Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules Page 8

  I spin around and go back to my cart. I can literally feel his eyes on me, like an angry caress, waking up my skin.

  Probably mocking my outfit in his mind.

  The only good thing about my outfit is the short multipocket apron that covers most of my middle and is designed to hold utensils and stirrers and salt packets and things, and in my case, it doubles as a really effective tummy hider.

  I fuss in my cart, like I can’t find something, trying not to smile or laugh.

  I sneak a glance. Quickly he looks away. My pulse races.

  He totally hasn’t noticed the sandwich, yet.

  “Yes, that works. The nineteenth. It’s a go.” I hear the click of the latest model of iPhone being set on a soulless glass surface.

  Call ended.

  Most people say goodbye when they hang up, but Max dwells in a special world where people don’t say goodbye when they get off the phone. They just hang up. Like in movies.

  I finger the smooth packets of mustard feeling his gaze on my back. The sensation is physical, as if the Lycra cat suit has taken on an electric charge, making my skin underneath feel intensely alive.

  “You like it?” he asks.

  I turn. “What?”

  He tips his head at the wall. “The photo. You look at it enough. I could get you a copy for your bedroom wall. For…personal purposes.”

  I snort. “As if.”

  “And to save you the extra labor, I could have my assistants angrily pre-snip the women out of the picture. Or would you prefer I have them scratch their eyes out? Or maybe both? A two-step process?”

  “Do those poor women know you’re a robot with no feelings?” I ask.

  He leans back, so cool. “I like to keep that a surprise to whip out on the second date.”

  Heat steals over my face. Is he dating one of them? All of them? I can’t think of what to say back. Never mind; he’s looking down. He’s noticed the sandwich.

  I bite back a smile as he lifts the bun. “What is this?”

  “Grilled whitefish with a spicy curry sauce. It’s only available in December.”

  “I ordered the roast beef and swiss cheese croissant sandwich.”

  I fix him with a steady gaze. Max’s book stresses the importance of believing in yourself, or at least looking like you do. Fake it until you make it is a recurring theme, though he never puts it like that.

  “I know what you ordered,” I say sweetly, “but this is the sandwich that you want. You’ll like it much better.”

  “I’d like a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich much better.”

  “Wrong.”

  He frowns. “You can’t just change my order.”

  I tilt my head, all sunshine and innocence. “This special-edition grilled whitefish sandwich comes from a food truck on Seventh that was recently purchased by a five-time Michelin-rated chef. Way better than your stupid croissant sandwich.”

  He looks between me and the sandwich, baffled. “You can’t just...”

  I cock my head, feeling happy and excited. Max needs to do a revised edition of his book, because nowhere does it say how crazy fun the process is. “It’s the superior lunch.”

  The secret truth is, he will like it best. Not only is it the objectively superior meal, but it matches his taste. I might not be able to tell you what my best friend in junior year preferred for lunch, but I can tell you what kinds of food Max always went for, yet another unfortunate side effect of the kind of concentration it took to be enemies with him.

  I’m excited for him to take a bite. Not that my life’s goal is for him to have a delicious sandwich, but I like the idea that he’ll see I’m right. I’m showing him that I’m superior. I’m in charge of the entire world. I’m X-ing that box off like a boss!

  He stands. Gives me a hard look.

  Max was always much taller than me, maybe that’s why he stands. To intimidate me from across the room.

  Shivers go over me. Does he think he can intimidate me? Or is it more than that?

  He comes around his desk.

  I swallow. “Try it, you’ll like it.”

  He keeps coming at me, eyes on mine.

  My skin tightens as he nears. This process is getting more exciting by the second. “I’m telling you that this is the one you’ll like best. I’ve chosen it for you.”

  He keeps coming until he’s right in front of me. I gaze up into his eyes, awash in a feeling of hilarity and something else—a strange alertness. My nipples strain at the fabric of the cat suit. What’s up with the AC in this place?

  “Do you want to get fired? Is that it?” he grumbles.

  My heart is basically banging out of my chest at this point. I swallow with difficulty. “No, I don’t want to get fired. I’m telling you what sandwich you want.”

  Emotion flares in his eyes.

  It’s been forever since I’ve been this close to Max. Forever since I studied the stray brown fleck in one of his otherwise intensely blue eyes, pale at the center, like a ring of ice formed in there.

  “You’re telling me what sandwich I want,” he gusts out, his words like feathers on my forehead.

  “That’s right, Max. It’s the sandwich,” I enunciate sassily, “that you want.”

  “If I’d wanted it,” he says, “don’t you think I would’ve had it?”

  “Not necessarily,” I say, “being that you have no idea of how amazing it is. All that you’ve missed out on. So sad…”

  Something in the way he looks at me changes; his nostrils flare, and for a crazy second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

  For a crazy second, I want him to. I’m the amazing one, I think. I’m the one you missed out on.

  The moment stretches on. I don’t know where we’ve gone, but the sandwich is nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly he straightens. He turns and walks the few feet back to his desk, him and his perfect suit.

