Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules Read online

  I push in with my cart.

  My belly turns upside down like it always does when I get into the presence of Max. His beauty crackles through the air like an electric charge. It gets inside you and melts your will to hate him.

  He sets down his phone and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms slowly upward, then places them behind his head as a lazy smile overtakes his face. It’s as if every fiber of his being is saying, Ah! A big, delicious dish of humiliation. Can’t wait to dig in!

  I grab his bag of cheese puffs from the cart and head toward his desk—that’s a Meow Squad thing; you’re not supposed to pull the cart right up to people’s desks. It gives more of the illusion of table service, I suppose. In an office with as much square footage as Max’s, I have to cross several feet of tundra.

  He nods at a space that’s been cleared in front of him. “Lay it out here.”

  I put down the bag that contains his roast beef croissant sandwich, and set the cheese puffs next to it. Now’s my chance to reverse-chase him. I have a few ideas.

  “Mia,” he says. “Did I not say to lay it out?”

  “What?”

  “Lay. It. Out.” He waits, all sparkling arrogance with a streak of smug pleasure.

  I suck in a small breath and hold it. Like maybe if I don’t breathe, somehow this won’t be happening.

  Lay it out.

  Lunch layout is definitely something he has a right to request, but it’s designed for conference scenarios, in order to minimize distractions during meetings. So that people can keep their attention on the project instead of on crinkling bags and switched orders and extra napkins.

  What is it not designed for? A jerky billionaire in an office ordering you around.

  Now I have to set his place for him like a servant? But of course, it’s what he wants.

  I give him a cool stare. “You’re asking me to lay it out?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I regard him with amused consternation, like it’s such a ridiculous request I can barely process it. Acting skillz!

  “Is there a problem?”

  I give him my trademark cool smile. “If that’s what you need,” I bite out. As in, If that’s what you need to feel good, jackalope.

  His eyes glitter. “It is what I need, Mia. Thank you.”

  It is what I need, Mia. Thank you.

  Millennial Dean Martin, thinking he’s ending our rivalry once and for all in a blaze of glory that leaves me eating his dust.

  Eating the dust of his dust. Uh!!

  With perfectly steady hands, I take the sandwich from the bag and set it aside. I form the bag into a placemat in front of him. Meow Squad is an eco-friendly place where we repurpose the packaging when possible—there’s a whole training video on it, but I’m taking it further. I’m smoothing it down with an extra fussy flourish, like he’s such a ridiculous person to have requested a layout. I’m also taking an obnoxiously long time.

  I set his roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich upon the bag and pull up the four corners of the wax paper by the edges. The video doesn’t have you unwrap the sandwich, but how can I resist? I happen to know that Max is the kind of guy who gets annoyed by fussy inefficiency.

  I get each of the wax paper corners to curl slightly outward, as if to say, look at how fussy your demands are.

  “This is how you lay it out?”

  “Shh.” I take the three mustard packets from the bag and arrange them to splay out from the upper left, like a small hat—a fascinator, if you will—for the sandwich.

  Sir Ian McKellen himself couldn’t squeeze more mockery out of a performance if his life depended on it.

  Max, of course, shows me nothing, unless you count the slight enlargement of one of his neck muscles, which I definitely do.

  I set the chips down, pull my hands away and make a square with my thumbs and pointer fingers, as if to examine the presentation.

  “Are you quite done?”

  “No.” I reach back down and set the chips at a jaunty diagonal. “There we go.”

  I look up and find him watching me sternly.

  His pillowy lips twist.

  My heart does a lightning-bolt zig zag.

  “Or perhaps you’d prefer something more symmetrical,” I find myself saying. I line the mustards up, three soldiers in a row. It’s hilarious, what with his gaze so stern.

  His expression is unreadable.

  I proudly cross my arms, looking over this new arrangement. “Now we’re done.”

