Читать книгу My Fair Billionaire - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 8

Two

“Ava?”

As if he’d uttered an incantation to free a fairy-tale princess from an evil spell, her eyes fluttered open. He tried one last time to convince himself he was only imagining her. But even in the semidarkness, he could see that it was Ava. And that she was more beautiful than he remembered.

“Peyton?” she said as she pushed herself up from the sofa.

He stumbled backward and into a chair on the other side of the room. Oh, God. Her voice. The way she said his name. It was the same way she’d said it that morning in her bedroom, when he’d opened his eyes to realize the frenetic dream he’d had about the two of them having sex hadn’t been a dream at all. The panic that welled up in him now was identical to the feeling he had then, an explosion of fear and uncertainty and insecurity. He hated that feeling. He hadn’t felt it since...

Ah, hell. He hadn’t felt it since that morning in Ava’s bedroom.

Don’t panic, he told himself. He wasn’t an eighteen-year-old kid whose only value lay in his ruthlessness on the rink. He wasn’t living in poverty with a drunk for a father after his mother had deserted them both. He sure as hell wasn’t the refuse of the Emerson Academy who wasn’t worthy of Ava Brenner.

“Um, hi? I guess?” she said as she sat up, pulling up her covers as if she were cloaking herself in some kind of protective device. She was obviously just as anxious about seeing him as he was about seeing her.

As much as Peyton told himself to reply with a breezy, unconcerned greeting, all he could manage was another quiet “Ava.”

She pulled one hand out of her cocoon to switch on a lamp by the sofa. He squinted at the sudden brightness but didn’t glance away. Her eyes seemed larger than he remembered, and the hard angles of 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 she still lived in a place like the massive Georgian townhouse on Division Street where she grew up, and she still drove a car like the cream-colored Mercedes convertible she’d received for her sixteenth birthday.

He obviously hadn’t heard how the Brenners of the Gold Coast had been reduced to a state of poverty and hardship that rivaled the one he’d escaped on the South Side. He didn’t know her father was still doing time in a federal prison for tax evasion, embezzlement and a string of other charges, because he’d had to support a drug-and-call-girl habit. He didn’t know her mother had passed away in a mental hospital after too many years of trying to cope with the anguish and ostracism brought on by her husband’s betrayal. He didn’t know how, before that, Colette Brenner had left Ava’s father and taken her to Milwaukee to finish high school, or that Ava had done so in a school much like Emerson—except that she had been the poor scholarship student looked down on by the ruling class of rich kids, the same way she had looked down on Peyton and his crowd at Emerson.

Sometimes karma was a really mean schoolgirl.

But that was all the more reason she didn’t want Peyton to know the truth now. She’d barely made a dent in her karmic debt. Spending her senior year of high school walking in the shoes of the students she’d treated so shabbily for years—being treated so shabbily herself—she had learned a major life lesson. It was only one reason she’d opened Talk of the Town: so that women who hadn’t had the same advantages in life that she’d taken for granted could have the chance to walk in the designer shoes of high society, if only for a little while.

It was something she was sure Peyton would understand—if it came from anyone but Ava. If he found out what she’d gone through her senior year of high school, he’d mock her mercilessly. Not that she didn’t deserve it. But a person liked to have a little warning before she found herself in a situation like that. A person needed a little time to put on her protective armor. Especially a person who knew what a formidable force Peyton Moss could be.

“There’s no one waiting for me at home,” she said softly in response to his question.

Or anywhere else, for that matter. No one in her former circle of friends had wanted anything to do with her once she started living below the poverty line, and she’d stepped on too many toes outside that circle for anyone there to ever want to speak to her. Peyton would be no exception.

When she looked up again, he was studying her with a scrutiny that made her uncomfortable. But all he said was, “So what did happen last night?”

“You were in Basilio’s when I got there. I heard shouting in the bar and saw Dennis—he’s the bartender,” she added parenthetically, “talking to you. He suggested, um, that you might want a cup of coffee instead of another drink.”