  I stand there gawking, thinking he probably requests his suits be made a little too tight through the shoulders in order to give the optical illusion of a perfect body, strong and lithe and predatorial like a lion, accentuated by the finest fabric. Only the best will do when it comes to kissing and cupping Max Hilton’s muscular torso as he prowls his office.

  He grabs the sandwich and turns, leans back, butt against the desk, eyes boring into mine. Then he takes a bite, eyes never leaving mine.

  My stomach tightens as he chews.

  I have a lot of customers to attend to, a lot more tips to get for myself. I have the Edgar building next. If I take too long, people will be mad.

  But none of that matters.

  I’m furious with excitement and something that feels strangely like happiness.

  He chews, looking deliberative.

  And then his gaze drops to the sandwich.

  He thinks it’s delicious—I can tell. I feel like my smile might crack my face. “Right?”

  He looks back up. Narrows his eyes.

  “Oh, snap,” I say. “Who’s your daddy?”

  He snorts, and for a second, he’s not my enemy. For a second, it feels amazing to have introduced him to this sandwich, one of my personal favorites. He dabs the sides of his mouth with a napkin.

  “The sandwich that you want.”

  He watches me. Battling with himself, no doubt. Trying to find some loophole where it’s not true, maybe.

  “Right? Admit it.”

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I go to him, enter his force field of smooth, suave perfection. I have this crazy feeling like I need to break through it. “Because people should admit things.”

  “Yeah?” he says. One word. Voice calm like steel.

  “So delicious. Oh, the deliciousness that you’ve been missing!”

  I’m joking around, but his stern gaze is locked on mine in a way that’s anything but jokey.

  The floor seems to dip beneath my feet.

  Slowly, without warning, he reaches up and t
ouches the side of my face—one lone fingertip. A featherlight touch that sizzles.

  He holds my gaze with those eyes, the bluest of blue with that pale ring of ice, and slowly draws his fingertip along the edge of my jaw, heading for my chin.

  I feel like he’s looking into my soul with those eyes.

  The air thickens between us. My sex turns molten with excitement.

  I should laugh at him and push his hand away, but it’s the last thing I want. Don’t stop is more my thinking.

  I’m nearly panting by the time he reaches my chin, but his wicked finger isn’t finished. It’s a knuckle now, and it’s reversing course, slowly trailing backwards across my hyper-sensitive cheek.

  I’m dizzy with the gentle sweetness of his touch, like he’s petting a tiny wild bird.

  Neither of us says a word, as though that might break the spell.

  My breath is quick and shallow—okay, I’m panting—but hopefully not that he can see or hear. Every molecule in my entire being is focused on the progress of his knuckle. Yearning for more.

  I keep my face neutral when all I want is to turn into his hand. I don’t even know how I resist. All I want to do is give him everything.

  Finally his finger of amazement reaches the tender skin below my ear; then and only then does he stop. He gazes at me even more deeply, as if that’s possible. Something in my belly melts.

  I have no breath.

  He leans in and presses his lips to my cheek.

  One tiny brush of a kiss.

  A seismic event in my belly.

  Somewhere on the other side of the globe in some tiny island nation, Richter scales are going crazy. Animals are racing into the hills. Nobody understands what has happened. But it’s me, standing in this Manhattan office tower, cracking apart in shards of pure lust.

  He pulls back, watching me.

  “S-soooo, you really did like the sandwich,” I say.

  His lips quirk in a half smile. It’s a smile that I haven’t seen for years, and it lights something deep in me. “Thank you.”

  It comes to me that he’s thanking me for the sandwich.

  It seems like madness, but yes, what else is he talking about? I put on a sarcastic expression. Like he’s such a freak. “Oh-kay, then.”

  His lip twitches. “Chips would go great with this,” he says. “What do you have?”

  I give him a look. Don’t you dare—that’s what my look says. You can’t make me show you the chips array. You can’t be an asshole after that.

  He circles his finger.

  Heat fills my face.

  I go back to my cart, grab a bag of cheesy puffs, and toss them at him.

  He catches them, eyes never leaving mine. “You’re not going to open the chips for me? What would Meow Squad say?”

  “Call ’em and find out.”

  He stares at me a bit. “Are you going to get my order right next time?”

  “Unlikely.” I grab my cart and turn, pulse racing.

  8

  Show her you’re the one in charge by creating a system of rewards for good behavior and demerits for behavior you don’t like.

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

  * * *

  MIA

  I attend an acting seminar over the weekend and take off Monday to do some work as a film extra, which goes late into the evening. I don’t get home until after three in the morning, which I’m a little unhappy about. I wanted to be well rested for Tuesday. But even on five hours of sleep, I’m feeling strangely chipper, and looking forward to doing some more of Max’s system.

  I don’t know how to feel about the way he touched me on Friday. All weekend I’ve been processing it, which is basically a euphemism for replaying it over and over in my mind as butterflies do loop-de-loops in my chest.

  Today I’ll be doing rewards and demerits. He’ll hate it. I smile whenever I imagine how much he’ll hate it.

  In his book, Max suggests giving the woman a Hershey’s Kiss whenever she does something you like. To get her to associate pleasure with being agreeable.

