My Fair Billionaire(28)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

“No,” he replied just as succinctly.

“Leave me alone, Peyton,” she repeated adamantly. “I’m going home.”

“No.”

He wasn’t sure whether he uttered the word in response to her first sentence or the second, but really, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to leave her alone, and he didn’t want her to go home. Despite his conviction only moments ago that he needed to be by himself to sort out his thoughts, isolation was suddenly the last thing he wanted. Not that he was sure what the first thing was that he wanted, but… Well, okay, maybe he did kind of know what the first thing was that he wanted. He just wasn’t sure he knew what to do with it if he got it. Well, okay, maybe he did kind of know that, too, but…

“You said we still have a lot of work to do before I can go out with Francesca,” he reminded her, shoving his thoughts to the back of his brain and hoping they stayed there. “That’s only a week away.”

She relaxed her stance, dropping her purse to her side. It struck him again that she looked tired. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her looking like that before. Not since reacquainting himself with her in Chicago. Not when they were kids. It was…unsettling.

Then he remembered that yes, he had seen her that tired once. That night at her parents’ house when they’d been up so late studying. It had unsettled him then, too. Enough that he’d wanted to do something to make her less weary. Enough that he’d placed his hands on her shoulders to rub away the knots in her tense muscles. But the moment he’d touched her—

He pushed that thought to the back of his brain, too. He really didn’t need to be thinking about that right now.

“You should have thought about your date with Francesca before you humiliated us the tearoom,” she said.

“Yeah, about that,” he began. Not that he had any idea what to say about that, but about that seemed like a good start.

Ava spared him, however. “Peyton, we could work for a year, and it wouldn’t make any difference. You’ll just keep sabotaging us.”

He couldn’t help noting her use of the word us. She hadn’t said he was sabotaging himself. She hadn’t said he was sabotaging her efforts. She’d said he was sabotaging the two of them. He wondered if she noticed, too, how she’d lumped the two of them together, or if she even realized she’d said it. Even if she did, what did it mean, if anything?

“I only sabotaged us today,” he told her. “And only because you were going out of your way to make things harder than they had to be.”

Even though that was true, it wasn’t why he’d behaved the way he had. He’d done that because he’d needed to get out of that place as fast as he could. The problem now was convincing Ava that he still wanted to move forward after deliberately taking so many giant steps backward.

And the problem was that, suddenly, his wanting to continue with this ridiculous makeover had less to do with winning over the Montgomery sisters in Mississippi…and more to do with winning over Ava right here in Chicago.

Eight

Ava trudged up the stairs to her apartment with Peyton two steps behind, silently willing him to twist his ankle. Not enough to do any permanent damage. Just enough to make him have to sit down and rub it for a few minutes so she could escape him.

In spite of her demands to leave her alone, he had followed her for three blocks, neither of them saying a word. She’d thought he would give up when they reached the door behind the shop that opened onto the stairwell leading up to her apartment. But he’d stuck his foot in it before she had a chance to slam it in his face. At this point, she was too tired to argue with him. If he wanted to follow her all the way up so she could slam her apartment door in his face, then that was his prerogative.

But he was too fast for her there, as well, shoving the toe of his new Gucci loafer between door and jamb before she had a chance to make the two connect. She leaned harder on the door, trying to put enough force into it that he would have to remove his foot or risk having his toes crushed. But his shoe held firm. Damn the excellence of Italian design anyway.

“Ava, let me in,” he said, curling his fingers around the door and pushing back.

“Go. Away,” she told him. Again.

“Just talk to me for a few minutes. Please?”

She sighed wearily and eased up on the door. Peyton shouldered it harder, gaining enough ground to win access to the apartment. But he halted halfway in, clearly surprised by his success. His face was scant inches from Ava’s, and his fingertips on the door skimmed hers. Even though she was still wearing her white gloves, she could feel the warmth of his hand against hers. He was close enough for her to see how the amber of his irises was circled by a thin line of gold. Close enough for her to see a small scar on his chin that hadn’t been there in high school. Close enough for her to smell the faint scent of something cool and spicy that clung to him. Close enough for her to feel his heat mingling with her own.

Close enough for her to wish he would move closer still.

Which was why she sprang away from the door and hurried toward the kitchen. Tea, she told herself. That was what she needed. A nice, calming cup of tea. She’d hardly had a chance to taste hers in the shop. She had a particularly soothing chamomile that would be perfect. Anything to take her thoughts off wanting to be close to Peyton. No! she quickly corrected herself. Anything to take her thoughts off her lousy afternoon.

Without wasting a moment to remove her gloves or hat—barely even taking the time to shove the netting of the latter back from her face—she snatched the kettle from the stove, filled it with water and returned it to the burner as she spun the knob to turn it on. Then she busied herself with retrieving the tea canister from the cupboard and searching a drawer for the strainer. She felt Peyton’s gaze on her the entire time, so knew he had followed as far as the kitchen, but she pretended not to notice. Instead, after readying the tea and cup, she began sorting through other utensils in the drawer, trying to look as if she were searching for something else that was very important—like her peace of mind, since that had completely fled.

“Ava,” he finally said when it became clear she wouldn’t continue the conversation.

“What?” she asked, still focused on the contents of the drawer.

“Will you please talk to me?”

“Are we not talking?” she asked, not looking up. “It sounds to me as if we’re talking. If we’re not talking, then what are we doing?”