were on the spot quickly to attend to the situation.
Dennis shook his head at the others’ approach, holding up a hand for them to wait. In gentling tones, he said, “Mr. Moss, maybe it would be better if you had a cup of coffee instead.”
Heat splashed into Ava’s belly at hearing the name. Moss. She had gone to school—long ago, in a galaxy far away—with a Moss. Peyton Moss. He had been a grade ahead of her at the tony Emerson Academy.
But this couldn’t be him, she told herself. Peyton Moss had sworn to everyone at Emerson that he was leaving Chicago the moment he graduated and never coming back. And he’d kept that promise. Ava had returned to Chicago only a few months after earning her business degree and had run into a handful of her former classmates—more was the pity—none 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
