attention, competes to offer him his favorite cocktail, ready to smile at his quips, but not too hugely, because you don’t want to be sycophantic!

  The security people wave me into an elevator area. I wait alongside a bunch of beautiful people with respectable jobs that don’t require them to wear ears and make animal sounds.

  Sweat trickles down my spine.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised Max found out I was a delivery cat. Max always finds out everything that is wrong. Everything you want to hide, he finds it and exploits it.

  I should be surprised he took as long as he did. That’s what should surprise me.

  The elevator doors open and I get in with the group. A few of them glance discreetly at me. I hold my head high.

  I go over various self-confidence mantras I have.

  Many successful actresses were still struggling in their late twenties and thirties.

  Another: You made a choice to reach for the stars, to have a career on Broadway. There’s no shame in doing what it takes. It’s called paying dues.

  And when things are at their worst: You have a right to dream.

  The lines all crumble as I ride up the elevator. Only Max has the ability to pre-crumble me.

  Max’s is the highest floor, but I’m not going to deliver to him first, though in a different building, I would.

  The efficiency of delivering up versus delivering down is a raging debate among us Meow Squad delivery cats. I’m a deliver-down girl, especially before three in the afternoon, a decision that has to do with my personal theories of elevator traffic patterns. I’m going against my normal way, partly because I want to make Max wait the longest, and also, I might have to cry afterwards.

  So I hit floor five first, in and out of the elevator. Five orders on the sixth floor, mostly sushi; lots of falafels and some wraps to the conference room on seven, nothing else until twelve, and so on.

  I deliver in the persona of most wonderful cat ever, but it’s fraying at the edges.

  I dispatch food to the twenty-first floor and get back in with my cart. Max is next. I remind myself to breathe. I picture Kelsey’s and Jada’s faces when I check off the first box when they see I’m stepping up for them. And I’ll keep checking off the boxes.

  Assuming he makes me deliver his lunch more than once. But he will. Max has no mercy. He never did.

  The floor buttons blink. My pulse races.

  A lot of successful actresses were still struggling in their late twenties and thirties.

  The doors squeech open.

  The twenty-fifth floor is a crystal palace of breathtaking views featuring the cool angularity of Manhattan beneath a soaring blue sky. A beautiful woman not in an embarrassing cat squad delivery outfit sits behind the desk.

  I suck in a breath. There’s still a chance this is all coincidence, or that somebody else in the building requested me. If this is not a setup personally designed by Max, she’ll take the delivery for him. One of the main things big money does is to insulate you from commoners. “Meow Squad delivery.”

  “Go ahead and bring it down. All the way down.” She turns her head to indicate the direction.

  With that one command, she shows me that she had instructions to let me through.

  Which means Max is expecting me.

  She’s still looking at me. Again she does the head motion, or more like a graceful torque. It’s the kind of move I might memorize and fold into my catalog of character details if I weren’t feeling like I was wearing a Lady Gaga-style meat suit on my way to a rabid dog convention.

  I head down.

  The floor is sparkling white marble and the walls are something white that glows, as though with lights behind; skylights above showcase the blue sky.

  All in all, this hallway could be somebody’s idea of what the path to heaven is like. But being that every ten feet there’s a photo of Max Manwhore Hilton looking like he’s Adonis himself, and I’m dressed up as an animal that eats from a
bowl on the floor and poops in a box, it’s more like the highway to hell for me.

  My neck feels unpleasantly clammy. Sweat is pouring down my back.

  I don’t have to go in. I could turn around. I could ditch the cart and turn around. It’s a still free country. I slow my steps, thinking seriously about going back to waiting tables. Except insurance. Flexibility. My friends.

  I reach the door and do an acting exercise where I breathe in the feeling that I wish to convey. I breathe in confidence and success.

  I’m cool and confident, never doubting the path I’ve taken.

  Max is nobody special to me. I barely even remember him from high school.

  With trembling hands I knock. “Lunch delivery.” Because I can’t quite bring myself to say Meow Squad.

  “Come,” he says, sounding bored.

