My Fair Billionaire(11)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

He gestured toward the only other chair in the office and asked, “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not,” she replied. Even though she did kind of mind, because doing that would bring him closer, and then she would be the one trying to look comfortable when she felt anything but.

He folded himself into the other chair and continued to look uneasy. She waited for him to say something, but he only looked around the office, his gaze falling first on the Year in Fashion calendar on the wall—for April, it was Pierre Cardin—then on the fat issues of Vogue, Elle and Marie Claire that lined the top shelf of her desk, then lower, on the stack of catalogs sitting next to the employee schedule she’d been working on, and then—

Oh, dear. The employee schedule, which had her name and hours prominently at the top. Hastily, she scooped up the catalogs and laid them atop the schedule, tossing her pencil onto both.

He finally returned his gaze to her face. “The Henry Higgins didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

His gaze skittered away again. “He told me I had to stop swearing and clean up my language.”

Ava bit her lip to keep from smiling, since, to Peyton, this was clearly an insurmountable problem. “Well, if you’re going to be dealing with two sweet little old ladies from Mississippi who are in their eighties and wear hats and white gloves, that’s probably good advice.”

“Yeah, but the Montgomery sisters are like five states away. They can’t hear me swearing in Chicago.”

“But if it’s a habit, now is a good time to start breaking it, since—”

“Dammit, Ava, I can stop swearing anytime I want to.”

“Oh, really?” she said mildly.

“Hell, yes.”

“I see.”

“And you should have seen the suits he tried to put me into,” Peyton added.

“Well, suits are part and parcel for businesspeople,” Ava pointed out, “especially those in your position. You were wearing a suit at Basilio’s the other night. What’s the sudden problem with suits?”

“The problem wasn’t suits. It was the suits this guy wanted to put me into.”

She waited for him to explain, and when he didn’t, asked, “Could you be a little more specific?”

He frowned. “One was purple. Oh, excuse me,” he quickly corrected himself. “I mean eggplant. The other was the same color green the guys on the team used to spew after getting bodychecked too hard.”

Ava thought for a minute, then said, “Loden, I think, is the color you’re looking for.”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Those are both very fashionable colors,” she said. “Especially for younger guys like you. Sounds to me like Henry knew his stuff.”

Peyton shook his head. “Suits should never be anything except gray, brown or black. Not slate, not espresso, not ebony,” he added in a voice that indicated he’d already had this conversation with Henry Higgins. “Gray. Brown. Black. Maybe, in certain situations, navy blue. Not midnight,” he said when she opened her mouth to comment. “Navy blue. They sure as hell shouldn’t be purple or puke-green.”

Ava closed her mouth.

“And don’t get me started on the etiquette lessons the guy said I had to take,” Peyton continued. “Or all that crap about comportment. Whatever the hell that is. He even tried to tell me what I can and can’t eat in a restaurant.”

“Peyton, all of those things are important when it comes to dealing with people in professional situations. Especially when you’re conducting business with people who do it old school, the way it sounds like the Montgomery sisters do.”

He frowned. “Ava, I didn’t get where I am today by studying etiquette books or comporting myself—whatever the hell that is. I did it by knowing what I want and going after it.”

“And that’s obviously worked in the past,” she agreed. “But you admitted yourself that you’ll have to operate differently with the Montgomerys. That means using a new rule book.”

“I like my rule book just fine.”

“Then do your takeover your way.”

Why was he here? she asked herself again. This was an odd conversation to be having with him. Still, they were getting along. Kind of. Maybe she should just go with the flow.

He growled something unintelligible under his breath, but if she had to wager a guess, she’d bet it was more of that profanity he was supposed to be keeping under wraps.

His voice gentled some. “All I’m saying is that this guy doesn’t know me from Adam, and he has no idea what’s going to work for me and what isn’t. I need to work with someone who can, you know, smooth my rough edges without sawing them off.”

Okay, she was starting to understand. He wanted to see if she could recommend another stylist for him. Since she owned a shop like Talk of the Town, he figured she had connections in the business that might help him out.

“There are several stylists in Chicago who are very good,” she said. “Some of them bring their clients to me.” She reached for a binder filled with business cards she’d collected over the years. “Just give me a minute to find someone whose personality jibes with yours.”

Ha. As if. There wasn’t a human being alive whose personality jibed with Peyton’s. Peyton was too larger-than-life. The best she could hope for was to find someone who wasn’t easily intimidated. Hmm…maybe that guy who worked with the Bears before their last Super Bowl appearance. He’d had to have a couple of teeth replaced, but still…

Peyton placed his hand over hers before she had a chance to open the binder. She tried to ignore the ruffle of butterflies in her midsection. Ha. As if.

His voice seemed to come from a very great distance when he spoke again. “No, Ava, you don’t understand. Anyone you recommend is going to be in the same boat as Henry Higgins. They won’t know me. They won’t have any idea what to do with me.”

She said nothing for a moment, only gazed at his hand covering hers, noting how it was twice the size of her own, how much rougher and darker, how his nails were blunt and square alongside her smooth, taupe-lacquered ovals. Their hands were so different from each other. So why did they fit together so well? Why did his touch feel so…right?

Reluctantly, she pulled her hand from beneath his and moved it to her lap. “Then why are you…”

The moment her gaze connected with his again, she began to understand. Surely, he wasn’t suggesting… There was no way he… It was ludicrous to even think… He couldn’t want her to be his stylist.