  I sneak another look at him. There was a time when I imagined I could read him. I thought I knew his heart as well as my own. I thought he had a heart. But it was all a cynical joke. It was Max pretending to have a heart.

  He frowns. “Did you forget something?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s my array?”

  “You picked cheesy puffs. There they are.”

  “That was yesterday,” he says.

  My pulse pounds. Is he going to make me do it?

  He wouldn’t.

  But there he is, waiting. Cruel, perfect Max. He does the finger-twirl.

  I grab the chips from their jaunty angle next to his sandwich and take them back to my cart and grab the other chips. I hold them up and list them off, knowing he’ll choose the cheesy puffs. The understanding rushes between us, strong as an ocean current.

  I know, and he knows I know. I guess that’s what makes this fun for him.

  “Very good. Now let’s see.” He folds his hands and rocks back. His gaze is palpable on my skin, a cool, smooth weight.

  I grit my teeth, heart drumming inside me. But all he sees is my cool smile—I make sure of it.

  Finally he speaks. “I’ll take the cheesy puffs.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  I see right now he’s going to make me show him the array every time. And he’ll choose the cheesy puffs every time. Even if he doesn’t want cheesy puffs, he’ll choose cheesy puffs, because that will upset me most.

  It’s as if we’re connected by some horrible thread. Just like always.

  I tuck the other chips back in the cart, wondering what he’d do if I smashed them. But I’m here to check off boxes, not to crush his chips. If I’m going to reverse-chase him, now is the time.

  Even though it feels pathetic. Like spitting at a hurricane.

  He smiles as I bring him his cheesy puffs. He’s so much more substantial now than he was in high school. Solid in places where he once was slight. Hard where he was soft. A bright and beautiful glacier, shining above the globe. A vicious, aggressive winner with a charmed life.

  I focus on my girlfriends. I’m doing this for them.

  “You know,” I say, placing the chips at a jaunty angle, “if you wanted to ask me on a date, there were easier ways than having me deliver your sandwiches.”

  He stiffens slightly, looks at me quizzically. Did I manage to surprise the great Max Hilton?

  I lower my voice. “I get that you wanted to bring me here in hopes that I’d see all of this…success of yours.” I say the word success with everything but the quote fingers. “Hoping that it would help your chances with me, but I’m sorry…you should’ve messaged me—”

  “I brought you here,” he says.

  “Yes, to ask me out, and I’m flattered, I want you to know that.” I act like I’m arranging things in my cart. “And maybe if things were different, my answer would be different…”

  He looks baffled. Like the whole idea is ridiculous, and it is—he’s always been too good for me. He always made sure I knew that.

  I force myself to think about the book. Keep pushing the illusion no matter what. You’re the alpha. You’re the pursued. Your reality is stronger than hers. Go ahead, shoot for the stars.

  “I know you’re disappointed, Max. I’m sorry you went to all this trouble to woo me—”

  “This is what you’re going with, Mia? That I arranged all this?”

  “And I do want you to know I’m flat
tered, Max. It’s not that you haven’t impressed me.”

  That muscle in his neck twitches. Was impressed too much?

  He turns back to his computer. Tap-tap-tap. “Yes, I’ll cry every night. I’ll rest my head into the bosoms of supermodels and just weep.”

  I stiffen. Probably three supermodels at once, like in the stupid picture. Something unpleasant twists in my belly. Why did I ever think it would work? Max is winning. He always wins.

  Keep pushing with the illusion. You’re the alpha. You’re the pursued. Don’t give up.

  “All this trouble you went to. I’m sure you’ll find a wonderful real-life girlfriend someday who appreciates you the way you deserve…”

  “Compelling as your little lunch-cart-girl monologue is, I have work to do, so...” He circles his finger and returns his attention to his computer.

  Little lunch-cart-girl monologue? Lunch-cart girl?

  “It has my attention,” I continue. “Don’t get me wrong. I di-int think…”

  Right there I freeze.

