When in Paris... (Language of Love) (14 page)

“I thought you had a hard time keeping faces in order,” I retort.

“Well I remember you now,” she says in mild protest. “Plus, I didn’t say I forgot what you said.”

A serious staring match ensues, lips tighten, shoulders tense. Then Eagle Eyes—why don’t I know her name?—cracks a smile. That’s when I know—the same way you know a good pineapple—that Eagle Eyes and I may just be on the verge of becoming friends. Or at least friendly if nothing else.

“We’re okay. Not chummy or anything close to that but—” I glance back at Zach, who appears fully absorbed in whatever he’s seeing or reading on his cell, “—friendly enough.”

Eagle Eyes continues to peruse him openly. Maybe we’re not going to be friends. The girl is looking like she means serious business, as in
I’ll stop at nothing to get what I want
and it looks like she wants Zach. At this point, I’m mature enough to admit, I’m not fine with that.

Her attention snaps back to me. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Again, her eyes narrow at me.

“Like what?” I know I sound defensive but I wasn’t aware I was looking at her in a way that would offend her. Obviously I need to do a better job of not allowing my every emotion to be play out like a movie on my face.

“I don’t know, like I’m looking at a toy you want to play with,” she says softly, this sly look in her eyes.

What a metaphor. A toy? Zach? I feel a rush of heat suffuse my face.

She chuckles—damn must find out her name—and says, “If you want him, that’s cool. I would never try to get with another girl’s guy. I mean he’s hotter than any guy’s got a right to be, but there’s plenty of fish in the ocean—or is it the sea? Which one of them is bigger?”

From the corner of my eye I see Zach stand, hook his backpack over his shoulder, and head for the door.

Eagle Eyes falls silent and we both watch him leave. He has his cell still clutched in his hand and when he exits, he never looks back. Not once.

“Hmm, I wonder what that’s all about. By the way, what’s your name?”

Still a little surprised at his early exit, I turn back to her. “Olivia.” My response is automatic.

“Mine’s Rebecca. Everyone calls me Becca.”

I must have made a face because, Rebecca asks with a short laugh, “What, you have something against my name?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s just that I knew a Becca in high school. She was the stereotypical cheerleader, beautiful, shallow and bitchy. She couldn’t stand me.” The feeling was mutual.

Without missing a beat, Rebecca says, “But you can call me Rebecca.” I know right then, we aren’t just going to be friends, we’re going to be great friends.

~*~*~

Zach doesn’t return to class and my curiosity is eating me up alive. Did he get a message from home? My mind conjures up all kinds of horrible things. Does he have a dog? Maybe it died? Anything else, I won’t even allow myself to think.

I go back to my dorm with Rebecca’s number in my phone and the name of her dorm memorized. We make tentative plans to meet up Friday night after my audition. I can’t wait for April to meet her—whenever that will be. Just from the short time we spent talking during and after class, I know the two of them will get along. Which probably explains why we hit it off so quickly.

I pretty much have the room to myself every night until seven o’clock, which is perfect because it gives me the quiet time I need to do homework. I took a full load this semester. Since I have yet to declare my major, I’m taking mainly general courses plus my theater class.

For the audition next Friday, I plan to do a scene where the lead, Caroline is confronting a baseball player in the team’s locker room. She’s long been the subject of intimidation, lewd comments and sexual harassment and this time she’s had enough. It’s the kind of scene that’s devised to stretch an actor to the limit. The question is, can I pull it off?

iPad in hand, I begin practicing the scene. Of course, it’d be better if I had someone to play the male part so I don’t have to. I pitch my voice low and laugh because I sound like Kermit the Frog.

Baseball player: 
Hey ,darlin’, Joe and I need you to settle a bet for us. He swears to God you have on a seexxxyy pink thong. I told him he’s wrong because you’re going bareback. Now you know we’ll need proof before the winner gets to claim his prize.

Caroline: 
Nate, let me give you some advice. Don’t make bets on anything you can’t prove. You wanna bet, bet on how many balls you’re going to toss in your next game, or how many bases will get stolen while you’re out there scratching yourself. My job is to cover the game, conduct the interviews. Just because you stink at your job, doesn’t mean I’m coming down into your putrid hole to join you. If I had a dime for—

The vibration of my cell finally penetrates my concentration. I’ve got to remember to change it from silent after classes are over for the day. I check the number. Again, not one I recognize but I do recognize the area code as one local to Maryland. It’s the same as mine.

“Hello.”

“Olivia?”

“Speaking.” 

OMG, it’s Zach.
I’d know his voice anywhere. My throat constricts and my hearts starts to pound. But I have to play it cool. He can’t know I recognized his voice with just one word. My name.

“Hey, it’s Zach.”

“Hey, Zach.”
Breathe. Breathe.
He’s just a guy. One I really didn’t like all that much until two days ago.

But how did he get my number?

“I hope you don’t mind, I asked Troy to get your number from April.”

Well that explains that.

I clear my throat and my getting-clammier-by-the-moment hand tightens on the phone.

“No.” I wince because my voice is higher than usual. “What’s up?” That’s better. Now I don’t sound like one of those girls whose voices can actually pierce eardrums when they’re having fits over the latest British boy band.

“Something came up and I couldn’t stay for French today.”

Which, of course, I already know but I don’t want him to know that. “Really? I thought you were just the first one out the door,” I say with a laugh, praying it will mask what a terrible liar I am.

There’s a pause, the kind a writer would probably describe as pregnant. After a few seconds, he emits this low, sexy laugh. “Okay, let’s go with that one, that you didn’t see me leave.”

