“What’s going on?”
I hit the buttons. They make a little plastic nothing sound. Ineffectual buttons disconnected from the world. Like Max’s heart. I point to the key. “Make it go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is wrong,” I snap. “What am I thinking?”
Pain flashes across his face. Or maybe I just imagine it. He turns the key and the elevator is moving. I move away from him.
He says my name and I put up my hand. “Can you leave me alone for once?”
The door opens on the lobby floor to a group of chattering professionals who part as I push my cart away.
The doors shut.
I stand alone in front of the blank elevator doors, panting. He brought me into his building to wait on him. Now he’s seducing me.
This is a victory lap, nothing more, nothing less. If Max was actually interested in me, he’d ask for a date, not make me his servant. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.
I hit the elevator again and pop back up to the twentieth floor. I leave my cart in the hall and burst into Blade’s office. “Let’s do it. Let’s kick some scavenger ass.”
He looks surprised. “The New Year’s Eve party?”
“You still want to?”
“Of course,” he says.
You’re sweet, I think before I can stop myself. And then I add, You’re sexy. I don’t hugely think it, but maybe I could think it. I remind myself of all of the TV shows that I currently love but that I wasn’t so sold on during the first few episodes. Maybe Blade’s like that. Maybe he’ll unwarp my mind from Max. “Okay, Blade, we’re on.”
“I’ll text you the deets,” he says.
My mouth is smiling, but my mind is saying, please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t say deets again.
16
Never ask a woman if you can kiss her. She should be asking you. Better yet, she should begging you.
~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room
* * *
Max
People start streaming into the four-story atrium, everybody in their finest. Oscars-night shit. I shake hands and exchange New Year’s wishes.
I’m not a fan of New Year’s Eve, but I’m proud that the Maximillion holiday ball is such a hot ticket, all tuxedos and cocktail-length gowns. Never underestimate the draw of a dress-up party with a large Instagram component.
I fix my bowtie.
Parker’s sitting on the edge of the stage, holding court with a glittering group. I catch his eye and salute him. He smiles huge and salutes me back. You couldn’t want a better business partner.
The professional scavenger-hunt designers—yes, there is such a thing—come over to consult with me about some last-minute decisions. They’ve been hiding prizes and clues in the blocks between the park and Midtown. You have to take selfies with the clues when you find them. They’ve done an amazing job.
The party is also beloved by my employees, thanks in part to the massive loot that’s involved. The socialites and industry people tend to play for charity. The PR and social media buzz we get off it is worth ten times what we spend on the thing.
My heart is not in it. All I can think about is Mia. Mia punching my sandwich like an outrageous goddess. The way she felt in the elevator, soft and hot in my arms. Mia’s face at the end. What happened? Maybe I should’ve followed her, but I’m not in the habit of following women who say leave me as energetically as Mia did.
I tracked down her number and texted her a few times, and she promptly blocked me. I got her address, and I gave serious thought to sending something nice, or even going over there. I'm going to figure it out after this party. I’m going to make her see that she’s not notch in my elevator bar.
I’ve never felt such an intense connection with a woman—not even close, except maybe that summer with Mia. I screwed it up. I won’t do it again.
I grab a champagne off a passing tray.
The string quartet plays a festive arrangement with its roots in folk songs—the key changes feel Slavic. Russian, maybe. They’ve got an excellent fiddler—somebody actually trained. Enough that I have to wander near to get a look.
I stop short when I recognize the lead violinist from the Shiz—DJ Barnes.
I’m not loving that DJ Barnes is here. A lot of the people from high school are jobbers now, sitting in on musical groups and bands and orchestras. It’s inevitable that I run into them at events. Still. High school was a miserable time, and I don’t like seeing people from then. Except Parker. And Mia, of course.
DJ looks over and smiles. I give him a friendly nod.
They start up something new—a demanding number designed to pluck annoyingly at the heartstrings, and they’re putting their all into it.
Hearing him play his heart out, it sends a feeling through me that’s not exactly pleasant.
As if on cue, Tarquin Walters is by my side with his photographer. Still working that profile. He’s the last person I want to see. “I appreciate the invite.”
I raise my glass with a smile. “You find your angle yet?”
He gives me a look I can’t quite read. “Are you playing this year?”
I frown, stiffen. “Playing?”
“The famous scavenger hunt? They say you sometimes do it.”
“I play when there’s an odd number.” I shrug. “I hope you’re getting in on it. You’re perfectly welcome to.”
“I’m on the job. I’ll stick with you.”
Of course he will. All the better to ruin my party for me. Not that it isn’t ruined already, because I can’t stop thinking about Mia.
Lana comes up and links arms with Tarquin. I give her a grateful look.
My attention drifts back to the quartet. In your dreams, she said.
Except she was right there with me before that. My blood races. She thinks I’m toying with her?
It seems clear she doesn’t trust me, maybe doesn’t trust my motives. Why? Is it from high school? Is it the Max Hilton thing?