  His gaze snaps back up to mine.

  Di-int. We both heard it clear as a bell—the dropped ”d” of didn’t, so that it comes out di’int. A glottal stop, my voice coach called it. That’s a central feature of the south Jersey accent I worked so hard to erase. I di’int think. Di’int think.

  My heart bangs in my chest as he watches me, sizing me up, predator that he is.

  And then he goes in for the kill, which is, in this case, a smile.

  Or to the world it would look like a smile. Between us, it’s him enjoying the Jerseygirl slip, softly and silently plunging me back to those years in high school when I tried so hard to erase my accent. To have a shot at the lights of Broadway. To overcome the Corelli curse.

  Jerseygirl. The name hangs thick in the charged air between us, all the more hurtful for being unsaid.

  My face heats. Even my ears lose a little sparkle—it’s as though I can feel them dimming on top of my head.

  With as much grace as I can muster, I put my lunch things back in my cart. I enunciate my words in my best, most aristocratic-sounding version of General American English, what my voice coach calls GA, “That’s all I’m saying, Max. Sweet of you. I am flattered.”

  Still he says nothing.

  I turn and walk. I need to say meow now, but I don’t have it in me. I just don’t have it in me. Except then he’ll make me say it. I run the exchange in my head:

  Forget your line?

  Please, just let me go.

  You’re the lunch-cart girl.

  “Mia,” he says softly.

  Something about my name on his lips like that, sounding genuine, even full of feeling, it reaches deep into me and squeezes my heart.

  But when Max is nice to you, that’s the time you can least trust him. He’s going to make me say meow now—I know it.

  I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

  I turn, full of breezy determination, holding up a finger, smiling like I have a wonderful secret. I breathe in all of the magic that I can possibly breathe in. I am the queen of the cats, pursued and loved.

  I straighten my spine against Max, against everybody who ever doubted me. I press my hands on my hips and let loose. “Meeeeow.”

  He tilts his head. “Oh, I was just going to say, I’ll only need two mustards going forward.”

  My pulse races. My cheeks heat.

  But I don’t lose my aplomb. “We’ll see,” I say. Like I may or may not comply. With that, I leave.

  This is what I’ve been reduced to, I think, heading down his faux-heaven hall. Max has everything, and my only recourse is maybe giving him the wrong number of mustards. And then he’ll just make me correct the mistake in the most demeaning way possible, so what is the point?

  I’m dimly aware that I ride the elevator with other people. Some people get in. Some people get out. I barely see them. I’m too focused on myself. Or more, the naive girl I once was, trying so hard to be sophisticated. The world’s greatest fraud.

  I di-int think.

  I spent so many hours with that voice coach, trying to polish myself up in order to be worthy of the glittering, glamorous Broadway scene.

  I thought maybe I was, finally. But then Max had to come back into my life to remind me of my station. Because it’s not enough to be king of the world—not for Max.

  I burst outside onto the busy sidewalk, into the chaos of honking cars and hurried pedestrians. I pull my jacket from the cart pocket and wrap myself against the cold, wet wind and set out to the meeting point.

  Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t.

  A lot of really prominent teachers cycled through the Shiz. Famed director Strom Windmeyer. Choreographer Fanny Forlio. Actors like Jean Stern and Marcel Rhodes. Many of them had encouraging words for me. Some of them even singled me out for praise.

  But it’s Max’s biting words I remember. Obvious. Without nuance. Not there. Not her best. He never said them directly to me—we didn’t speak except for that one summer. But other students took glee in passing our insults along to each other.

  I’d always laugh dismissively at them. Max was just some sullen rich boy who hated me. What did I care what he had to say?

  But I remembered each and every word he spoke with the precision of a near-death experience. Sometimes I’d lie in bed staring up at my autographed Mamma Mia! poster and dissect his words, turning them over and over, painful artifacts.

