My Fair Billionaire

Ten


Peyton paced in front of the Palmer House Hilton, checking his watch for the tenth time and tugging the black tie of his new tuxedo. Ava had been right about the phone call. That morning, she’d called someone named Violet, who said she would call someone named Catherine, and before he’d even left Ava’s apartment, his phone had rung with a call from that same Catherine, who had turned out to be someone from Ava’s social circle at Emerson—and someone who had treated him even worse than Ava had—gushing about how much she would love it if he would come to their “little soiree.” She’d also made him promise to seek her out as soon as he arrived so the two of them could catch up on old times.

As if he wanted to catch up with anyone from Emerson who wasn’t Ava. Jeez.

Where the hell was she? She should have been here seven and a half minutes ago. He scanned the line of taxis and luxury cars that snaked halfway down Monroe Street. As if his thoughts made it happen, the door of a yellow cab three cars back opened and Ava climbed out. And not just any Ava. But a breathtaking twenty-four-carat-gold Ava.

Holy crap, she looked— He stopped himself. Not just because he couldn’t think of an adjective good enough to do her credit, but because there would be no holy crap tonight. Tonight he was supposed to be a gentleman. Tonight, he would be a—he tried not to gag—society buck. Guys like that didn’t say Holy crap. Guys like that didn’t even say Guys like that. They said... He racked his brain, trying to remember some of the stuff Ava had taught him to say, since even saying stuff like stuff was off-limits when it came to presenting a dignified, articulate image.

Aw, screw it. He could think whatever words he wanted, as long as he didn’t say them out loud. And what he thought when he saw Ava gliding toward him, covered in gold and sapphire-blue, was...was...

Huh. Even allowing himself to use his usual vocabulary, he still couldn’t think of anything. Except maybe about what she was wearing under all the gold and sapphires.

Crap.

Okay, so the past couple of weeks had been the best of times and the worst of times. The best of times because he’d been around Ava, and he now knew how to do things that increased his social value to women like her. But the worst of times because, even with his increased social value, Ava still didn’t want him. Not the way he wanted her.

Well, okay, she wanted him. At least, last night she had. She had definitely wanted him the way he wanted her last night. She just didn’t want him today. Not the way he wanted her. And it was a different kind of wanting he felt today—a way more important kind of wanting—than it had been last night. Which was weird, because last night he’d wanted her in a way that was pretty damned important. What was even worse—in fact, what was the worst part of all—was that she was more firmly entrenched in his head now than ever, and he had no idea how to deal with it. And she wasn’t just in his head. She was in other body parts, too. And not just the ones that liked to have sex.

She’d changed since high school. A lot. Yeah, there had been times when she’d tried to shroud herself in the same ice-princess disguise she’d worn in high school, but Peyton had seen past the facade. She was warmer now, more accessible. More fun to be around. Even when the two of them sparred with each other, there was something enjoyable about it.

But then, he’d kind of enjoyed sparring with her in high school, too. Really, now that he thought about it, he realized Ava couldn’t have been that cold and distant back then. Not all the time. There must have been something about her that attracted him—something only his subconscious had been able to see. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been attracted. Since coming back to Chicago, his conscious had started to pick up on it, too. Ava wasn’t vain, shallow or snotty. Had she been vain, she wouldn’t have thought about anyone but herself, and she never would have helped him out with his self-improvement, even if he was paying her. Why shouldn’t he pay her? He was going to pay someone else for their expertise, and hers was even more expert because she’d grown up in the environment he was trying to penetrate. Uh...he meant enter. Uh...he meant join. Yeah, join.

She wasn’t shallow, either, because she knew a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. Had she been shallow, he could have tallied her interests on one hand. She’d introduced him to things he’d never thought about before, a lot of which wasn’t even related to social climbing. And she wasn’t snotty, because she’d shared that knowledge with him, knowing he would use it for social climbing, not caring that his new money would mix with old. Not once had she criticized him for being nouveau riche. Only Peyton had done that.


Yep, he definitely knew now what he liked about Ava. And, at the moment, it was all wrapped in gold and walking right toward him.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked by way of a greeting when she came to a halt before him.

“I’m waiting for you.”

“You were supposed to leave my name at the door as your plus-one and go in without me to start mingling. We’re not together, remember?”

