Parker still has his same chubby cheeks and nerdy glasses and generally disheveled bearing—the pile of folders and magazines he’s carrying looks like it’s about to explode.
“Parker!” I say, then I remember he was another rich kid who was unkind to me. “Hi,” I add, in a more morose tone.
“Mia…” He looks me up and down. “Nice threads.”
I do a little shimmy, hips wiggling, while I circle my finger, then point it right at him. “You can’t touch this.” Just a little alpha-signaling-reverse-chasing combo courtesy of Max’s pathetic book.
“Good to see some people haven’t changed,” he says, walking in.
“Back atcha,” I say.
“Vicious campaign mockups,” he says to Max. “Fucking golden.”
Vicious campaign. I snort and look back at Max. He just smiles his cool superior smile.
I get out of there and ride the elevator down.
11
Be playful and outrageous.
~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room
* * *
Max
I should bar Meow Squad from the building. It’s what I should do. A smarter man would do that. A smarter man would’ve done it the first day.
“So…not to point out the obvious,” Parker says, “but that was Mia Corelli. In your office. In a cat suit.”
“I know. She’s been delivering sandwiches.”
“And?”
“There’s no and. She engineered getting in here somehow. God knows how or why. Apparently Meredith left instructions for the front desk to let her through before she flitted off to her yoga retreat. I’ve got an email out to her, but it’s a yoga retreat. In Costa Rica.” I shrug. “I know it was Mia, though—she was so clearly unsurprised to be walking into my office that first day.”
Parker has this strange look on his face. He never liked her, never wanted to be around her. “Really.”
It’s outrageous, of course. The idea that Mia would seek me out, thinking she’d just bring it—to me—a man who controls a billion-dollar empire, along with all of the messaging and mindshare that spreads out from that, and she’s a lunch-cart girl, and she decides it’s a good time to bring it…it’s classic Mia.
“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that she finds all of this impressive.”
Parker frowns. “That’s what she said?”
“Impressive.”
Parker snorts. You had to be a student at the Shiz to comprehend the cut of that word. Impressive meant style over substance. Flash over soul. It meant you were pandering to the audience as opposed to being a serious artist. Impressive suggested that you cared only about looking good to people.
“So, what’s she up to?”
“I don’t know. It’s not as if I follow her on Facebook or anything.”
“You’re not catching up?”
“On the sandwich trends of Manhattan, maybe. She’s delivering lunch.”
“Right to you in your office,” he says.
I shrug. “Let’s have it. Where are we on the campaign?”
Parker spins through the media plan.
I sometimes fly Parker and some of my buddies out to Vegas to see mixed martial arts fights. Front-row seats. Ringside service. If you know the sport, you know that the fighter who is flat on his back can sometimes turn that position to his advantage. There are certain moves that can be downright deadly from the bottom.
Leave it to Mia to think she’s going to bring it from the bottom.
A lunch-cart girl. But what does Mia care? The world is her cocktail party. Back at the Shiz, wherever you heard laughter or gasps and whispers rising up from a group, you knew Mia was at the center of it.
Ah, Antonio.
Who the hell is he? A Wall Street guy? Hotshot exec? How does she even meet somebody like that?
No, she’s not with him—I know it. Mia’s gaze takes on a certain softness when she’s captured by something. And that’s not how she looked at Antonio. I saw her face only briefly, but it was enough.
Still. What was I seeing? He looked ready to haul her over his shoulder and carry her off.
Parker shows me another board. “The slate gray is pitch perfect,” he says. “And the look on your face. This is gonna kill. They will eat it up. Don’t you think?”
“Agreed,” I say. “Perfect.”
“Here’s our location for your shoot.” He flips to a backdrop. “Check out this gritty drama. Set you up here with Lana and a couple of the other girls.”
“Yeah, that works.” I look up at the image of me and Lana at the Maximillion fifth anniversary photo shoot that Mia keeps staring at. It’s a shot of me sitting with my old friend Lana, bag designer extraordinaire. Lana’s sister and one of the Max Hilton girls from that year, a jewelry designer, are gathered around us, laughing at something.
Two-point-five stars. I bite back a smile.
It was a good night at the top of Maximillion Plaza, all champagne fountains and A-list celebs and athletes. A whirlwind event where we raised tens of thousands of dollars for charity.
And not once did I look out over the rooftops and wonder what she was doing.
Not once did I sling my arm around a woman’s shoulders and think, you’re not her.
12
Only an idiot tells a woman what she wants to hear.
~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room
* * *
Max
The Maximillion Companies studio complex sits across the street from the main headquarters. It’s a creative workshop, a refuge from the demands of running the company. Doing a round through there is the high point of my day—I enjoy finding out about my employees’ projects on an informal basis. Hearing what’s on people’s minds.
I sometimes see Mia and her co-workers around the Meow Squad truck out on 8th, but she’s not there today. Which means I may not see her today at all—I have an interview and a lunch event across town.