Instead of asking about the conversation, Peyton asked, “You know the bartender by name?”

“Sure. And Basilio, the owner, and Marcus, the waiter who helped me get you to the car. I eat at that restaurant a lot.” It was the only one in the neighborhood she could afford when it came to entertaining potential clients and vendors. Not that she would admit that to Peyton.

He nodded. “Of course you eat there a lot. Why cook for yourself when you can pay someone else do it?”

Ava ignored the comment. Peyton really was going to believe whatever he wanted about her. It didn’t occur to him that sixteen years could mature a person and make her less shallow and more compassionate. Sixteen years evidently hadn’t matured him, if he was still so ready to think the worst of her.

“Anyway,” she continued, “you took exception to Dennis’s suggestion that you’d had too much to drink—and you had had too much to drink, Peyton—and you got a little...belligerent.”

“Belligerent?” he snapped. “I never get belligerent.”

Somehow Ava refrained from comment.

He seemed to realize what she was thinking, because he amended, “Anymore. It’s been a long time since I was belligerent with anyone.”

Yeah, probably about sixteen years. Once he graduated from Emerson, all the targets of his belligerence—especially Ava Brenner—would have been out of his life.

“Basilio was going to throw you out, but I...I mean, when I realized you were someone I knew...I...” She expelled a restless sound. “I told him you and I are... That we were—” Somehow, she managed not to choke on the words. “Old friends. And I offered to drive you home.”

“And he let you?” Peyton asked. “He let you leave with some belligerent guy he didn’t know from Adam? Wow. I guess he really didn’t want to offend the regular cash cow.”

Bristling, Ava told him, “He let me because you calmed down a lot after you recognized me. By the time Marcus and I got you into the car, you were actually being kind of nice. I know—hard to believe.”

There. Take that, Mr. Belligerent Cow-Caller.

“But once you were in the car,” she hurried on before he could comment, “you passed out. I didn’t have any choice but to bring you here. I roused you enough to get you into the apartment, but while I was setting up the coffee, you found your way to the bedroom and went out like a light again. I thought maybe you’d sleep it off in a few hours, but... Well. That didn’t happen.”

“I’ve been working a lot the last few weeks,” he said shortly, “on a demanding project. I haven’t gotten much sleep.”

“You were also blotto,” she reminded him. Mostly because the cow comment still stung.

In spite of that, she wondered what kind of work he did and how he’d spent his life since they graduated. How long had he been in San Francisco? Was he married? Did he have children? Even as Ava told herself it didn’t matter, she was helpless not to glance at his left hand. No ring. No indentation or tan line to suggest one had ever been there. Not that that was any definer of status. Even if he wasn’t married, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a woman who was important in his life.

Not that Ava cared about any of that. She didn’t. Really. All she cared about was getting him out of her hair. Getting him out of her apartment. Getting him out of her life.

In spite of that, she heard herself ask, “So why are you back in Chicago?”

He hesitated, as if he were trying to figure out how to reply. Finally, he said, “I’m here because my board of directors made me come.”

Board of directors? she thought incredulously. He had a board of directors? “Board of directors?” she asked. “You have a board of directors?”

The question sounded even worse coming out of her mouth than it had sitting in her head, where it had sounded pretty bad.

Before she had a chance to apologize, Peyton told her—with a glare that could have boiled an ice cube, “Yeah, Ava. I have a board of directors. They’re part of the multimillion-dollar corporation of which I am chief shareholder, not to mention CEO. A company that’s named after me. On account of, in case I didn’t mention it, I own it.”

Ava grew more astonished with every word he spoke. But her surprise wasn’t from the discovery that he was an enormous success—she’d always known Peyton could do or be whatever he wanted. She just hadn’t pegged him for becoming the corporate type. On the contrary, he’d always scorned the corporate world. He’d scorned anyone who strove to make lots of money. He’d despised people like the ones in Ava’s social circle. And now he was one of them?