How could he forget? She’d made clear this morning that last night hadn’t changed anything between them. “But I don’t know anyone in there. How am I supposed to mingle when I don’t know anyone?”

“Peyton, that’s the whole point of mingling.”

But mingling sucked. It sucked as much as having to tame his profanity. It sucked as much as having to pay ten times what he normally did for a haircut. It sucked as much as not being able to wear ten-year-old blue jeans that were finally broken in the way he liked.

Why did he want to join a class of people who had to do so many things that sucked? Oh, yeah. To increase his social standing. Which would increase his business standing. Which would allow him to take over a company that would increase his monetary standing. That was the most important thing, wasn’t it? Making money? Increasing his value? At least, that had been the most important thing before he landed back in Chicago. Somehow, over the past couple of weeks, that had fallen a few slots on his most important stuff in the world list.

Huh. Imagine that.

“Just promise me you won’t slip out of view,” he told Ava.

“I promise. Now get in there and be the status-seeking, name-dropping, social-climbing parvenu I’ve come to know and lo— Uh...I’ve come to know.”

Peyton’s stomach clenched at the way she first stumbled over the word love, then discarded it so easily. Instead, he focused on another word. “Parvenu? What the hell is that? That’s not one of those upper-crusty words you taught me. See? I told you we still have a lot to do.”

“Just give them my name and get in there,” she told him, pointing toward the door. “I’ll count to twenty and follow.” As he started to move away, she hissed under her breath, “And no swearing!”

Peyton forced himself to move forward, ignoring the flutter of nerves in his belly. He had nothing to be nervous about. He’d been entering fancy, expensive places like this for years and had stopped feeling self-conscious in them a long time ago. Even so, it surprised him when a doorman stepped up to open the door for him, welcoming him to the Palmer House Hilton, punctuating the greeting with a respectful sir. Because in spite of all that Peyton had achieved since the last time he was in Chicago, tonight he felt like an eighteen-year-old kid who had never left. A kid from the wrong side of town who was trying to sneak into a place he shouldn’t be. A place he wasn’t welcome. A place he didn’t belong.

The feeling was only amplified once he was inside the hotel. The Palmer House was an unassuming enough building on the outside, but inside it looked like a Byzantine cathedral, complete with ornamental columns, gilt arches and a lavishly painted ceiling. The place was packed with people who were dressed as finely as he, the men in black tie and the women in gowns as richly colored as precious gems. Catherine Bellamy, he remembered. That was the name of his former classmate who had asked him to look for her. Except that now her name was Catherine Ellington, because she married Chandler Ellington, who’d been on the Emerson hockey team with Peyton, and who was the biggest...

He tried to think of a word for Chandler that would be socially acceptable but couldn’t come up with a single one. That was how badly the guy had always treated Peyton in high school. Suffice it to say Chandler had been a real expletive deleted in high school. So had Catherine. So they were perfect for each other. Anyway, he was pretty sure he’d recognize them if he saw them.

He followed the well-heeled crowd, figuring they were all destined for the same place, and found himself in the grand ballroom, which was every bit as sumptuous—and intimidating—as the lobby. Chandeliers of roped crystal hung from the ceiling above a room that could have been imported from the Palace of Versailles. A gilt-edged mezzanine surrounded it, with people on both levels clutching flutes of champagne and cut-crystal glasses of cocktails. A waiter passed with a tray carrying both, and Peyton automatically went for one of the latter, something brown he concluded would be whiskey of some kind, a spirit he loved in all its forms.

He took a couple of fortifying sips, but they did nothing to dispel his restlessness. So he scanned the crowd for a flash of gold that was splashed with sapphire. He found it immediately. Found her immediately. Ava had just entered the ballroom and was reaching for a glass of champagne herself. He waited until he caught her eye, then lifted his glass in salute. She smiled furtively and did likewise, subtly enough so that only he would see the gesture.

It was enough. Ava had his back. Taking a deep breath, Peyton turned and ventured into the crowd.

* * *

Ava managed to make it through the first hour of the fund-raiser without incident, mostly by tucking herself between a couple of potted topiaries on the mezzanine. That way, she could keep an eye on the crowd below and still snatch the occasional glass of champagne or canapé from a passing server. Even if Peyton moved from one place to another, it was easy to keep an eye on him.

