A/N: So this is my attempt to basically rewrite the end of Season 4. Some need-to-know information: Brooke and Lucas never broke up senior year, so Lucas and Peyton never got together. LP did, however, sleep together the night of graduation. Brooke never found out, but she dumped Lucas two weeks later because she was going to New York and he was staying in Tree Hill. That's about it. Also, this will be my first M-rated chapter story (due to large amounts of happy, angsty, etc. LP sex and gratuitous cursing). I apologize, but it seems necessary :)

This will be multi-chaptered (who knows how many chapters exactly??), and, hopefully, you'll join me for a fun-filled ride to ultimate LP goodness! Thanks for reading! Enjoy :)

Chapter 1

What We Never Knew We Had

But looking back now, I feel like our lives changed because they had to.
- The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants

He stands impatiently, tapping his foot, smoothing his hair, adjusting his suit. He's bored (which is rare for him; he's easily entertained). This party is supposed to be fun, energetic, but he hasn't been enjoying himself much. Even the glass of straight whiskey he's nursing hasn't satisfied him. And he can't leave just yet, because he's only been here an hour, and as a junior partner he's required to stay until eleven thirty. At the earliest.

And it's fucking nine thirty.

He wonders what the hell he's doing here. He's twenty-eight, and his life is about as messed-up as they come. He doesn't have a steady girlfriend (although he does have a few steady hook-up partners), he hates his job (he gave up his dream of being a writer around the same time she broke his heart), and he's hundreds of miles away from his friends and family (the lights of New York aren't nearly as appealing up close). He doesn't want to be at this stupid party. He doesn't want any of it.

The thought is aggravating, mostly because he could be hitting up a bar tonight, looking for a beautiful woman to take home with him. If not for this…party (it doesn't deserve the name). He's not likely to find such a woman here, at this stuffy lawyer party. Which is a shame really, because he's in the mood (i.e. he's on the prowl). As always, if he's being honest.

But tonight…goddamn it. He was really looking forward to meeting some voluptuous blonde and ravishing her until daylight broke. It sounded like a foolproof way to end the evening. That is, until he remembered what stupid event he had to attend. An obligatory firm party of which the only real purpose is to negotiate contracts and mingle with holier-than-thou types.

He sighs. The only ass he's likely to tap tonight is his overly eager secretary, a petite brunette with knockers like no other. She's nice enough, and her boobs are fucking fantastic, but she doesn't quite sate his thirst. He's fucked her a couple times – mainly because he's sure he'll never encounter such huge boobs again – but the sex was just average. She blames it on how nervous they were about being caught – they were in the supply closet at work both times – but he knows better. She's just not his cup of tea.

Probably because he's a legs guy and he always has been, and hers are short and squat. Her boobs almost make up for it. Almost. But not quite.

She's been trailing him all evening, and it's obvious she'd like to ravish him in the luxe bathroom of this swanky hotel. Normally he'd oblige, if only for some spontaneity in this otherwise mundane evening. But he's just not feeling it tonight.

What he'd really like to be doing right now is watching a basketball game (USC is playing Duke tonight, and he's pissed he had to Tivo the game), or something to that effect. (He doesn't like porn; he'd rather have the real thing). He can't believe he thought he'd have fun tonight. There's nothing about this sort of thing that is fun, except –

And then he sees her.

She's standing by the bar, twirling the stem of her martini glass in her long, slender fingers. She's sweeping her gaze across the room, her expression demure, her eyes devoid of emotion; she looks hopelessly innocent and pure. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, a dark red polish covering the toes that peep out from fire engine-red stilettos. A sweeping, floor-length black gown – that's really the only word for her dress – conceals the shape of her legs, but he can tell they're slim and shapely. If the rest of her is any indication.

His mouth goes dry, and he struggles to take in enough air. He feels like every inch of his skin is on fire, and suddenly, the only thing he wants to do is go right over to this mysterious woman and kiss the feigned (he knows women; it's feigned) innocence right out of her.

