“God, no,” he says. And then he turns serious. “You ran away from home at the age of eleven. What happened?”
I sip my coffee. “Doesn’t every kid run away from home?”
He checks his iPad. “It was right after your elderly nanny, Annette O’Grady, died in a crash on the Queens Expressway.”
I stir my coffee. How did he think to connect those things? None of the reporters at the time made the connection. The narrative was that I was trying to get out of a concert.
“It was a big loss,” I say. “Annette was a sweet, caring woman. She’d been with us since I was a toddler and she was…” Everything, I think. The one who kissed my skinned knees and sung me lullabies. The one who brought laughter to my grim childhood. The one who took the sunshine when she died.
I stare into my coffee. “Annette was full of life. Missed by the whole family. She loved custard, as I recall.”
I look up, pulse racing, relieved to see that he’s back on his notes.
We discuss my upcoming pet project, Catwalk for a Cause. I give him some red meat on that one—warring factions in the fashion world. A juicy celeb cameo. I’ll let him announce it.
We talk food. A restaurant opening we’re attending. I tell him about the special-edition grilled whitefish sandwich from a food truck on Seventh. The chef with the Michelin rating.
How did she know I’d love the sandwich like that? Did it give her satisfaction to be right? She always did have excellent taste—that’s something I remember from high school. She’d cultivated excellent taste and her own unique opinions on everything. Little Jerseygirl, scrabbling her way up. And she always, always wanted to show you that she was in charge.
13
Show your sense of humor—you never want to take yourself too seriously, and you definitely don’t want to take her too seriously.
~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM
* * *
MIA
I’m still fuming on my way to work the next day.
He’s a complete and utter jerkalope who loves to mess with me. One furious, utterly mind-blowing kiss and he thinks he owns me.
Why do I keep falling for it? Yes, it was a good kiss. Max is good at things. Ruthlessly so.
He was good at making me think he cared that summer.
Sienna is at the meeting spot the next day, posed next to a fire hydrant. She has pink fur on her ears and a pink feather boa. She springs up and hugs me. “I should give you the two hundred dollars extra I made yesterday from your idea to pimp out these stupid cat getups. But I need it for rent. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It wasn’t really my idea,” I say, eyeing her boots. “I adapted it from Max Hilton’s playbook. You know, that pickup book?”
“Seriously? Why would you read that?”
“I deliver to his tower. I wanted to be ready.” I explain alpha-signaling.
Sienna is just laughing. “The playbook. Thanks, Hilton,” she says. “What else are you doing? I want more tricks.”
I cross my arms. “Here’s another: Be playful and outrageous. You need to show you just don’t give a shit. Like, give people funny nicknames and boss them around.”
“Seriously?”
“Say, if there’s any sports stuff in in their office, you call them that—like Bengals or Cubby if it’s Cubs. A guy with a Blade Runner sticker on the outside of his laptop is Blade. Or if they order something unusual, like Shasta, you call them that.”
“You just say, here ya go, Shasta?”
“Or Dr. Pepper. Whatever.”
“I could do that,” Sienna says.
Rollins arrives with our go-sheets. I grab mine to see what Max ordered.
Nothing. No order from the twenty-fifth floor. Again.
My heart sinks. But it’s for the best. I’m supposed to be fighting for my friends, not kissing Max Hilton, king of careless trysts and liquor carts, the player responsible for Kelsey’s misery.
It’s just that he didn’t feel like a player—not when he’s with me, anyway.
I run through my financial building delivering meals. Trying to be bright, calling everybody by their assigned names. I hit my next buildings, one by one, and then I’m at Maximillion Plaza. The people are upbeat. It seems like a good place to work. Blade, in particular, is all smiles.
“What’s up, Blade?” I like calling him Blade.
He launches into some funny story—not from Max’s book. But still. I give him a sideways look. Is he flirting with me?
He says, “I know this is last minute, but what are you doing Saturday night?”
My mind goes blank. Not only flirting; he’s asking me out.
“It’s the Maximillion party,” he says. “I want you to feel free to say no and know that I’ll never ask you out again or be weird, and I don’t want you to feel any pressure to say yes because I’m a delivery client,” he adds. “But before you answer, let me add that it’s one of the hottest parties in town. Because of the scavenger hunt. Have you heard about it?”
“I thought people hated scavenger hunts.”
“They don’t hate them when there’s actual treasure to be scavenged—like cruises and thousand-dollar bills. And there’s a trivia component and you seem to know a lot of useless music trivia and I know sports. We could clean up.”
“What was that, mister? Useless music trivia?”
He pulls open his chips, which he in no way gives me a hard time about. “Seemingly useless…”
“I don’t know,” I say. I’d feel…weird. Even though it would be hugely effective as prize positioning.
“Think about it. Even as friends. Seriously. The prizes are insane.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I give him a silent meow, just because that feels appropriate.
14
Never let them smell blood in the water.
~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM
* * *
MAX
Parker and I are hosting the Catwalk for a Cause steering committee luncheon over the noon hour.
