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.”