It quickly became evident, however, that he didn’t need an eye on him. He was a natural. From the moment he flowed into the sea of people, he looked as if he’d been one of them since birth. She kept waiting for him to make a misstep—to untie his tie or ask a waiter for a longneck beer—but he never did. Even now, he was cradling a drink with all the sophistication of James Bond and smiling at a silver-Givenchy-clad Catherine Bellamy as if she were the most fascinating woman he’d ever had the pleasure to meet.

He’d located her within moments of his arrival—or rather, Catherine had located him—and had yet to escape her. Catherine was clearly taking great delight in escorting him through the crowd, reacquainting him with dozens of their former schoolmates. Peyton had greeted each of them with one of his toe-curling smiles, never once hinting at how appallingly they had all treated him in high school.

If he could manage that, there was no way he needed further instruction in etiquette from Ava. After tonight, she could send him on his merry way without her. Off to be the toast of whatever society he might happen to find himself in. Off to his multimillion-dollar estate that was half a continent away. Off to meet the “right” kind of woman his matchmaker had found for him. Off to live his successful life with his blue-blooded wife and his perfectly pedigreed children. Off to launch his business into the stratosphere and line his pockets with even more money. That was the life he wanted. That was the life he had fought so hard, for so long, to achieve. That was the life he wouldn’t sacrifice anything for. He was the master of his own destiny now. And that destiny didn’t include—

“Ava Brenner. Oh, my God.”

It was amazing, Ava thought, how quickly the brain could process information it hadn’t accessed in years. She recognized the voice before she turned around, even though she hadn’t heard it since high school. Deedee Hale. Of the Hinsdale Hales. At her side was Chelsea Thomerson, another former classmate. Both looked fabulous, of course, blonde Deedee in her signature red—this one a lush Zac Posen—and brunette Chelsea in a clingy strapless black Lagerfeld.


“What on earth are you doing here?” Deedee asked. She never could utter a complete sentence without emphasizing at least one word. “Not that I’m not incredibly happy to see you, of course. I’m just so surprised.”

“What a beautiful dress,” Chelsea added. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a knockoff that looked more genuine.”

“Hello, Deedee. Chelsea,” Ava said. As politely as she could, she added, “It’s not a knockoff. It’s from Marchesa’s new spring collection.” And because she couldn’t quite help herself, she also added, even more politely, “You just haven’t seen it anywhere else yet. I have the only one in Chicago.”

“Ooooh,” Chelsea said. “You carry it in that little shop of yours.”

“I do,” Ava said with almost convincing cheeriness.

“How is that little project going, by the way?” Deedee asked. “Are we still pulling ourselves up by our little bootstraps, hmm?”

“Actually,” Ava said, “tonight, we’re pulling ourselves up by our little Escadas.”

“Ooooh,” Deedee said. “You carry those in your little shop, too.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Have you seen Catherine?” Deedee asked. “I’m guessing she was very surprised to find you here.”

“I haven’t, actually,” Ava said. “There are just so many people, and I haven’t had a chance to—”

Before she could finish, Deedee and Chelsea were on her like a pack of rabid debutantes. As if they’d choreographed their movements before coming, each positioned herself on one side of Ava and looped an arm through hers.

“But you must see Catherine,” Deedee said. “She’s been so adamant about speaking to everyone on the guest list.”

Translation, Ava thought, Catherine will want to know there’s a party crasher among us.

“And since you so rarely attend these things,” Chelsea added, “I’m sure Catherine will especially want to see you.”

Translation, Ava thought, You don’t belong here, and when Catherine sees you, she’s gonna kick your butt from here to Saks Fifth Avenue.

Ava opened her mouth to say something that might allow her to escape, but to no avail. The women chatted nonstop as they steered her to the stairs and down to the ballroom, barely stopping for breath. Short of breaking free like a panicked Thoroughbred and galloping for the exit, there was little Ava could do but go along for the ride.

The two women located Catherine—and, by extension, Peyton—in no time, and herded Ava in that direction. Peyton looked up about the same time Catherine did, and Ava wasn’t sure which of them looked more surprised. Catherine recovered first, however, straightening to a noble posture, plastering a regal smile on her face and lifting an aristocratic hand to brush back a majestic lock of black hair. Honestly, Ava thought, it was a wonder she hadn’t donned a tiara for the event. Her gaze skittered from Chelsea to Deedee then back to Ava.