Because she's hot. And not just the kind of hot that turns him on and solidifies her status as one of the women he's most wanted to fuck over the course of his lifetime. She's the kind of beautiful – hot doesn't cut it, apparently – that makes him ache with desire and affection (but he wonders where the hell it comes from) and wonder. Above all else, wonder. Who the hell is she?

She has dark blonde, wavy hair that falls to the small of her back, the color exacerbating the effect of her piercing green eyes. He can only see her in profile, but he can tell that her ass is round and perky – his favorite kind, he notes with a snide smile – and her boobs are about medium-size, not too small and not too big (and he's slept with enough women to know that they're not fake). But it's her legs that entrance him.

She takes a shuffling step forward, and the slit in her black goddess dress falls off her thigh a little, revealing a smooth, gold expanse of shimmering leg. His breath catches in his throat. He's most definitely a legs kind of guy – he loves to touch them, loves to feel them wrapped around him as a girl screams his name (like he said, he does this lot) – and it takes a lot to impress him. But this woman's legs are most definitely impressive.

Only one other woman's – well, she was just barely a woman when he knew her, but that's irrelevant – legs have ever affected him so (that is, made his vision blur and his pants uncomfortably tight). His grin falters for a moment as he remembers her. He hasn't seen her in so long. Sometimes, he still thinks about her, thinks about the one blissful night they shared (or almost shared, depending on how you look at it). He wonders what she would look like now, wonders how much she's changed and whether she even remembers him. It's been ten years, after all.

But he shakes himself free of the memories – she is his past, and he's always prided himself on living in the now – and focuses on the striking woman less than ten yards away from him.

He smoothes down his three-piece Armani suit, sweeps his hand over his dark (he had it colored after the tenth women mistook him for Leonardo DiCaprio – not that he really minded), carefully tousled (oh, there's an oxymoron) hair, and makes himself mentally ready. He wants to approach this woman and find out more about her (everything about her, if he's being honest).

So with a sigh, he fixes his most charming smile on his face and strides over to her.

--

She leans against the smooth marble of the bar, huffing a sigh. She's not having any fun. She thought that the dress she picked out – black, with a floor-length hemline and a slit up the side that isn't exactly work-appropriate – would draw attention to her and maybe snag her a few semi-attractive guys. But so far, the only men that have approached her have been sleazy, or, worse still, old. In fact, a Hugh Hefner-type came up to her and offered to buy her a drink earlier. She politely declined, wondering if he'd ever seen the inside of the Playboy mansion.

She struggles to stifle a yawn as she surveys the room wearily. She's not sure what she's even doing here. Her boss – a slick 50-something-year-old who makes eyes at her and not-so-inconspicuously looks down her shirt every chance he gets – told her that this party would be a great place to coerce some buyers into investing in the new gallery her company is trying to open. She sees the point, she really does, but the effort seems futile at best.

And utterly draining. She's only managed to convince one person – one person, in two and a half hours – that he should invest. (And she's sure he only said yes because he was afraid of her). Her results are disheartening, and she's tired.

So she turns to the bartender (an obviously butch woman who Peyton wishes was male because of the leering glances she's been sending her all night) and orders another apple martini. She wants to get drunk, really drunk. Mostly to escape this god-awful situation, but also because she thinks it'd be hilarious to waltz around muttering insults she'd never dare utter while sober and trip over herself with more than one martini glass tottering precariously in her hands. These stuffy lawyer-types would never know what hit them.

She seriously considers the idea. She's bored, and what's more fun than getting piss-drunk and stirring up a party? Besides, there's no one here she wants to impress. She hasn't seen a single remotely attractive guy all night. Really, she might as well walk out of here knowing that she spiced up some perv's night (because let's face it: partners at a firm party surely aren't getting any ass at home, so they have to be looking for it somewhere). And the surest way to do that is to make a complete fool out of herself (which will probably involve bending over so her boobs are presented to their best advantage and taking exaggerated steps forward so the slit in her dress reveals epic proportions of leg).

