My Fair Billionaire. Elizabeth Bevarly

of whom had mentioned Peyton’s return.

      She looked at the man again. Peyton had been Emerson’s star hockey player, due not just to his prowess, but also his size. His hair had been shoulder-length, inky silk, and his voice, even then, had been dark and rich. By now, it could have easily deepened to the velvety baritone of the man at the bar.

      When he turned to look at Marcus, Ava bit back a gasp. Although the hair was shorter and the profile harsher, it was indeed Peyton. She’d know that face anywhere. Even after sixteen years.

      Without thinking, she jumped up and hurried to place herself between Peyton and the others. With all the calm she could muster, she said, “Gentlemen. Maybe what we need here is an unbiased intermediary to sort everything out.”

      Peyton would laugh himself silly about that if he recognized her. Ava had been anything but unbiased toward him in high school. But he’d been plenty biased toward her, too. That was what happened when two people moved in such disparate social circles in an environment where the lines of society were stark, immutable and absolute. When upper class met lower class in a place like Emerson, the sparks that flew could immolate an entire socioeconomic stratum.

      “Ms. Brenner, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Basilio said. “Men in his condition can be unpredictable, and he’s three times your size.”

      “My condition is fine,” Peyton snapped. “Or it would be. If this establishment honored the requests of its paying customers.”

      “Just let me speak to him,” Ava said, dropping her voice.

      Basilio shook his head. “Marcus and I can handle this.”

      “But I know him. He and I went to school together. He’ll listen to me. We’re...we were...” Somehow she pushed the word out of her mouth. “Friends.”

      It was another word that would have made Peyton laugh. The two of them had been many things at Emerson—unwilling study partners, aggressive sparring partners and for one strange, intoxicating night, exuberant lovers—but never, ever, friends.

      “I’m sorry, Ms. Brenner,” Basilio said, “but I can’t let you—”

      Before he could stop her, Ava spun around and made her way to the bar. “Peyton,” she said when she came to a halt in front of him.

      Instead of looking at Ava, he continued to study Dennis. “What?”

      “This has gone far enough. You need to be reasonable.”

      He opened his mouth, but halted when his gaze connected with hers. She’d forgotten what beautiful eyes he had. They were the color and clarity of good cognac, fringed by sooty lashes.

      “I know you,” he said, suddenly more lucid. His tone was confident, but his expression held doubt. “Don’t I?”

      “You and I went to school together,” she said, deliberately vague. “A long time ago.”

      He seemed surprised by the connection. “I don’t remember you from Stanford.”

      Stanford? she echoed to herself. Last she’d heard he was headed to a university in New England with a double major in hat tricks and cross-checking and a minor in something vaguely scholastic in case he injured himself. How had he ended up on the West Coast?

      “Not Stanford,” she said.

      “Then where?”

      Reluctantly, she told him, “The Emerson Academy here in Chicago.”

      His surprise multiplied. “You went to Emerson?”

      Well, he didn’t need to sound so shocked. Did she still look that much like a street urchin?

      “Yes,” she said evenly. “I went to Emerson.”

      He narrowed his eyes as he studied her more closely. “I don’t remember you from there, either.”

      Something sharp pricked her chest at the comment. She should be happy he didn’t remember her. She wished she could forget the girl she’d been at Emerson. She wished she could forget Peyton, as well. But so often over the past sixteen years, he and the other members of his social circle had crept into her brain, conjuring memories and feelings she wished she could bury forever.

      Without warning, he lifted a hand to cradle her chin and jaw. Something hot and electric shot through her at the contact, but he didn’t seem to notice. He simply turned her face gently one way, then the other, looking at her from all angles. Finally, he dropped his hand back to the bar. He shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then—

      Then his expression went slack. “Oh, my God. Ava Brenner.”

      She expelled an irritated sigh. Damn. She didn’t want anyone to remember her the way she’d been at Emerson, especially the kids like Peyton. Especially Peyton, period. In spite of that, a curl of pleasure wound through her when she realized he’d made a space for her, however small, in his memory.

      Resigned, she replied, “Yes. It’s me.”

      “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, his tone belying nothing of what he might be thinking.

      He collapsed onto a barstool, gazing at her with those piercing golden eyes. A rush of conflicting emotions washed over her that she hadn’t felt for a very long time—pride and shame, arrogance and insecurity, blame and guilt. And in the middle of it all, an absolute uncertainty about Peyton, about herself, about the two of them together. Then as well as now.

      Oh, yes. She definitely felt as if she was back in high school. And she didn’t like it now any better than she had then.

      When it became clear that Peyton wasn’t going to cause any more trouble, Dennis snatched the empty cocktail glass from the bar and replaced it with a coffee mug. Basilio released a slow breath and threw Ava a grateful smile. Marcus went back to check on his diners. Ava told herself to return to her table, that she’d done her good deed for the day and should just leave well enough alone. But Peyton was still staring at her, and something in his expression made her pause. Something that sent another tumble of memories somersaulting through her brain. Different memories from the others that had plagued her tonight, but memories that were every bit as unpleasant and unwanted.

      Because it had been Ava, not Peyton, who had led the ruling social class at the posh, private Emerson Academy. It had been Ava, not Peyton, who had been rich, vain and snotty. It had been Ava, not Peyton, who had worn the latest designer fashions and belittled the need-based-scholarship students who made do with discount-store markdowns. At least until the summer before her senior year, when her family had lost everything, and she’d suddenly found herself walking in their discount-store markdowns herself. Then she’d been the one who was penniless, unwanted and bullied.

      Peyton didn’t say a word as Ava studied him, pondering all the things that had changed in the decade and a half since she’d seen him. A few threads of silver had woven their way into his dark hair, and the lower half of his face was shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. She couldn’t remember him shaving in high school. But perhaps he had, even if that morning when she’d woken up beside him in her bedroom, he—

      She tried to stop the memories before they could form, but they came anyway. How it had all played out when the two of them were forced to work together on a semester-long project for World Civ, one of the classes that combined seniors and juniors. Money really did change everything—at least at Emerson, it had. School rules had dictated that those whose families had lots of money must belittle those whose families had none, and that those who had nothing must resent those who had everything. In spite of that, there had always been...something...between Ava and Peyton. Something hot and heavy that burned up the air in any room the two of them shared. Some strange, combustible reaction due to...something. Something weird. Something volatile. Something neither of them had ever been able to identify or understand.

      Or, ultimately, resist.

      It had culminated one night at her house when the two of them had been working late on that class