This time, however, she kept her astonishment to herself.

At least, she thought she did, until he added, “You don’t have to look so shocked. I did have one or two redeeming qualities back in high school, not the least of which was a work ethic.”

“Peyton, I didn’t mean—”

“The hell you didn’t.” Before she could continue, he added, “In fact, Moss Holdings Incorporated is close to becoming a billion-dollar corporation. The only thing standing between me and those extra zeroes after my net worth is a little company in Mississippi called Montgomery and Sons. Except that it’s not owned by Montgomery or his sons anymore. They all died more than a century ago. It’s now owned by the Montgomery sons’ granddaughters. Who are both in their eighties.”

Ava had no idea what to say. Not that he seemed to expect a response from her, because he suddenly became agitated and rose from the chair to pace the room.

He sounded agitated, too, when he continued, “Helen and Dorothy Montgomery. They’re sweet little old Southern ladies who wear hats and white gloves to corporate meetings and send holiday baskets to everyone every year filled with preserves and socks they make themselves. They’re kind of legendary in the business and financial communities.”

He stopped pacing, looking at something near the front door that Ava couldn’t see. At something he probably couldn’t see, either, since whatever it was must have existed far away from the apartment.

“Yeah, everybody loves the Montgomery sisters,” he muttered. “They’re so sweet and little and old and Southern. So I’m going to look like a bully and a jerk when I go after their company with my usual...how did the Financial Times put it?” He hesitated, feigning thought. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember. With my usual ‘coldhearted, mind-numbing ruthlessness.’ And no one will ever want to do business with me again.”

Now he looked at Ava. Actually, he glared at Ava, as if all of this—whatever this was—was her fault. “Not that there are many in the business and financial communities who like me much now. But at least they do business with me. If they know what’s good for them.”

Even though she wasn’t sure she was meant to be a part of this conversation, she asked, “Then why are you going after the Montgomerys’ company? With ruthlessness or otherwise?”

Peyton sat down again, still looking agitated. “Because that’s what Moss Holdings does. It’s what I do. I go after failing companies and acquire them for a fraction of what they’re worth, then make them profitable again. Mostly by shedding what’s unnecessary, like people and benefits. Then I sell those companies to someone else for a huge profit. Or else I dismantle them and sell off their parts to the highest bidder for a pile of cash. Either way, I’m not the kind of guy people like to see coming. Because it means the end of jobs, traditions and a way of life.”

In other words, she translated, what he did led to the dissolution of careers and income, plunging people into the sort of environment he’d had to claw his way out of when he was a teenager.

“Then why do you do it?” she asked.

His answer was swift and to the point. “Because it makes me huge profits and piles of cash.”

She would have asked him why making money was so important that he would destroy jobs and alienate people, but she already knew the answer. People who grew up poor and underprivileged often made making money their highest priority. Many thought if they just had enough money, it would make everything in their life all right and expurgate feelings of want and need. Some were driven enough to become tremendous successes—at making money, anyway. As far as making everything in their life right and expurgating feelings of want and need, well...that was a bit trickier.

Funnily, it was often people like Ava, who had grown up with money and been afforded every privilege, who realized how wrong such a belief was. Money didn’t make everything all right, and it didn’t expurgate feelings of anything. Sure, it could ease a lot of life’s problems. But it didn’t change who a person was at her core. It didn’t magically chase away bad feelings or alleviate stresses. It didn’t make other people respect or admire or love you. At least not for the right reasons. And it didn’t bring with it the promise of...well, anything.

“And jeez, why am I even telling you all this?” Peyton said with exasperation.

Although she was pretty sure he didn’t expect an answer for that, either, Ava told him, “I don’t know. Maybe because you need to vent? Although why would you need to vent about a business deal, seeing as you make them all the time? Unless there’s something about this particular business deal that’s making you feel like...how did you put it? A bully and a jerk.”