  I push in my cart.

  There across an expanse of white marble tile stands a massive desk. And behind it sits Max.

  My mouth goes dry. Butterflies scatter in my belly.

  He’s typing something onto a laptop, eyes fixed on whatever he’s writing. The light from the screen seems to kiss his cheekbones, brushing them with an imperious glow.

  People talk about resting bitch face, but Max has the opposite. He has resting amused-and-confident-god face, the default expression of a man with incredible beauty and wealth and a magnetic presence that people can feel in their bodies when they get within ten feet. Not to mention an uber-cool mythology about himself where he lounges by pools in sunglasses and likes his women hot and his scotch cold.

  I stand there flooded with loathing and something else that I don’t have a category for.

  He doesn’t even see me.

  On his wall is a massive photograph of him sprawled upon a princely chair; three gorgeous gown-wearing supermodels hang on him. They’re all laughing.

  I recognize Lana Sheffidy, the most famous Max Hilton girl. She parlayed her association with Max into one of the world’s top handbag brands.

  “Mia?”

  I turn.

  Our gazes lock.

  And for one skin-shivering, heart-thundering moment, I forget how to breathe.

  Because it’s Max. The familiarity of him buzzes through my veins like a drug. He tilts his head, dark brows a bold slash over blue eyes.

  Maybe it’s the surprise that makes him look vulnerable for a second, that lets me imagine I see the boy I knew that summer, the sweet kid who sang with me and brought me snow cones and helped me with my music theory class.

  “Mia. What are you doing?”

  I straighten. He’s acting surprised? Seriously? Who arranges for his high school rival to deliver him a sandwich and then acts surprised?

  For a second, I think it’s real. That this is some kind of mix-up.

  Then the corner of his lip quirks up, all baffled amusement. Like something’s funny. Like it’s all a joke. Because of course he knew.

  My body heats. More than heats. I’m a nuclear reactor of mortification.

  God, when will I learn my lesson? How many times will I think Max Hilton is having a real emotion, only to be slammed in the face with the cynical, cold-hearted truth of him?

  I smile my hugest smile. It’s not for nothing that I attended Manhattan’s most elite performing arts high school. “Max,” I say. “Looks like somebody’s getting a delicious croissant sandwich.”

  I park my cart and move across the elegant white marble floor of his airy office like he’s just another customer. I set the bag and his complimentary mini-bag of potato chips in front of him.

  He just watches me. Saying nothing. Savoring his victory, I suppose. There’s a lot of victory to savor.

  But either way, alpha-signaling unlocked!

  It’s here that I get my flash of brilliance. I put my hand on my hip. “Very nice, Max,” I say. “All of this is very impressive.”

  To most people, that would sound like a compliment.

  But Max and I aren’t most people.

  His lip twitches—that’s how I know my little zinger hit home.

  I strut back to my cart and push it toward the door, biting back a smile at my cleverness. Still he says nothing. I really, really, really don’t want to do the outrageous meow—or really, any meow—but I need to. So I’m thinking about that when he speaks just one more word.

  “Wait.”

  I brace. I turn.

  And meet his gaze.

  He beams at me, his amused resting face turned to eleven. After a perfect amount of time, he crosses his legs, leisurely king upon his throne.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He takes a nice long look at me in my stupid outfit, and finally his gaze rests at the top of my head where my glittering cat ears perch. It’s the part of the outfit I hate the most right now, which just goes to show that Max’s ability to zero in on my weak spot is still intact.

  He lifts the white bag with the Meow Squad logo and website URL and delivery promise spelled out in a fab orange font. “It says right on the bag that I get to choose from an array of chips.”

  “When no choice is made, you get plain Lay’s.”

  He frowns. “I’d prefer to choose from the array.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but just a tiny bit, because I’m so rising above this power play. “I have Lay’s, cheesy puffs, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.”

  “Let’s see them.” He circles his finger, a shadow of a grin playing on his generous lips.

  “Well…I just told you what they are.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “But presented with an array is a visual concept. I’d like to be presented with my array. I think I’m entitled, don’t you?”