  “What the hell!” Kelsey had exclaimed when I read that part aloud. “Like we’re Pavlov’s dogs?”

  Tell her playfully that she has to earn her chocolate candy. She won’t like it and will probably find ways to resist, but hold your ground. Do what you need to do to stay in the alpha position—you are the judge of her, the one who gives rewards for good behavior. If you feel your control slipping, simply give another reward for something. Or a demerit.

  “Oh, you have to go after him with everything,” Kelsey had said.

  I just snorted. “Don’t you worry, sister.” And I won’t think about kissing his palm or putting my face to his chest, either! But I didn’t say that out loud.

  We decided that following his system exactly would be too obvious. Like if I start giving him Hershey’s Kisses, it might jog his memory.

  In order to position myself as approval giver, I’ve decided to go with a gold-star grading system like they have on Amazon.

  Max is behind the desk when I get there, the king in his castle.

  His white shirt fits him just so, his tie slightly loosened, brown hair perfectly tousled.

  He gives me a smile, but it’s not his real one. It’s his Max Hilton smile, the smile of Maximillion magazine ads and billboards above Times Square. Enchanting Max who knows all the fun secrets. Max who wears a tuxedo to the many glamorous events you will never be invited to. Max having fun elsewhere without you.

  It’s a beautiful smile that feels like a wall.

  “Is it too much to ask that you’ve brought the sandwich I ordered?” he asks.

  “I’ve brought the sandwich you want,” I say.

  Blue eyes simmer behind lush lashes. “We’ll see.”

  Fun electricity trills through me, much as I try to clamp it down. I proceed, conscious of him watching my every movement. The taking of his sandwich bag from my cart. The bringing of the sandwich to his desk. The extraction of the sandwich, the smoothing out of the bag.

  I’ve done lunch layout for hundreds of conferences, but until Max, I’ve never been so aware of how much I’m invading somebody’s space when I do it. I’ve never felt so acutely the hum of another person’s nearness. The electric charge of another body up close.

  He’s not even pretending to work this time. He just sits there enjoying my servitude. Maybe thinking about the way he touched my cheek.

  God knows I’m thinking about it. I blot all sexy thoughts from my mind. I’m on a mission.

  I position the knife and fork perfectly. I clear my throat. “You know, I can see your tower from my bedroom window.”

  “Can you,” Max rumbles, velvety cool.

  “It’s a beautiful building, it really is, but…” I trail off.

  “But what?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t give it more than three stars.”

  His expression is just a little bit stony; no sign of emotion whatsoever unless you count that muscle twitching at the side of his jaw.

  “I know you would’ve wanted at least a four-star rating from me, if not a five. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he says dryly. “Disappointed is not the word I’d use.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “And what piece of Manhattan real estate would the lunch-cart girl have me purchase?” he asks.

  Again with the lunch-cart girl. Deep inside my chest, small demons stoke a fire of outrage. Somebody needs a demerit.

  “That’s not something I can solve for you, unfortunately.” I arrange the mustards, feeling his gaze fixed on me, which makes it difficult to think. I keep thinking about the way he touched me. Feeling the sizzling path of his finger. Imagining primal moves.

  I nod at the picture on the wall. “Three stars,” I say.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Max Hilton girls. Please. They’re not as pretty as I am,
and probably not as fascinating as I am, either.”

  Everything in him seems to go still, except his eyes, which are busy boring holes in the side of my face. Maybe stunned at how deluded I am.

  Because let’s face it, they are all objectively prettier than me.

  I mean it—they are prettier by every pretty parameter, killing it in the categories of nose-straightness, hair silkiness, and symmetry of features. They especially dominate in the willowiness-of-limbs area, whereas I’m short and sturdy. My boob size disqualifies me from being able to pull off the drapey dresses they’re wearing. They might be more fascinating, too.

  But I’m going with it, even though, standing there under his stern scrutiny, I feel less and less confident.

  Never let them smell blood in the water, that’s one of the concepts in his book that comes to me now. Like women are sharks, always ready to attack.

  The only shark here is Max, of course. With his harsh good looks and his merciless precision and his billion-dollar empire that eats other billion-dollar empires for lunch.

  I lower my voice to a confident whisper. “Probably not as fascinating or as fun. I think you know it’s true. I might even give them a two. As compared to me. Especially…” I adjust my sequined ears. “Oh, what the hell, two-point-five. I’m feeling generous.”

  He clears his throat. “Are all of your visits going to be this disruptive?”

  I sigh like I have a wonderful secret. The world is your cocktail party—that’s an attitude Max suggests in his book. I actually liked that one—it really resonated with me. “We’ll see.”

  I grab the five bags of chips before he can demand his array. He watches, expression intense.

  Of course, in the cocktail party I’m imagining, I’m not acting as a human sandwich dispenser. I’m having fun and laughing, and Max is watching me, besotted.

  And it’s not because I have a pork chop lifted to my face.

  “Are we going with cheesy puffs today?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.

  “Cheesy puffs,” he says hoarsely.

  “Good job,” I say. “You made an excellent choice. And just for that, you get an extra bag!”