“Anyway,” he said, ignoring the analysis, “for the sake of good PR and potential future projects, my board of directors thought it would be better to not go after the Montgomery sisters the way I usually go after a company—by yanking it out from under its unsuspecting owners. They think I should try to—” he made a restless gesture “—to...finesse it out from under them with my charm and geniality.”

Somehow, the words finesse and Peyton Moss just didn’t fit, never mind the charm and geniality stuff. Ava did manage to keep her mouth shut this time. But he seemed to need to talk about what had brought him back here, and for some reason, she hesitated to stop him.

“The BoD think it will be easier to fend off lawsuits and union problems if I can charm the company away from the Montgomerys instead of grabbing it from them. So they sent me back here to, and I quote, ‘exorcise your street demons, Peyton, and learn to be a gentleman.’ They’ve even set me up with some Henry Higgins type who’s supposed to whip me into shape. Then, when I’m all nice and polished, they’ll let me come back to San Francisco and go after Montgomery and Sons. But nicely,” he added wryly. “That way, my tarnished reputation will stay only tarnished and not firebombed into oblivion.”

Now he looked at Ava as if he were actually awaiting a reply. Not that she had one to give him. Although she was finally beginning to understand what had brought him back to Chicago—kind of—she wasn’t sure what he expected her to say. Certainly Peyton Moss hadn’t been bred to be a gentleman. That didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of becoming one. Eventually. Under the right tutelage. Which even Ava was having a hard time trying to imagine.

When she said nothing, he added quietly, “But you wanna hear the real kicker?”

She did, actually—more than she probably should admit.

“The real kicker is that they think I should pick up a wife while I’m here. They’ve even set me up with one of those millionaire matchmakers who’s supposed to introduce me to—” he took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if he were about to reveal something of great importance “—the right kind of woman.”

Ava’s first reaction was an odd sort of relief that he wasn’t already in a committed relationship. Her second reaction was an even odder disappointment that that was about to change. There was just something about the thought of Peyton being introduced to the “right kind of woman”—meaning, presumably, the kind of woman she herself was supposed to have grown up to be—that did something funny to her insides.

He added, “They think the Montgomery sisters might look more favorably at their family business being appropriated by another family than they would having it go to a coldhearted single guy like me.” He smiled grimly. “So to finally answer your question, Ava, I’m back in Chicago to erase all evidence of my embarrassing, low-life past and learn to be a gentleman in polite society. And I’m supposed to find a nice society girl who will give me an added aura of respectability.”

Ava couldn’t quite keep the flatness from her voice when she replied, “Well, then. I hope you, in that society, with that nice society girl, will be very happy.”

“Aw, whatsamatter, Ava?” he asked in the same cool tone. “Can’t stand the fact that you and I are now social and financial equals?”

“Peyton, that’s not—”

“Yeah, there goes the neighborhood.”

“Peyton, I didn’t mean—”

“Once you start letting in the riffraff, the whole place goes to hell, doesn’t it?”

Ava stopped trying to explain or apologize, since he clearly wasn’t going to let her do either. What was funny—or would have been, had it not been so biting—was that they actually weren’t social and financial equals. Ava was so far below him on both ladders, she wouldn’t even be hit by the loose change spilling out of his pockets.

“So what about you?” he asked.

The change of subject jarred her. “What about me?”

“What are you doing now? I remember you wanted to go to Wellesley. You were going to major in art or something.”

She couldn’t believe he remembered her top college choice. She’d almost forgotten it herself. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about things like that once the family fortune evaporated. Although Ava had been smart, she’d been a lazy student. Why worry about grades when she had parents with enough money and connections to ensure admission into any school she wanted? The only reason she’d been accepted at her tony private school in Milwaukee was that she’d tested so high on its entry exam.

How was she supposed to tell Peyton she’d ended up studying business at a community college? Not that she hadn’t received a fine education, but it was a far cry from the hallowed halls of academia for which she’d originally aimed.