And with that, her mind is made-up. She smiles wickedly, downing her drink in one solid swig, and prepares to have some fun.

But then she sees him.

He's standing in the center of the room, and she wonders how she missed him in her routine scans for eligible bachelors (he's so striking, she's surprised a swarm of women isn't surrounding him). His head is poised skyward, cloud-blue eyes (even now, she has the eyes of an artist; she knows exactly which colors she would use to paint that shimmering expanse) fixed on the ornate ceiling above. He's holding a glass of what she's sure is whiskey – the most suave guys always drink whiskey (Chuck Bass anyone?) – and his dark brown hair is tousled messily (and impressively, she has to admit) so it falls just so onto his forehead.

His features are strong and defined, his jaw clenching as he takes a single step forward, as if he's debating what to do. She's sure she's never seen anything sexier. (And she grew up with the sexiest pair of brothers God ever had the divine pleasure of creating).

She takes a deep breath, because even from this distance, and even though his expertly tailored Armani suit – she knows her designers – conceals the hard planes and sleek muscles of his body, she can tell she'd be even more impressed by his streamlined appearance if she got the chance to see what's underneath his clothes. (And now, of course, all she can think about is how much she wants to take off his clothes).

She wonders who he is; a lawyer maybe, or just a broker like herself who's a lackey on a mission? She has no idea, and she's morbidly curious.

She makes up her mind to approach him, because she hasn't had a really good fuck since the night of her high school graduation, and this mysterious man seems to fit the bill perfectly: rugged, seemingly troubled, handsome, dark. She muses that it's slightly ironic that as she's gotten older the sex has gotten worse, but she shakes her head vehemently. She doesn't have time to waste daydreaming about the last blonde who made her scream his name. (Truthfully, she hasn't seen him in almost a decade, and she's not sure if his hair is even still blond).

She's unable to resist the blood pooling in her groin, and she doesn't want to. This guy – who she doesn't know the name of and doesn't want to know the name of – is hot. That's really all that matters to her anymore. (She gave up on the idea of love long ago).

So she collects herself; she fluffs her hair with one practiced movement, stands up a little straighter so her boobs and her ass stick her out (she learned that trick when she was a cheerleader), and fixes a slightly amused smirk on her lips. She's almost ashamed by her primping. Almost.

And then she takes a step forward, almost in his direction but not quite. (She doesn't want it to seem like she's heading for him).

But as she swivels her hips and lets the fabric of her dress move slightly off her thigh – the movement is purposeful, and empowering – she feels his eyes on her, burning, inquisitive. She wonders why she can feel his gaze so strongly – he's a stranger, and she's never been particularly attuned to strangers' stares – but she dismisses the thought. She's happy he's noticed her. She likes being noticed by a handsome man. What sane woman wouldn't?

She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever is surely about to come, and takes another, deliberate step forward. A devilish smile alights on her lips.

Now it's only a matter of time.

--

Sidling up beside the as-yet-nameless blonde, he leans against the bar, mimicking her stance, and greets casually, "Hello, beautiful." It's a cheesy line, and he's well aware that it's totally cliché. But you'd be surprised how many women it works on. At least in his experience. (Of course, the charming smile usually helps).

Not this woman, though. (She rolls her eyes inwardly). She shoots him a coy side smile in answer, flashing her pearly-white teeth (it has to be said), and comments wryly, "Only an obvious rookie like yourself would use such an outdated pick-up line." She fixes her gaze on her perfectly manicured nails and sways her hips saucily in his direction. She's teasing him, he can tell.

He likes it.

He grins for real this time, stunned and gratified by her witty response. It's not often that a beautiful woman is willing to engage in some verbal sparring with him. And she is beautiful; he's sure of that now. She's tan, but not overly so (and obviously not fakely), and the blond tints in her hair brilliantly frame the eyes he realizes are hazel (but more green than brown). That doesn't surprise him too much; it seems like all the women he's ever loved had hazel eyes. She's wearing just a touch of blush and some marvelously thick mascara, which is the way he likes his women – he's always believed that the cheaply lucrative (one of the only oxymorons he's willing to accept) make-up industry takes advantage of women's insecurity.

