When in Paris... (Language of Love) (15 page)

“How old were you when he was in college?” His brother is what, a good eight or nine years older than him, I think.

“Eight. My parents would take me to see him a couple times a year.”

I grab the handout off my desk but I’m reluctant to turn it over to him just yet. I like talking to him. He makes it so easy. Exciting. Nail biting.

“Is it just the two of you?” I think it is but I don’t know for sure.

“Yep, just me and Brett.”

It’s funny the way you can tell how a person feels about someone else. Their eyes light up and their expression softens when they talk about them. With Zach it’s the subtleness of the change that causes me to look at him differently, giving him vulnerabilities I’d never associated with him. And that makes me like him more and for some odd reason is a total turn on. Maybe because it makes him more human, less the unapproachable godlike boy I’d seen in high school.

“I always wished I had a sister,” I lament.

“You have an older brother, right?”

How does he know that?
I study him more closely and want it to mean more than it probably does. I mean, it’s not like Jason is a secret but why would he know? Something I can’t decipher flashes in his eyes. It’s gone in an instant. Then as if he can read my mind he goes on to say, “I overheard Jeff mention him a couple times.”

I knew there had to be an explanation. It’s not like contrary to the way he’d treated me, Zach had asked about me because he’d been secretly in love with me. God, I really have to stop watching those sappy romantic comedies.

“Yes, Jason. Anyway, here’s what you came for.” I hold the stapled papers out to him.

He takes his time accepting them, his eyes on me the whole time. The exchange takes only a few seconds but it feels like forever being held in his gaze.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice velvety soft. “I’ll have it back to you tonight.”

I’d nearly forgotten that he’d have to come back. And suddenly tonight isn’t looking as uneventful as it previously had been. But as much as I wouldn’t mind seeing him again today—who the hell am I kidding, how about anticipate it with an excitement that borders on shameless—I’m uncomfortable with the idea of him knowing how much.

“Or tomorrow. I’m not in a rush for it. I hadn’t planned on doing it until this weekend anyway.”

“Hey, if you’ve got something going on tonight, I can just slip it under your door.” There's a note of reserve in his voice now.

“I just don’t want you to have to make another trip out here tonight just to get it back to me,” I hastily explain because I suspect he thinks I don’t want to see him tonight. “I mean, I’ll be here, unless you come back while I’m over at the cafeteria eating dinner.”

Why why why am I still talking?
I sound like a fifteen-year-old fumbling my way through her first conversation with the cutest boy in class. I’m certainly more mature than that and typically handle myself with a certain amount of aplomb around the opposite sex.

His mouth eases into a smile and a lightning jolt of carnal hunger hits me square in the solar plexus. “I’ll get it back to you tonight, no worries.”

At this point, I think he’s going to tear out of here now that he has what he came for, but instead he gazes around the room until it lands on the iPad on my bed, which I belatedly remember I don’t have a time limit to auto-lock.

He moves to my bed, lightly brushing against me as he peers down at the page I’d been reading. I inhale deeply through my nose. He smells good, something with a hint of musk and soap.

“What’s this?” He gestures down at the screen.

Casually, I ease away to give me room to breathe. His proximity, as always, is wreaking serious havoc on me.

“That’s the play I’m auditioning for.”

“Can I take a look?” He picks up my iPad without waiting for my response.

While he’s perusing the page, I tell him what it’s about. Eyes still glued to the screen, he’s nodding, which gives me the impression he’s actually listening.

“I’m going to assume you’re auditioning for this Caroline character’s part?” he asks, returning his attention to me.

“Yep.”

“So how do you practice? Are you doing this guy’s lines too?”

“I am until April can read them.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if a guy read the guy’s lines?” The way he’s looking at me is more suggestion than question.

He’s fishing so I take the bait. “Are you volunteering, Zach? If you look around you can see there are no guys I can practice with.” My tone is light and teasing, which belies the jackhammer that is now the crazy rhythm of my heart.

A smile hovers at the edge of his mouth as he holds up the homework in his other hand. “One good turn deserves another, isn’t that how the saying goes?” He winks before tossing the handout onto the desk.

In silence, I watch as he’s skims and flips through the script, pausing at various intervals. After this has gone on for a bit, I finally ask, “What are you looking for?”

“I’m hoping to find a scene where she has to kiss one of the guys.” His tone is deliberately off-the-cuff. But the way he peeks up at me from under his thick lashes after the last word of his statement is out screams provocation.

Shock leaves me bemused and incapable of speech. I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of come-ons in my life. Some have been crude, some have been unoriginal, while others have just been plain pathetic. Never has one ever made me
this
hot.

“Um, no. This isn’t a love story.”

“Hmm, that’s too bad,” he replies with a wink. Now I think he’s teasing, saying stuff just to get me all rattled, which he does so easily.

“Whoever thought Zachary Pearson would need to come up with an excuse to kiss a girl.”

Unexpected, my remark has the desired effect as I watch him go absolutely still and his eyes widen. Then his lids droop to half-mast as he stares intently at me, heat flaring in his eyes.

“What is that, a dare? Olivia, are you trying to goad me?” If I thought his voice couldn’t get any sexier, I was wrong.

“No more than you’re trying to goad me.” Sexual tension, I thought I knew exactly what it was and how it felt. But I realize now, I’ve never truly experienced it until this year, these past several weeks. Until Zach.

