My mouth begins to form his name—Max. I’m not above begging if that gets us moving along.
It’s here I come to my senses. Begging? Moving along? What is happening to me? It comes to me that this is probably what he wanted when he set up these deliveries.
Maybe he even wagered on it with Parker—how long will it take? How many Meow Squad visits until I’m the main course?
I yank my hand away. “In your dreams, buddy. In your dreams.”
I spin around and get back over to my cart, awash in a sense of loss, but you can’t trust a man with no heart.
He turns back to his computer. “Are you going to bring my correct sandwich next time?”
“Doubtful,” I say.
9
The woman will scoff at your rewards and demerits but keep going. Doling out rewards and demerits positions you as the approval giver and her as the approval seeker.
~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room
* * *
Mia
Kelsey’s there when I get home from work. I peel off my winter clothes, feeling like a fugitive. Am I running from Max? Or myself?
“So? How’d it go?”
Unbearably sexy comes to mind. Wild. Confusing. Knuckle kisses of wonder.
“I’m definitely getting his attention.” I grab the marker and put an X in the mete out rewards and demerits box. “He got three gold stars for his tower.”
Kelsey smiles. It’s nice to see her happy and excited like this. “All this time he thought it was such an impressive tower.”
“Such high hopes for his tower. And then I gave some supermodels in a photo with him two-point-five stars, and he got an extra bag of cheesy puffs when he behaved well.”
“Wow. You are going master-level on his system.”
This is the part where I should tell her about the knuckle kiss, but I don’t. I can’t. Maybe it’s cowardly.
That afternoon, I set out with my script teed up on my phone, off to wander the streets and memorize lines. And I’m a little bit avoiding Kelsey.
Though I really, really do need to work on my monologue.
On the first call with acting and singing auditions, you always go in with your own material, and for my monologue I’m doing something from Wicked.
In order to not look crazy, I wear an iPhone headset, like I’m talking on the phone. Though if people listen, they’ll definitely wonder about my sanity.
One of the best things about winter is that it gets dark earlier, and you can see in windows, so many windows like bright fishbowls.
I walk and I talk, watching the world around me. The way people move, the way they get into cabs or even wait for a light, all of that goes into my tool bag.
I people-watched a lot when I first arrived in the city as a freshman attending the Shiz.
I’d especially watch the elegant women. I remember how horrified I was when I realized how little grace I had compared to them. I flopped down on chairs instead of sitting. I slammed my beverages instead of sipping. And I didn’t talk, I spouted off. Worst of all, that brassy laugh.
I’m heading up Ninth Street, running through my piece enough that it’s in my bones. I try incorporating that tip-of-the-head movement that Max’s receptionist did, a slight twist of the spine and a tip. It’s not right in the piece, but it feels very chic. I like it.
I go along the edge of the park, just over a mile from our place. I re-tie my scarf against the wind coming across it and head back down 8th, which is a reasonable enough street to take back to our neighborhood, but it’s also where Maximillion Tower is.
I haven’t forgotten the seeming lie I overheard on the phone. I’ve thought about it on and off over the past weeks. A foundation thing after work on Tuesdays.
What does he really have on Tuesday nights? What is he hiding? I can’t quite shake the feeling he’s hiding something.
It’s 6:30 PM and Max’s lights are still on. Most people would have gone home, but Max is there. He always was a hard worker—I saw that up close during the musical. He seemed to have come in with the songs pre-memorized, and he was so serious about getting the blocking right.
I huddle in a doorway across the street.
Is he working this late? Or maybe there’s a supermodel up there, and he’s saying Max Hilton things to her. You’re wearing far too many clothes, baby. Come on over here and let’s get nasty.
Or maybe he’s kissing her knuckles and melting her mind. And she hates how bad she wants him.
Standing out there, I’m thinking that I could just see where he goes. What if he’s learning to juggle? Attending a jazz-hands-to-the-oldies class? These are things I would need to know. Chances are good that he’ll have a driver pick him up and whisk him off somewhere, and it’s not like I’m going to jump into a cab and be all, follow that limo!
Probably.
In his book, Max talks about the practice of observation.
Guys are stupid and oblivious as a rule. You don’t have to do much to rise above the competition. You want a book about how to seduce the woman you want? It’s written on her face, in her clothes. She tells you with every word she speaks, with every smile. What does she like? What does she care about? Open your eyes. Start seeing what’s in front of your face. Use everything.
I wander up and down the long block, keeping an eye on his window, thinking I’ll just linger for a while.
I tell myself it’s not weird. I tell myself it’s all in that service of my girlfriends—the more ammunition the better, right?
But really, I just want to know. I can’t stop thinking about his half smile, how it feels like a secret smile that’s just for me.
Stupid.
His light goes off. I step back into the shadows. A few minutes later, he steps out of the building. No car tonight. He’s wearing an overcoat and winter hat with ear flaps, pulled low over his forehead. A long scarf slung around his chin.
In other words, a disguise. But I’d recognize that posture anywhere. The angle of his head as he looks around.
He turns right and heads along 8th.