My Fair Billionaire. Elizabeth Bevarly

her cheekbones had mellowed to slender curves. Her hair was shorter, darker than in high school, but still danced around her shoulders unfettered. And her mouth—that mouth that had inspired teenage boys to commit mayhem—was... Hell. It still inspired mayhem. Only now that Peyton was a man, mayhem took on a whole new meaning.

      “You want coffee?” she asked. “It should be ready. I set the coffeemaker for the usual time, thinking I would wake up when I normally do, but I don’t think it’s been sitting too long. If memory serves, you like it strong, anyway.”

      If memory serves, he echoed to himself. She had brewed a pot of coffee for them at her house that night, in preparation for the all-nighter they knew lay ahead. He had told her he liked it strong. She remembered. Even though the two of them had barely spoken to each other after that night. Did that mean something? Did he want it to?

      “Coffee sounds good,” he said. “But I can get it. You take yours with cream and sugar, if I recall correctly.”

      Okay, okay. So Ava wasn’t the only one who could remember that night in detail. That didn’t mean anything.

      She pulled the covers more snugly around herself. “Thanks.”

      Peyton hurried to the kitchen, grateful for the opportunity to collect himself. Ava Brenner. Damn. It was as if he’d turned on some kind of homing device the minute he got into town in order to locate her. Or maybe she had turned on one to locate him. Nah. No way would she be looking for him after all this time. She’d made her feelings for him crystal clear back at Emerson. They’d only shone with an even starker clarity after that night at her parents’ house. And no way would he be looking for her, either. It was nothing but a vicious twist of fate or a vengeful God or bad karma that had brought them together again.

      By the time he carried their coffee back to the living room, she had swept her hair atop her head into a lopsided knot that, amazingly, made her look even more beautiful. The covers had fallen enough to reveal a pair of flannel pajamas, decorated with multicolored polka dots. Never in a million years would he have envisioned Ava Brenner in flannel polka dots. Weirdly, though, they suited her.

      She mumbled her thanks as he handed her her coffee—and he told himself he did not linger long enough to skim his fingers over hers to see if she felt as soft as he remembered, even if he did notice she felt softer than he remembered. He briefly entertained the idea of sitting down beside her on the couch but thankfully came to his senses and returned to the chair.

      When he trusted himself not to screw up the question, he asked, “Wanna tell me how I ended up spending the night with you again?”

      He winced inwardly. He really hadn’t wanted to make any reference to that night in high school. But her head snapped up at the question. Obviously, she’d picked up on the allusion, too.

      “You don’t remember?” she asked.

      There was an interesting ambiguity to the question. She could have been asking about last night or that night sixteen years ago. Of course she must have meant last night. Still, there was an interesting ambiguity.

      He shook his head. As much as it embarrassed him to admit it, he told her, “No. I don’t remember much of anything after arriving at some restaurant on Michigan Avenue.”

      Except, of course, for fleeting recollections of green eyes, soft touches and the faint aroma of gardenias. But she didn’t have to know that.

      “So you do remember what happened before that?” she asked.

      “Yeah.” Not that he was going to tell her any of that, either.

      She waited for him to elaborate. He elaborated by lifting one eyebrow and saying nothing.

      She sighed and tried again. “When did you get back in town?”

      “Yesterday.”

      “You came in from San Francisco?”

      The question surprised him. “How did you know?”

      “When I offered to take you home last night, you told me I was going to have a long drive. Then you told me you live in an area called Sea Cliff in San Francisco. Sounds like a nice neighborhood.”

      That was an understatement. Sea Cliff was one of San Francisco’s most expensive and exclusive communities, filled with lush properties and massive estates. His two closest neighbors were a globally known publishing magnate and a retired ’60s rock and roll icon.

      “It’s not bad,” he said evasively.

      “So what took you to the West Coast?”

      “Work.” Before she could ask more, he turned the tables. “Still living in the Gold Coast?”

      For some reason, she stiffened at the question. “No. My folks sold that house around the time I graduated from high school.”

      “Guess they figured those seven thousand square feet would be too much for two people instead of three. Not including the servants, of course.”

      She dropped her gaze to her coffee. “Only two of our staff lived on site.”

      “Well, then. I stand corrected.” He looked around the tiny living room, recalled the tiny kitchen and tiny bedroom. “So what’s this place?”

      “It’s...” She glanced up, hesitated, then looked down into her coffee again. “I own the shop downstairs. A boutique. Women’s designer fashions.”

      He nodded. “Ah. So this apartment came with the place, huh?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Easier to bring me here than to someplace where you might have to explain my presence, huh?”

      For the first time, it occurred to him that Ava might be married. Hell, why wouldn’t she be? She’d had every guy at Emerson panting after her. His gaze fell to the hands wrapped around her coffee mug. No rings. Anywhere. Another interesting tidbit. She’d always worn jewelry in high school. Diamond earrings, ruby and sapphire rings—they were her parents’ birthstones, he’d once heard her tell a friend—and an emerald necklace that set off her eyes beautifully.

      Before he had a chance to decide whether her ringless state meant she wasn’t married or she just removed her jewelry at night, she said, “Well, you’re not exactly an easy person to explain, are you, Peyton?”

      He decided not to speculate on the remark and instead asked about her status point-blank. “Husband wouldn’t approve?”

      Down went her gaze again. “I’m not married.”

      “But you still have someone waiting for you at home that you’d have to explain me to, is that it?”

      The fact that she didn’t respond bothered Peyton a lot more than it should have. He told himself to move along, to just get the condensed version of last night’s events and call a cab. He told himself there was nothing about Ava he wanted to know, nothing she could say that would affect his life now. He told himself to remember how bad things were between them in high school for years, not how good things were that one night.

      He told himself all those things. But, as was so often the case, he didn’t listen to a single word he said.

      * * *

      Ava did her best to reassure herself that she wasn’t lying to Peyton. Lies of omission weren’t really lies, were they? And what was she supposed to do? No way had she wanted him to see the postage stamp-size apartment she called home. She was supposed to be a massive success by now. She was supposed to have a posh address in the Gold Coast, a closet full of designer clothes and drawers full of designer jewelry. Well, okay, she did have those last two. But they belonged to the shop, not her. She could barely afford to rent them herself.

      People believed what they wanted to believe, anyway. Even sitting in her crappy apartment, Peyton assumed she was the same dazzling—if vain, shallow and snotty—Gold Coast heiress who’d had everyone wrapped around her finger in high school. He thought