A rush of hormonal adrenaline shoots through me and I’m more aware of my body than I’ve ever been. When he gives a low, sexy laugh, I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.

“I’ve wanted to know what it’d be like to kiss you since I was fourteen.”

“I thought you thought I was a snob?” My accusation is reflexive, past my lips before I can rein it in. But it still smarts, that not only had he thought it but that he’d acted on it all through high school.

His gaze dips to my mouth and in response I catch my bottom lip between my teeth. His eyes flare hotly at that. “That didn’t stop me from wanting to kiss you.”

Dear God, who taught him that or are his seduction methods self-taught?
And after having lusted after and despised him for years, I can certainly understand where he’s coming from.

The body wants what it wants. And right now my body wants what my brain is cautioning me against. I am not the type of girl who takes this stuff lightly. When I open myself up to a guy emotionally and physically, he has to mean a lot to me. Which means I have to be more to him than some girl he’s just messing around or hooking up with.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect declarations of forever or anything like that but I’d like to know he’s looking for more than just a good-time girl. And Zach is the one guy I know who has the power to break my heart. So as much as I want to jump in and hit the ground running, I need to make sure I’m not getting in over my head with him.

So I’m treading lightly, cautiously, and trying to get answers to the stuff still nagging at me. “You know what doesn’t make sense? You said you used to catch me looking at you and you just said you wanted to kiss me. But you didn’t have anything to do with me because you thought I was a snob? That doesn’t make sense.”

Obviously he’d thought I had a thing for him and he hadn’t been immune either, which makes how he treated me all the more confusing.

Zach clears his throat, his gaze suddenly restless. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Zach, I’m having a hard time understanding,” I motion between us, “any of this. I mean for years—”

“Listen, I understand. Believe me, I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do. You tell me you thought about kissing me since you were a freshman but you ignored me the whole time. If you understand, please explain it to me so I can understand, because I don’t.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

ZACH

There’s no way I’m going to tell her. And Christ, I don’t even know what the hell I’m playing at. Every instinct inside me is telling me Olivia is not the kind of girl who does things in half measure. And I know I’m perilously close to losing all perspective where she’s concerned.

“
Look, I—”

The door swings open and April walks in, looking as if she just walked off a runaway. She comes to a halt when she sees me and then just as quickly a sly smile spreads across her face.

“
Zach. I wasn’t expecting to see you…here.”

“
Zach just stopped by to borrow my handout for French class,” Olivia is quick to explain.

April walks toward her bed. “Right, French.” She places the stack of textbooks in her arms on her desk. “Hey, if you and Troy don’t have plans for dinner, why don’t you join us in the cafeteria? It’ll be my treat.”

A glance at Olivia reveals the heightened color in her cheeks. After what she just said, I think it’s time to create a little distance between us. I need to get my shit together. First the call from Ashley during French today and now this. I’m probably not approaching this thing from the right state of mind.

“
Can’t tonight. Coach called a late meeting.” Which is the truth. Tomorrow we’re playing at home. Coach Brighton believes there’s no such thing as too much preparation, even though we already endured a three-hour practice this morning from six to nine.

But I would have willingly suffered through ten of those than have to deal with my ex, who dragged me out of French with that fuckin’ text. Like I don’t have enough to deal with. I’m so ready to throw in the towel. Every time I get a text with her all in hysterics, I know she’s just saying that shit to get a reaction out of me—and it works. Every time. That’s because, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking what if this time she’s not bluffing. What if this time she does it and that’s something I wouldn’t be able to live with.

“
Oh well, it’s your loss. The special for tonight is surf ‘n turf,” April says, her eyes darting between me and Olivia.

That sure beats the hell out of the frozen chicken steak I plan to microwave for dinner.

I thank Olivia again, say goodbye and I’m out, our unfinished conversation hanging like a cloud over me.

I’ve got an hour to kill before the meeting so I head over to the apartment and copy the homework on my all-in-one printer, fax and copier. I still can’t understand why Dubois hasn’t made our assignments accessible online. The apartment came equipped with a washer and dryer, so I do a load of laundry that’s been piling up for a week now.

My phone rings and my pulse jumps until I recognize my mom’s ringtone. Grabbing it off the counter where I deposited it when I arrived, I swipe my finger over the screen to answer. “Hi, Mom.”

My mom is one of those moms who checks in on her sons weekly, she doesn’t care how
grown they are
. Her words not mine. She runs a gauntlet through her questions:
are you eating properly, how are your classes, is your coach working you too hard?
After I assure her I’m not dying of starvation, I’m attending all my classes and that Coach is working us like a bunch of slaves, she gets to the crux of the call.

“
What is this I hear from your brother that you’re going to France?”

A fact I’ve failed to tell my parents since I’d made the decision. Of course my mom’s more concerned about how it’s affecting my dad, which is not good by the sound of it.

“
And I’m guessing Dad doesn’t want me to go.”

“
You know how your dad is. He only wants what’s best for you.”

My mom can cajole all she wants, I’m not budging.

“
No, Mom, he wants what’s best for
him
.” And he always has. “I can’t believe he’s freakin’ out over one week.”
Of course I can.
“It’s been football practically all year for me. Don’t I deserve a break?”

My mom’s sigh sounds weary, as if she’s Lady Justice trying to balance the scales of truth and fairness—and a husband with FieldTurf running in his veins. “Of course you do, sweetheart.”