Laughing and brainstorming with some of the smartest, most fascinating people in the style and design world is something that would’ve been a welcome break from the stress of my routine just weeks ago. But now? I wish I could be back in my office.
I hate missing lunch in my office, or more specifically, I hate missing Mia. I hate missing her smile and her frown and her smartass comments and her outrageous moves.
And god, that kiss. It’s wrong what we’re doing, and I no longer care.
The topic is music. Parker’s at the head of the table with a lot of opinions on the subject. He loves music. Lana’s next to me, bending over the proposed schedule that I’ve worked out, practically on my lap, and Brazilian supermodel Zera Valsano, who hates costumes, is playfully wringing my neck over my suggestion she walk out in a whale costume, and I’m laughing, and that’s when Mia appears.
I stiffen. What is she doing here? There’s usually a caterer for these things.
She manages a tight smile, but I see her. She doesn’t like the photo on my office wall, and she really doesn’t like it being re-enacted in front of her.
I stand. “Hey,” I say.
She pushes her cart to the edge of the room, proud and aloof, with a slight air of danger.
How is she here? Parker’s assistant usually arranges the catering on these things. Did Parker’s assistant put in this order?
“I have seven low-carb salmon bowls, five keto pork, one vegan veggie, two teriyaki steak wraps and a roast beef and swiss croissant sandwich.” This last in a tone dripping with loathing.
Our gazes lock. The sparkle of anger and aliveness in her gaze hits something deep inside me. And I don’t care. I’m just glad she’s here. Mia’s beautiful even in her hatred—so fucking beautiful I can barely breathe.
Zera still has her hand on my shoulder, but it’s Mia I’m watching,
Mia’s hand I’m imagining. Doesn’t she see she’s the most exciting woman in the room?
My girl goes through the layout with confident movements, never giving me the satisfaction of seeing her sweat. I’m so proud of her I could die.
Needing somebody more than they need you is for suckers. That was the central lesson in the book I wrote way back when.
It felt like the gospel truth back then. But right now I need for everybody to be gone from here so I can be with Mia.
“Now where were we?” Parker says, squeezing mayo onto his sandwich. “Lindsey, let’s have the media schedule.”
Lindsey launches into a rundown of the schedule in the exciting and slightly confidential way that she has. Mia has everybody’s lunches set out except mine. Making me wait.
She gives me a mischievous look. She’s a lot of sunshine and a little bit devil. She sets a napkin in front of me, and then my croissant sandwich.
I gaze up at her, meeting her devil. “Mustards, please,” I say hoarsely.
Her cheeks go pink. There’s nothing sexier than the real Mia pushing out from underneath her acting skills, like a wildflower through concrete. When she’s really off-balance, the old accent peeks through—just the edges of it.
She sets down the mustards. Energy flares between us. It’s all so wrong, and I goddamn love it. I’m addicted to our dance. To her.
She sets down the cheesy puffs.
“What other chips are available?” I ask.
Her cheeks go pink. “Cheesy puffs were specified.”
“You were out of cheesy puffs the other day and I recall having something else that was really delicious,” I say.
She licks her lips. “That choice is no longer available to you, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be a fond memory. Never to be repeated.”
“No?” I can feel Parker staring at us—probably wondering what is up. I’m so far from caring.
“So sorry.” She opens the chips and arranges them just so, at a specific angle like she does when she’s trying to annoy me, then she positions the mustards.
“Thank you,” I say. At least it sounds like a thank you to the people around the table. It’s really just a tug on the rope between us. Mia spares me a burning glance. Is it possible she’s jealous?
Does she think I arranged this? To get a rise out of her?
She’s doing her fussy repositioning of my sandwich, and all I want to do is kiss her. I want everyone gone and for it to be just us. I’m going mad.
“Wait, it’s not quite right,” she says sweetly.
“It looks good to me.” My breath speeds. “I would go so far as to call it impressive.”
“No, there’s something missing.” She has everybody’s attention now. “Wait, I know what’s missing.”
“What?” I ask, rapt.
With the economical speed of a boxer, she punches her fist down into the sandwich.
The dull thump of a fist hitting a wad of meat and pastry resounds through the hush.
Gasps and exclamations rise up.
I stare at the sandwich in shock.
She’s smashed a crater into the middle of it. Bits of roast beef and swiss bulge out the sides of the misshapen croissant.
She straightens. She smiles at me. “There we go.”
My people watch me, aghast. The lunch-cart girl just smashed her fist into my sandwich. What will I do?
I bite back a smile. Pride is probably the wrong emotion here.
Lust is definitely the wrong emotion.
Everything falls away but her. She just doesn’t give a fuck—she never did. Even back in high school she was like that.
“Odd,” I say in the patrician tone that drives her insane. “I don’t recall ordering a panini.”
“My bad.” She smiles sweetly.
Everybody turns back to me, waiting for the famous Max Hilton retort. I always have something clever to say, but right now I don’t. There’s just me and Mia.
I just love her. I swallow. Did I really just have that thought?
“Anything else? No? Bon appetit.” She pushes her cart out.
