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.