  My pulse races. So this is how it’s going to be. Max going full asshole. Milking every bit of evil pleasure out of my servitude.

  “Oh, I definitely think you’re entitled,” I say, and I’m definitely using entitled as an unflattering adjective. “Very entitled.”

  His stare is all cold sparkles. “Present my array, Mia; I don’t have all day.”

  My belly twists. I’d thought I’d had Greek yogurt for breakfast, but maybe it was daggers that I ate. And somehow I can’t move. I really should hop into action. The longer I wait, the more obvious it’ll be that he’s getting to me.

  Rule number one: never let Max know he’s getting to you.

  And of course, there’s the little matter of my job. Meow Squad is a customer-is-always-right place, and Max Hilton is more important than most. He could get me fired with the slightest complaint. One disparaging word on Instagram and Meow Squad could go supernova.

  I turn to my cart. I grab two bags in one hand and three in the other and walk his floor of glamour—slowly—head held high. If nothing else, I’ll waste his time, one of the few ways the powerless get revenge on the powerful.

  I smile coolly, an old technique from my Max wars. I recite the names in the manner of a game show hostess, “Lay’s, cheesy puffs, barbeque, cool ranch, and baked sea salt.”

  He makes me stand there while he decides, demoting me from delivery girl to human chip display rack.

  “Hmm.” He’s not looking at the chips, though. He’s looking at me. I stand proudly, foot out front, a model with attitude. Eat your heart out, Max Hilton, that’s what my stance says. You have your empire but you’ll never have me. I’m queen of the delivery cats.

  Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping it says. Max’s book is really strong on projecting confidence. I project with everything I have.

  The seconds tick away. My pulse whooshes in my ears.

  “Very good,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

  Whoosh whoosh whoooooosh.

  Literally is an overused word, just as worst nightmare come true is an overused phrase. But put them together and you have the perfect description of Max finding himself with the ability to order me around. Literally my worst nightmare come true.

  And maybe this awesome power to humiliate me is his dream come true. We
always were on opposite sides of things like that.

  “Well?” I say.

  “Hmm.” He puts his finger on his chin.

  Seriously?!

  Time slows. Humiliation is a buzz inside my body, growing more and more intense with every passing moment, until it reaches the level of an agitated hornets’ nest. The hornets trapped, frantic.

  “I’ll take the cheesy puffs,” he says, voice rough.

  I force myself to give him a mocking smile.

  “Open them and set them here, please.”

  I walk back around the desk, feeling his gaze—not just on my skin, but deeper than that, like he can hear those hornets.

  I really want to rip open the bag in a way that either smashes the puffs or sends them flying, but then he’d know I’m upset, so I open it nicely, channeling the dancerly grace of Kelsey. Coolly I set it next to his sandwich.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I head for the door, feeling warm in my cat suit, and like the ears-headband is too tight on my head. I need to get out of there. And I so don’t want to say meow. But what if he decides to make me? I can hear him now: Did you forget your line, Mia?

  Though that wasn’t his criticism of my acting back at the Shiz. It was that my acting was obvious. Without nuance. Jerseygirl, he’d call me, mocking my south Jersey accent.

  My accent definitely put me at a disadvantage. So did my lack of training—all the other kids at the Shiz had grown up with lessons in everything, but I was lucky to get a bowl of Cheerios for dinner some days.

  Still, I’m proud of where I’m from. And I can be proud of who I am. I don’t have a tower, but I have friends who I fight for.

  I decide I’ll say meow, and I’ll say it the best ever.

  I put my queen-of-the-delivery-cats attitude back on. Tears prick at my eyes, but I smile through them and whip around, chest lifted, shoulders back, so happy and sure of things. I’m channeling the love I have for my girlfriends and for my sweet, hapless cousin, and for Beyoncé and Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes and when I nail a monologue so hard I feel magic, and that’s what I load into it. “Meowwwww!”

  He looks up, features formed into an expression I can’t read. What? Did I disturb him? Had he returned to his important business, thinking I’d left, only to be interrupted by my silly antics?