“Well, my goodness,” she said flatly. “Ava Brenner, as I live and breathe. It’s been years. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

Ava knew better than to reply, because Catherine always answered her own questions. But unlike Deedee and Chelsea, who at least pretended to be polite—kind of—Catherine, having ascended to the queen bee throne the moment Ava was forced to abdicate, saw no reason to pull punches. Especially when she was dealing with peasants.

Sure enough, Catherine barely paused for breath. “Oh, wait. I know. Visiting your father in the state pen and your mother in the loony bin, and running your little shop for posers. It’s amazing you have any time left for barging into events to which you were in no way invited.”

Ava had had enough run-ins with her former friends by now that nothing Catherine could say would surprise or rattle her. Or hurt her feelings, for that matter. No, only having Peyton hear what Catherine said could do that. That could hurt quite a lot, actually.

She’d also endured enough encounters with ex-acquaintances to have learned that the best way to deal with them was to look them in the eye and never flinch. Which was good, since doing that meant Ava didn’t have to look at Peyton. Imagining his reaction to what Catherine had just revealed was bad enough.

“Actually, Catherine, my father is in a federal correctional institution,” she said with all the courtesy she could muster. She lowered her voice to the sort of stage whisper she would have used at parties like this in the past when gossiping about those who weren’t quite up to snuff. “Federal institutions are much more exclusive than state ones, you know. They don’t admit all the posers and wannabes.”

Her reply had the hoped-for effect. Catherine was momentarily stunned into silence. Score one for the party crasher. Yay.

Sobering and returning to her normal voice, Ava added, “And my mother passed away three years ago. But it’s so kind of you to ask about her, Catherine. I hope your mother is doing well. She and my mother were always such good friends.”

Until Ava’s father was revealed to be such a cad. Then Mrs. Bellamy had led the charge to have Ava’s mother blacklisted everywhere from the Chicago Kennel Club to Kappa Kappa Gamma.

Catherine looked flummoxed by Ava’s graciousness. Anyone else might have, if not apologized, at least backed off. But not a queen bee like Catherine. Once again, she recovered her sovereignty quickly.

“And your father?” she asked. “Will he be coming up for parole any time in the near future?”

“Four years,” Ava said with equanimity. “Do give my regards to your father as well, won’t you?”

Even though Ava had had little regard for Mr. Bellamy since he’d cornered her at Catherine’s sweet sixteen party and invited her to his study for a cocktail and God knew what else.

Catherine narrowed her eyes in irritation that Ava was neither rising to the bait nor whittling down to a nub. Really, being polite and matter-of-fact was the perfect antidote to someone so poisonous. It drove Catherine mad when people she was trying to hammer down remained pleasantly upright instead.

“And it sounds like your little shop is just flourishing,” she continued tartly. “Why, Sophie Bensinger and I were talking just the other day about how many crass little interlopers we’ve been seeing at our functions lately. Like tonight, for instance,” she added pointedly. “All of them dressed in clothes they couldn’t possibly afford, so they had to be rented from your pretentious little shop.” She scanned Ava up and down. “I had no idea you were one of your own customers. And it is nice of you to clothe the needy, Ava, but honestly, couldn’t you do it somewhere else?”

“What, and miss running into all my old friends?” Ava replied without missing a beat.

Now Catherine turned to Peyton. Knowing there was no way to avoid it, Ava did, too. She told herself she was ready for anything when it came to his reaction—confused, angry, smug, even stung. But she wasn’t ready for a complete absence of reaction. His expression was utterly blank, as if he were meeting her for the first time and had no idea who she was. She could no more tell what he thought of everything he’d just heard than she could turn back time and start the evening over.

Where Catherine’s voice had been acid when she spoke to Ava, it oozed sweetness now. “Peyton, I’m sure you remember Ava Brenner from Emerson.” After a telling little chuckle, she added, “I mean, who could forget Ava? She ruled that school with an iron fist. None of us escaped her tyranny. Well, not until her father was arrested for stealing millions from the hedge funds he was supposed to be managing, not to mention the IRS, so that he could pay for his cocaine and his whores. He even gave Ava’s mother syphilis, can you imagine? And herpes! Of course they took everything from him to pay his debts, right down to the Tiffany watch Ava’s grandmother gave her for her debut, one that had been in the family for generations. After that, Ava had to leave Chicago and go... Well. She went to live with others of her kind. In Milwaukee. You know the kind of people I’m talking about, Peyton, of course.”