“English,” she said evasively. “I wanted to major in English.”

He nodded. “Right. So where’d you end up going?”

“Wisconsin,” she said, being deliberately vague. Let him think she was talking about the university, not the state.

He arched his brows in surprise. “University of Wisconsin? Interesting choice.”

“The University of Wisconsin has an excellent English department,” she said. Which was true. She just hadn’t been a part of it herself. Nor had she lied to Peyton, she assured herself. She never said she went to University of Wisconsin. He’d just assumed, the same way he’d made lots of other assumptions about her. Why correct him? He’d be out of her life in a matter of minutes.

“And now you own a clothing store,” he said. “Good to see you putting that English degree to good use. Then again, it’s not like you actually work there, is it? Now that I think about it, I guess English is a good major for an heiress. Seeing as you don’t have to earn a living like the rest of us working stiffs.”

Ava bit her tongue instead of defending herself. She still had a tiny spark of pride that prohibited her from telling him the truth about her situation. Okay, there was that, and also the fear that he would gloat relentlessly once he found out how she’d gone from riches to rags.

“Have you finished your coffee?” she asked. It was the most polite way she knew how to say beat it.

He looked down into his mug. “Yeah. I’m finished.”

But he made no move to leave. Ava studied him again, considering everything she had learned. He’d achieved all his success in barely a decade’s time. She’d been out of school almost as long as he, but she was still struggling to make ends meet. And she would consider herself ambitious. Yet he’d gone so much further in the same length of time. That went beyond ambitious. That was...

Well, that was Peyton.

Still, she never would have guessed his stratospheric status had he not told her. When she’d removed his jacket and shoes last night, she had noted their manufacturers—it was inescapable in her line of work. Both could have been purchased in any department store. His hair was shorter than it had been in high school, but he didn’t look as if he’d paid a fortune for the cut, the way most men in his position would. He might be worth almost a billion dollars now—and don’t think that realization didn’t stop her heart a little—but he didn’t seem to be living any differently than any other man.

But then, Peyton wasn’t the kind of guy to put on airs, either.

When he stood, he hesitated, as if he wanted to say something. But he went to the kitchen without a word. She heard him rinse his cup and set it in the drainer, then move back to her bedroom. When he emerged, he was wearing his shoes and jacket, but his necktie hung loose from his collar. He looked like a man who’d had too much to drink the night before and slept in a bed other than his own. But even that couldn’t detract from his appeal.

And there was the hell of it. Peyton did still appeal. He appealed to something deep inside Ava that had lain dormant for too long, something she wasn’t sure would ever be able to resist him. Thankfully, that part of her wasn’t the dominant part. She could resist Peyton Moss. Provided he left now and never came back.

For a moment, they only gazed at each other in silence. There were so many things Ava wanted to say, so many things she wanted him to know. About what had happened to her family that long-ago summer and how her senior year had changed her. About the life she led now. But she couldn’t find the words. Everything came out sounding self-pitying or defensive or weak. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of Peyton thinking she was any of those things.

Finally—thankfully—he ended the silence. “Thanks, Ava, for...for making sure I didn’t spend last night in an alley somewhere.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”

He neither agreed nor disagreed. He only made his way to the front door, opened it and stepped over the threshold. She thought for a moment that he was going to leave without saying goodbye, the way he had sixteen years ago. But as he started to pull the door closed, he turned and looked at her.

“It was...interesting...seeing you again.”

Yes, it had certainly been that.

“Goodbye, Peyton,” she said. “I’m glad you’re—” What? she asked herself. Finally, because she knew too long a hesitation would make her look insincere, she finished, “Doing well. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Yeah, doing well,” he muttered. “I’m sure as hell that.”

The comment was curious. He sounded kind of sarcastic, but why would he think otherwise? He had everything he’d striven to achieve. Before she could say another word, however, the door closed with a soft click. And then, as he had been sixteen years ago, Peyton was gone.

And he hadn’t said goodbye.