  I pull out my phone. Rollins is five minutes away. I punch in my location, hit send, then sit in the shadowy doorway, feeling small and cold. I need to compose myself.

  Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t. I enunciate the word with the tip of my tongue at the just-right spot behind my teeth.

  How can I let him do that to me still? Why did I ever think this would work?

  I rip the blinged-out cat-ears headband from my head and scrape off the sequins, ripping them off with my fingernails. This whole thing was a mistake! The threads break and sequins go all over the sidewalk.

  Didn’t didn’t didn’t, I say. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

  I’ll never be enough.

  I hate how tuned into him I still am. I always was. Though really, everybody back at the Shiz was fascinated with Max.

  It wasn’t just that he came from old money and famous parents. He had this quiet, brooding awkwardness. And then there was his legendary talent. He knew music theory inside out, and he could sight-read wildly difficult piano scores. He’d had lessons practically from birth, but still, it was impressive.

  All the cool kids wanted to be his friend. The teachers deferred to him.

  Max and I were polar opposites in every way—he was in the classical music track and the rich kid group; I was dirt poor and in theater, and on a full housing scholarship. And I’d never even ridden on a plane or slept overnight in a hotel, and he’d lived in every glamorous international capital you could name with his fabulous parents.

  And beyond that, the musician kids didn’t like the theater kids and vice versa.

  Unfortunately for the musician kids, they were musician kids, a socially awkward if not downright nerdy bunch, and we were theater kids, all outgoing and fabulous and way better prepared to make fun of the musicians. We had nicknames for a lot of them, and we did impressions of the way they walked and talked. I actually did a great Max-the-robot impression where I mimicked his way of playing piano. We put it up on YouTube, and it got a ton of views.

  Sophomore year, he composed a song making fun of my laugh. It had a dance move that went with it—the Donkey Honk. Even the name was catchy, and it spread through the Shiz like wildfire. Performing arts kids are hungry for that kind of thing.

  I acted like I didn’t care, and I even sometimes laughed and danced along, but I hated it—I’d changed my laugh to sound prettier and more bell-like. I’d worked on it really hard, and Max’s song made it so nobody could forget.

  If you would’ve told me then that years
later I’d be delivering sandwiches to Max as he sat behind a desk in a grand office tower that he personally owned, I would’ve asked you to put a bullet through my head.

  I wait for Rollins, keeping the breath going though the words. Didn’t. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Mightn’t.

  Why do I still care? Why do I care if I’m not good enough for him? He’s a cynical robot with no heart.

  Then I remember my friends. That’s why I care.

  I get on my hands and knees to pick up the sequins now. It would be easier to sew on new ones, but I’m imagining pigeons trying to eat them and getting sick.

  Whatever. I may be the world’s most loserish Broadway hopeful, but that’s not a reason to go hurting birds.

  The most painful critique of his came down after my senior project, a solo monologue and song-and-dance number from a musical adaptation of Age of Innocence, all upscale NY society women. The perfect part for a well-mannered girl. I felt like I’d internalized the character of May, and I had that polished GA accent so deep in me, I felt like I was even dreaming in it.

  And then word came back that he’d seen it—maybe on YouTube, or on a fellow student’s phone—and passed his judgment. Two words. All wrong.

  It was as if he alone knew. As if he alone saw the poor girl burning through.

  Didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t, I emote silently to all of Manhattan. I didn’t think.

  Maybe they can all hear it.

  6

  A cool smile is never out of style.

  ~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM

  * * *

  MIA

  Kelsey has her dance stuff on when I get home. “Petra canceled her jazz dance class—we have the studio for two hours. The one with the piano. Hurry!”

  “Oh my god, I’m there.” I hand her a bag—a double-order mistake. “Korean fried chicken with spicy dressing. You’re gonna die.”

  “Smells...mmm. I’m eating half now. But only half.” She digs into the bag while I rush into my room to get ready. Kelsey teaches at the dance studio just up 45th Street.