And suddenly he thinks there's something vaguely familiar about her…but no. There's simply no way. That would be too coincidental, and too much like fate. It couldn't possibly be…

He forces himself to focus on only this mysterious – well, not-so-mysterious, if his suspicions are correct – woman, because she's obviously waiting for him to reply. He lets his smile widen and intones cheekily, "Touché."

She says nothing (he assumes she deems his response inadequate), and he smiles. He likes challenges, and he can tell she'll be a hard egg to crack (and don't worry; he doesn't miss the innuendo there). "I won't ask you your name," he murmurs, scooting closer towards her and gazing at her with more intensity than the moment deserves, considering they just met each other (technically), "Because I bet I can guess it."

"Oh, really?" Her tone is mocking, but she doesn't move away. It seems like she's intrigued by him, and he squeals inwardly (a girly response, but he never claimed he wasn't feminine). Checkmate.

"Like I haven't heard that before," she murmurs coolly, deliberately avoiding his eyes. He wonders if it's because she's afraid she might recognize him.

Truth be told, she feels slightly uneasy. This man is far more attractive than she thought – he's got piercing blue eyes and a strong profile and a smirk that should be illegal (and probably is in some states) – and she doesn't like how irresistible her body finds him. (Her brain is able to push her lust away, but she's not sure how long she can hold out). This was supposed to be a conquest, not a battle of wills.

But that's what it's becoming.

What's worse, there's something about him that is so reminiscent of the man – boy, man, whatever he was when she knew him – she made love to (it could never be just sex with him) – despite her impending departure for New York, despite his relationship with her best friend. Maybe it's the predatory gleam in those blue eyes, or maybe it's his silky voice. This mysterious man has the voice of a writer, and it sends shivers down her spine.

He might just be…but no. She won't even entertain the thought.

He smiles as she falters; he's sure now. The knowledge stuns him, but at the same time, it makes sense. She always said she wanted to live in New York, and he's never been more impressed by a pair of legs. Although really, it's her mocking tone that solidifies it for him. That voice still haunts him sometimes.

"Well, I'm sure I'll be the first one to shock you into silence," he promises, his gaze lewdly but leisurely slipping to her chest. The dress she's wearing has a strapless neckline, elegant as it dips just low enough. The fabric – glossy and smooth to the touch, if he guesses correctly – billows out just above her waist and drapes easily over her curves. It's a beautiful dress. (He's always been able to appreciate the intricacies of women's fashion).

She takes a step closer to him, finally lifting her gaze, as if daring him. He thinks he sees a flash of recognition in that iridescent green, and he holds her gaze, almost hoping he'll see a sunflower ringing her pupil. The woman before him looks nothing like the girl – girl, woman, whatever she was – he remembers, and it's slightly frightening. He can't believe she's changed so much. He wants something about her to be the same.

He sees the sunflower, and his breath hitches in his throat. It's really her, and he can't help but stare at her a little while longer.

After a moment, she glares at him, the corners of her mouth curving downward, and he realizes he's overstayed his welcome. Taking a step back (regretfully), he prepares to take the plunge.

He's really not sure what he hopes to accomplish. She walked away from him that night; why would she ever want to see him again? Scratch that – she deliberately said she never wanted to see him again. There was no room for misinterpretation in that steely voice of hers.

But he can't help but wonder if those were words borne of passion and anger, if she really didn't mean to say that she would forget him painlessly. He knows she's usually blunt and honest, but he's willing to bet – more like desperately trying to believe – that she was scared that night, and so she broke his heart to save herself.

It would have worked, too, if not for the fact that now she's standing right in front of him with the only visible exit halfway across the room. This is going to happen whether he orchestrates it or not.

So he smiles slightly, hoping he doesn't stun her too completely, and whispers, "Peyton. And I'm Lucas. But I suspect you already knew that."

She only nods dumbly, shock distorting her features.

tbc