As if Catherine feared he might not realize she was talking about the very sort of people he’d grown up among—but whom he’d had the good taste and cunningness to rise above—she shivered for effect. And so well had Ava taught him manners, Peyton hesitated only a microsecond before smiling. But his smile never reached his eyes. Then again, neither did Catherine’s. Or Chelsea’s. Or Deedee’s. Wow. Ava really had taught him well.

“Of course I remember Ava,” he said as he extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Ava tugged her arm free of Chelsea’s and placed her hand in his, trying to ignore how even that small touch made her stomach flip-flop. How even that small touch made her remember so many others and made her wish for so many things she knew she would never have. Before she could even get out a hello, Catherine chimed in again.

“Of course you remember Ava,” she echoed Peyton’s words. “How could you forget someone who treated you as atrociously as she treated you? And have I told you, Peyton, how very much I admire your many accomplishments since you graduated?”

Still looking at Ava, still holding her hand, still making her stomach flip-flop, he replied, “Yes, you have, Catherine. Several times, in fact.”

“Well, you have had so many accomplishments,” she gushed. “All of them so admirable. All of us at Emerson are so proud of you. Of course, we all saw your potential when you were a student there. We all knew you would rise above your, ah, meager beginnings and become an enormous success.” She looked at Ava. “Well, except for Ava. But then, look how she turned out. A criminal father and an unstable mother, and not a dime to her name.” She waved a hand negligently. “But there are so many nicer things to talk about. I’m sure she was on her way out. If not, we can find someone who will show her the way.”

For one taut, immeasurable moment, Ava thought—hoped—Peyton would come to her rescue and tell Catherine she was here as his guest. She even hoped he would ignore every lesson she’d taught him about manners and tell all of them that furthermore, they could all go do something to themselves that no gentleman would ever tell anyone to do. But she really had taught him well. Because all he did was release her hand and take a step backward, then lift his drink to his mouth for an idle sip.

A small breath of disappointment escaped her. Well, what had she expected? Not only was he behaving exactly the way he was supposed to—the way she had taught him to—but it wasn’t as though Ava didn’t deserve his dismissal. Back in high school, she would have done the same thing to him. She’d said herself that karma was a really mean schoolgirl. After all, it took one to know one.

Very softly, she said, “I can find my own way out, thank you, Catherine.” She turned to Peyton. “It really was nice to see you again, Peyton. Congratulations on your many admirable accomplishments.”

She was following her own lesson book, turning to make a polite exit, when she thought, What the hell? They weren’t in high school anymore. She didn’t have to stay on her side of the social line the way she had at Emerson. Nor did she have to silently suffer the barbs of bullies as she had at the Prewitt School. She wasn’t part of either society anymore. She was her own woman.

And this society had tossed her out on her keister sixteen years ago. She didn’t have to rely on them to further her business or her fortune. On the contrary, any success she saw would be because of people who were like her. People who hoped for something better but were doing their best with what they had in the meantime. People who didn’t think they were better than everyone else while behaving worse. Normal people. Real people. People who didn’t care about social lines or what might happen when they crossed them. care about social lines or crossing them.

She turned back to the group, willing Peyton to meet her gaze. When he did, she told him, “It isn’t true, what Catherine said, Peyton. I knew you were better than all of us at Emerson. You still are. I wouldn’t have made love with you in high school if I hadn’t known that. And I wouldn’t have...I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you now if I hadn’t known on some level, always, that you were the best there was. That you are the best there is.”

Catherine had been sipping her champagne when Ava said the part about making love with him, and she must have choked on a gasp she wasn’t able to avoid. Because that was when Cristal went spewing all over Chelsea and Deedee, not to mention down the front of Catherine’s Givenchy.

“You slept with him in high school?” she sputtered. “Him?”

That final word dripped with so much contempt and so much revulsion, there was no way to mistake Catherine’s meaning. That Ava had sunk to the basest, scummiest level of humanity there was by consorting with someone of Peyton’s filthy lower class. That even today, in spite of his many admirable accomplishments, he would never be fit for “polite” society like theirs.

Peyton, of course, noticed it, too. As did Catherine, finally. Probably because of the scathing look he shot her.

Immediately, she tried to mask her blunder. “I mean...I’m just so surprised to discover the two of you had a...ah, liaison...in high school. You were both so different from each other.”