I stand. “I’ll go see if everything’s…” I end the sentence with a mumble and get out of there. Nothing in that room is important anymore. I head out after her, down the hall. I round a corner just as her cart disappears into the elevator.
I slap my hand over the doors.
Her nostrils flare. “You think you’re all that. What with the models. Please.”
A grin splits my face. “And you think you can punch my sandwich?”
“Yes,” she breathes. “I think I can punch your sandwich.”
I’m in the elevator. I let the doors close behind me. “Do you have an apology for me?”
“No,” she says.
“What was that?” I cage her with my arms. Pure lust courses through my veins. “No? No apology? That won’t do.”
She beams at me “Okay, lemme try for a better answer. Hell, no.”
“That’s not better,” I whisper. She so loved punching my sandwich, and I love her for it.
“I don’t have an apology. Is that better?”
15
Never fixate on any one woman; you’re playing a numbers game.
~THE MAX HILTON PLAYBOOK: TEN GOLDEN RULES FOR LANDING THE HOTTEST GIRL IN THE ROOM
* * *
MIA
I should be angry. Max making me play lunch-cart girl in front of his models? What is that?
But being with him in this small space is putting my hormones into overdrive. Lighting my skin like electricity.
He slides his hand around the back of my neck. His fingers seem to tremble—there’s something so raw about him now. “Fuck,” he says raggedly.
My hands are sliding around the bulk of him. My hands are treating themselves to generous helpings of his cashmere suit coat, pulling him to me, rampaging across soft fabric and hard muscle
He kisses me—furiously, passionately. He hauls me up to him, closer, harder. His chest is a flat plane against my breasts; his cock at the V of my legs a delicious presence.
“Fuck,” I say into our kiss.
I had this whole idea of not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction, but I’m failing at that.
“Mia,” he breathes, peppering hot kisses over my neck while I pant and melt some more. He’s a spy in the night, stealing over enemy lines, going deeper, winning me over.
My fingers have hit warm skin under his white shirt.
And I don’t want to stop. I want Max like there’s no tomorrow. Like there’s no chart on our wall that’s a service to all womankind.
He pulls away from the kiss and looks into my eyes. He looks furious and beautiful. Suddenly the elevator’s moving. Maybe another floor called it.
He lets out a shuddery breath and shoves a key into the panel and the elevator grinds to a halt.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Nowhere,” he says, twisting my hair in his fist and pressing kisses onto my neck, and then he sucks in a small tag of skin and it bites. I think I’m going to have a hickey and I want that. I want him to mark me. “The elevator is officially going nowhere, does that work for you?”
“That’s the exact floor I wanted.”
I burrow my fingers under the belt of his trousers. Feverishly I pull his belt from the loops, big, dramatic motions that enhance the drama of our elevator tryst.
“Hey.” He catches my greedy hands and extracts them from his person, presses them back up against the cool panel, up over my head. All in one big hand of his.
With the other, he slides a knuckle over my cheekbone.
What is he doing? “What’s wrong, Mr. Roboto? Did your software for elevator quickies go offline?”
“That’s not what this is.” He dips his head and kisses my neck. “This is just for you.”
“Oh, that’s how you think it’s gonna be?”
“Just for you.” I gasp as he slides his hand slowly down my front, passing over one el
ectrified nipple on his way to my pussy. He shoves my apron out of the way and his whole hand is between my legs, cupping and kneading me through the warm fabric.
“Omigod,” I breathe, “yeah.”
He’s on the move again. He found the hidden elastic waistband of my cat suit pants and pushes his hand in. I hiss as he makes contact with my wetness.
He keeps my hands pinned, like I might fly away.
“Like this?” he asks, rubbing a heavy finger across my swollen nub.
“Yes,” I breathe. My body hums in response to his confident strokes. Ratchets up with feeling. Everything is so surreal now, maybe I can fly.
But I wouldn’t want to right now. I wouldn’t want to leave his fingers and exactly what he is doing to me.
I groan as he slides a wide finger along my seam.
“Shhh,” he says. “Not a peep.”
So I’m silent, immobile, the opposite of how I usually go at sexytimes, but it’s good. Like the pressure’s off. It’s just me and him. And his perfect finger. His wise, all-knowing, all-rhythm-having finger, stoking my pleasure. I don’t want him to stop.
My eyes close. I’m in some delicious agony where Max is owning me and I’ll probably regret it but I don’t care. I’m a junkie who will give up her world for what his finger is doing.
He kisses me at an expert angle that feels like heaven, nipping my lip. I’m panting out words that don’t make a lot of sense unless you understand that every word I’m saying right now means more, which Max seems to fully understand at the moment. Because he gets me like that.
My orgasm sneaks up on me, sudden and unexpected, swelling through my body, my mind. My head lolls against the elevator panel.
He doesn’t have my hands pinned any more. When did that happen? He’s pushing a lock of hair out of my eyes, watching me come down. Like he’s absorbing my pleasure. It’s the opposite of everything that’s classic Max Hilton.
Breaking the Billionaire’s Rules Page 12