Why. Does. He. Always. Do. This. To. Me?

Better yet, why do I do it to myself? My problem is I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut—around him. Denying I saw him leave had been short-sighted and dumb. Although he’d been so wrapped up reading whatever had been on his cell phone, I was sure he hadn’t seen me watching him. And not so much watching him, it’d been more a fleeting glance. But who knows, maybe he did. To save face, I completely ignore his remark.

“I hope nothing’s wrong.” I take on the role of the concerned friend. Which I am…concerned. The friend part is still up for debate.

“It’s—um—nothing too bad.”

His voice has gone all serious and by his response, I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it so I won’t push.

“Good.”

“So did I miss anything important? The syllabus says we have a quiz next class.”

He’s calling for homework. He’s calling for
homework
. I’m eddied by a wave of disappointment so deep, I feel I’m drowning in it.

“There is a handout with a list of words we’re supposed to conjugate into past, present, future, imperfect, present participle, passé simple and imperative.”

By his groan, I can tell just how much he’s going to enjoy the coursework.

“Can I make a copy of yours?”

“Sure.” My traitor of a heart picks itself off my stomach and starts beating again. I’ll have to see him before French next Monday. The knowledge shouldn’t thrill me as much as it does. But I’m not about to fight it.

“Great, I’ll be up in a few.”

Up in a few?
My heart vacates its position in my chest cavity
again
and jumps to my throat.

“Where are you?”

“I’m downstairs by the door. I took a chance you’d come back to your dorm after class. Come downstairs and let me in.”

I mumble something, I can’t even remember what, and end the call. I tear into the bathroom and grab my brush from the counter then proceed to yank it through my hair. My lipstick is practically gone so it requires a retouch, which I apply in a meticulous rush—the last thing I want is pink lipstick on my teeth. The shiny glow on my face—faint though it is—has to go. A couple dabs of powder does the trick.

I’m debating whether I should change when a jolt of sanity brings me back to earth. He’s coming up to get the handout, not take me on a date. I’m acting like a lunatic. Plus, if he took any notice of me in class, he’ll know I changed—for him.

After one last mirror check, I grab my room key and head out. I arrive downstairs to find Zach inside the dorm, talking to girls I’ve seen only in passing. He spots me a second later—as if he had his eyes peeled for me—and acknowledges me with a jerk of his chin and a lopsided smile.

The girls instantly turn in my direction and I can tell they view me as the competition, or some very lucky bitch.

Before I’m even halfway to him, he’s already extricated himself from their company and is striding toward me. The girls don’t immediately move on their way, but stand there watching him.

Going out with Jeff hadn’t made me the envy of every girl in school. No, that distinction had been Ashley’s and what I’m feeling now couldn’t be even a portion of what she’d felt every day. And I’m not even going out with him.

“Hey.”

With that single-syllable word, he comes close to buckling my knees. Good God, his voice, it has the power to make a girl swoon. Even the non-swooning type like me. I could listen to him every day for weeks on end and never tire of his voice.

“Hi.”

He gestures to the girls behind him with a lift of his right shoulder. “They let me in.”

“I see that.” I successfully staunch any trace of sarcasm from my voice.

“So do you have the handout?”

While he stares at my clearly empty hands I wonder if he thinks I may have hidden the handout under my blouse because it’s apparent by the snug fit of my jeans, they’re not in my pants.

“I-I—damn, I don’t know how I forgot it.” Actually I was thinking more in the lines of him coming up to the room to get it, completely overlooking I could have just brought it down to him.

That’s because you want to get him alone in your room.
I dismiss the annoying voice of my conscience. Subconscious. Whichever.

His brows raise the barest fraction but it’s enough to set fire to my cheeks. It’s like he can see, not right through me—but deep enough into my thoughts to know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, how excited, nervous and agitated he makes me. I can’t say I like feeling this vulnerable.

“C’mon, no big deal. I could use the exercise.” He pats the nonexistent fat on his hard stomach, luring my gaze there in the process.

As we walk toward the stairs, I feel at least a dozen pair of eyes on us—the majority of them female—and I can just imagine the refrain in their mind going something like this:
What's she doing with the smoking-hot guy? And who the hell is he
?

At the stairs, Zach flashes his perfect white teeth, and says, “After you.”

I precede him up the stairs and get that distinct feeling he’s checking me out. I glance back at him and his eyes snap up like a rubber band, the picture of innocence.

To be honest, the fact that it’s Zach’s eyes on me is what gives me the biggest rush. And the fact that he does it deliberately—makes me walk in front of him—gets me hotter than I’ve been in a very long time. Not since those first months with Jeff. But now I know most of what I was feeling stemmed more from the excitement of having a boyfriend for the first time. A real boyfriend, not the pretend kind you have before you can even drive.

But that excitement wore off pretty fast—at least for me it had. Jeff was a whole other matter, always pressing me to have sex with him. That’s partly why we broke up. I got tired of having to tell him no and he got tired of hearing it. The end of high school was a blessing for us both. We parted friends and that was it.

We dated for a year and it didn’t even take a week for me not to miss the things I liked most about him. Not even a week. Pretty much told me how in love with him I
was not
.

Before I enter my room, I give the area a quick once-over to make sure it looks good enough for company. Satisfied it’s company-ready, I push the door open to let Zach in.

“I bet you’re glad you have an apartment so you don’t have to share one of these rooms,” I toss over my shoulder at him.

“These rooms aren’t bad. You should have seen the size of my brother’s when he was in college. I swear it was the size of a big closet.”