“It surprised me, too,” Ava said, still looking at Peyton. Still unable to tell how he was reacting to what he’d just heard. “That he would lower his standards so much to get involved with a member of our crowd. It’s no wonder he didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

Finally, he reacted. But not with confusion, anger or smugness. Judging by his reaction, he was first startled, then incredulous, then...something that kind of looked like happiness? The flip-flopping in Ava’s belly turned into flutters of hopeful little butterflies.

“I didn’t want anyone to know?” he said. “But you were the one who—”

He halted, looking at the others, who all appeared to be more than a little interested in what he might say next. Gentleman that he was, he closed his mouth and said nothing more about that night in front of them. Nothing else Ava might say was any of their business, either. She’d said what she needed to say for now. What Peyton chose to do with everything he’d learned tonight was up to him—whether he still wanted high society’s stamp of approval or whether he wanted anything more to do with her.

If he valued his professional success and the wealth and social standing that came with it more than anything, he would be as courteous as Ava had taught him to be and pretend the last several minutes had never happened. He would watch her leave and continue chatting with his new best friends, even knowing how they truly felt about him. He would collect invitations to more events like this and exchange contact info with like-minded wealthy types. He would field introductions to more members of their tribe, doubtless meeting enough single women that Caroline the matchmaker would no longer be necessary.

In spite of what Catherine had said, and in spite of the way they all felt about him deep down, he was one of them now—provided he didn’t screw up. A full-fledged member of the society he’d so eagerly wanted to join. Even if he was nouveau riche instead of moldy old-moneyed, because of his colossal wealth, his membership in this club would never be revoked—provided he didn’t screw up. He had his pick of their women and could plant one at his side whenever he wanted, then produce a passel of beautiful, wealthy children to populate schools like Emerson. Except that Peyton’s children would enjoy all the benefits he’d been denied in such a place—provided he didn’t screw up. Even if Peyton’s past was soiled, his present—and future—would be picture-perfect. He was Peyton Moss, gentleman tycoon. No one would ever openly criticize him or treat him like a guttersnipe again.


Provided he didn’t screw up.

“If you’ll all excuse me,” Ava said to the group, “I’ll be going. I’ve been asked to leave.”

She had turned and completed two steps when Peyton’s voice stopped her.

“The hell you will,” he said. Loudly. “You’re my—” the profanity he chose for emphasis here really wasn’t fit for print “—guest. You’re not going anywhere, dammit.”

She turned back around and automatically started to call him on his language, then stopped when she saw him smile. Because it was the kind of smile she’d seen from him only twice before. That night at her parents’ house sixteen years ago, and last night, in her apartment. A disarming smile that not only rendered Ava defenseless, but stripped him of his armaments, too. A smile that said he didn’t give a damn about anything or anybody, as long as he had one moment with her. Only this time, maybe it would last more than a moment.

He started to wrestle his black tie free of its collar, then stopped a passing waiter and asked him what the hell a guy had to do to get a—again with the profane adjective—bottle of beer at this—profane adjective—party. When the waiter assured him he’d be right back with one, Peyton turned not to Ava, but to Catherine.

“You’re full of crap, Catherine.” Except he chose a different word than crap. “I know no one at Emerson, including you, ever thought I would amount to anything. But, hell, I never thought any of you—” now he looked at Ava “—well, except for one of you—would amount to anything, either. It’s not my fault I’m the one who turned out to be right. And furthermore...”

At that point, Peyton told them they could all go do something to themselves that no gentleman would ever tell anyone to do. Ava’s heart swelled with love.

Catherine sputtered again, but this time managed not to spit on anyone. However, neither Peyton nor Ava stayed around long enough to hear what she had to say. Catherine was a big nobody, after all. Who cared what she had to say?

As they headed for the exit, they passed the server returning with Peyton’s longneck bottle of beer, and in one fluid gesture, he snagged both it and a slender flute of champagne for Ava. But when they reached the hotel lobby, they slowed, neither seeming to know what to do next. Ava’s heart was racing, both with exhilaration from having stood up to Catherine’s bullying and exuberance at having told Peyton how she felt about him. Until she remembered that he hadn’t said anything about his feelings for her. Then her heart raced with something else entirely.

Ava looked at Peyton. Peyton looked at Ava.

Then he smiled that disarming—and disarmed—smile again. “What do you say we blow this joint and find someplace where the people aren’t so low-class?”

She released a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. But she still couldn’t quite feel relieved. There was still so much she wanted to tell him. So many things she wanted—needed—him to know.

“You were only half-right in there, you know,” she said.

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“What you said about everyone at Emerson. As wrong as Catherine was about you, everything she said about me is true. Every dime my family ever had is gone. My father is a convicted felon and a louse. My mother was a patient in a psychiatric hospital when she died. My car is an eight-year-old compact and my business is struggling. The most stylish clothing I own, I bought at an outlet store. That apartment above the shop? That’s been my home for almost eight years, and I’m not going to be able to afford anything nicer anytime soon. I’m not the kind of woman your board of directors wants within fifty feet of you, Peyton.”

She knew she was presuming a lot. Peyton hadn’t said he wanted her within fifty feet of himself anyway. But he’d just completely sabotaged his entrée into polite society in there. Even if his home base of operation was in San Francisco, word got around fast when notable people behaved badly at high-profile events. He wouldn’t have done that if his social standing was more important to him than she was.

He said nothing for a moment, only studied her face as if he were thinking very hard about something. Finally, he lifted his hand to the back of her head and, with one gentle tug, freed her hair from its elegant twist.

“Looks better down,” he said. “It makes you look vain, shallow and snotty when you wear it up. And you’re not any of those things. You never were.”

“Yeah, I was,” she said, smiling. “Well, maybe not shallow. I mean, I did fall in love with you.”

There. She’d said it twice. If he didn’t take advantage this time, then he wasn’t ever going to.

He smiled back. “Okay, maybe you were vain and snotty, but so was I. Maybe that was why we...” He hesitated. “Maybe that was what attracted us to each other. We were so much alike.”

She smiled at that, but the giddiness she’d been feeling began to wane. He wasn’t going to say it. Because he didn’t feel it. Maybe he didn’t care about his place in society anymore. Maybe he didn’t even care about his image. But he didn’t seem to care for her anymore, either. Not the way he once had. Not the way she still did for him.

“Yes, well, we’re not alike anymore, are we?” she asked. “You’re the prince, and I’m the pauper. You deserve a princess, Peyton. Not someone who’ll sully your professional image.”

He smiled again, shaking his head. “You’ve taught me so much over the past couple of weeks. But you haven’t learned anything, have you, Ava?”

Something in the way he looked at her made her heart hum happily again. But she ignored it, afraid to hope. She’d forgotten what life was like when everything worked the way it was supposed to. She’d begun to think she would never have a life like that again.

“You tell me,” she said. “You went to all the top-tier schools. I could only afford community college.”

“See, that’s just my point. It doesn’t matter where you go to school.” He gestured toward the ballroom they’d just left. “Look at all those people whose parents spent a fortune to send them to a tony school like Emerson and what losers they all turned out to be.”

“We went to Emerson, too.”

“Yeah, but we got an education that had nothing to do with classrooms or the library or homework. The only thing I learned at Emerson that was worth anything...the only thing I learned there that helped me achieve my many admirable accomplishments...” Now he grinned with genuine happiness. “I learned a girl like you could love a guy like me, no matter what—no matter who—I was. You taught me that, Ava. Maybe it took me almost two decades to learn it, but...” He shrugged. “You’re the reason for my many admirable accomplishments. You’re the reason I went after the gold ring. Hell, you are the gold ring. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of you or me. Not our old classmates. Not my board of directors. Not anyone I have to do business with. Why would I want a princess when I can have the queen?”

Ava grinned back, feeling her own genuine happiness. “Actually, it does matter what someone thinks of me,” she said. “It matters what you think.”

“No, it doesn’t. It only matters what I feel.”


“It matters what you think and feel.”

He lifted a hand to her hair again, threading it through his fingers. “Okay. Then I think I love you. I think I’ve always loved you. And I know I always will love you.”

Now Ava remembered what life was like when everything worked the way it was supposed to. It was euphoric. It was brilliant. It was sublime. And all it took to make it that way was Peyton.

“We have a lot to talk about,” he told her.

She nodded. “Yes. We do.”

He tilted his head toward the hotel exit. “No time like the present.”

Yeah, the present was pretty profane-adjective good, Ava had to admit. But then, really, their past hadn’t been too shabby. And their future? Well, now. That was looking better all the time.