When in Paris... (Language of Love) (2 page)

Grrr
, why do I even know that?

He’s wearing a tan-and-brown leather varsity jacket I recognize from high school, worn blue jeans and a pair of Nike sneakers, the casual non-trendy look typical of Zach. His appearance causes a buzz of excited female chatter throughout the room. Again, typical Zach.

In high school, he’d been considered the ultimate catch with girls falling for
and
after him like a line of dominoes. And I swear from the way the eyes of every girl in class are currently fixed on him, he’s all set to retain that status.

At six-two, Zach’s the quintessential quarterback—all broad shoulders, narrow hips and lean, well-defined muscles. His hair is the closest shade to black without actually being black, close-cropped at the sides and back, and long enough on the top to give a hint of natural wave. He has a habit of running his hand through it and considering its slightly mussed appearance, he’d been recently doing just that.

Although it feels like an eternity that we stare at each other, in reality it lasts only a few seconds, the time it takes his expression to shutter and his eyes to narrow. Which is exactly what I need to drill home the point that ours isn’t a happy reunion of high-school classmates. At the most, we’re familiar strangers.

Okay, so maybe one of us is more familiar with the other. But that’s something that after a year, I’m still trying hard to forget. My face warms at the memory. It’s not easy though.

With his hooded gaze still trained on me, he tips his chin in acknowledgement. I push the corners of my mouth up in a smile that probably looks as strained and artificial as it feels.
Tough.
It’s more than I’ve ever gotten from him. Anyway, I’m trying to be polite.

Non-verbal greetings dispensed with, we break eye contact, Zach managing it a split second before I do. The fact that I even take note of this irks me.

The truth is, the fact that Zach doesn’t like me and never has isn’t what’s gnawed at me for years. No, the million-dollar question is why.

Crap. Now I'm ticked at myself for allowing him to take up so much time and space in my thoughts. I give my head a determined shake and vow to ignore him; simply not think about him. From past experience, I know that will be easier said than done.

And right away, my mind refuses to cooperate, my peripheral vision and other senses working as well as they do. I’m hyper aware of him as he tightens his grip on the strap of his backpack. He has this comfortable-in-my-skin gait as he makes his way to the back where it appears all the guys have telepathically agreed to take up residence.

I’d already checked out most of the guys in class as they’d filed in over the past few minutes. While there are a couple who most girls would consider hot, with Zach in the mix, there’s no competition.

Only aesthetically speaking, of course.

“
Mother of God
,” the girl in front of me with dirty-blonde hair and Spanx-fitting jeans whispers. And there’s so much awe in her voice, you’d swear she’s getting an eyeful of her favorite celebrity wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and a smile. Twisted at the waist with both hands gripping the hard plastic back of her chair, she makes zero attempt to be subtle, eyeing him like he’s the appetizer, entrée and dessert, all rolled into one demigod.

My jaw goes tight. I can already see my nerves are going to be tested in this class, watching as a bunch of Zach groupies fawn all over him the entire semester. And I can't help feeling he's invaded
my
space, the place I’ll be calling home for the next four years. I mean of all the universities in the country, why did he have to come here? Didn’t big-time football jocks go to universities like Texas A&M or Michigan State?

Several girls in class crane their necks to give him a thorough checking out and with that mission accomplished, proceed to their hair tossing routine while sending
do-me
glances back at him. Honestly, their behavior is so painfully obvious, I’m embarrassed for them.

But it’s not embarrassment that has me snapping my textbook open until the spine cracks. No, that’s irritation. But at whom, I’m not even sure. I do my best to ignore the little voice in my head telling me my pants are on fire.

The other truth is I've managed to muffle that niggling voice for over four years now. But after seeing Zach today, I realize I can’t ignore it anymore. I
am
a liar. And my pants? They’re hot as hell and burning a hole right through the denim and scorching the skin where the sun don’t shine.

Because my real problem is, as much as I thought I was immune to Zach, I’m not.

As stealthily as I can, I glance over my shoulder and pray to God there’s a clock on the wall behind me. At least that’s the impression I want to give when I sneak a peek at him. God, I’m such a hypocrite. I’m no better than the girls in class.

My gaze first goes to a place high on the wall and a small sigh of relief escapes my lips when I see the blessed clock. I eyeball it long enough to make it appear that’s what I’m really interested in and then make a casual sweep of the back row. Zach is the last on the left and when I try to smoothly glide by him our gazes lock. Again, I can’t bring myself to look away.

Something dark and intense flickers in his eyes. Just as quickly, it’s gone. This time
I’m
the one to break eye contact, jerking back around, feeling slightly winded and out of my element. I take a deep breath.

Get a grip. He’s just a guy. Seriously, Olivia, have a little pride.

As I said—as if it required further proof—when it comes to Zachary Pearson I’m so
not
immune.

But it’s something I would never admit to anyone, even if threatened with ancient Chinese tools of torture to come clean.

Hell no!

This bit of humiliation I’ll gladly take to my grave. I won’t even tell April, who’s my best friend, roommate and confidante. I’ve trusted her with my deepest and darkest secrets. This one’s way too deep and dark to share.

No, this thing with Zach is different. It’s embarrassing to be physically attracted—and that’s all it is, strictly a physical attraction—to a guy who’s never given me the time of day. And it’s not like I’m one of those shallow girls whose only requirements for a guy is a gorgeous face and rock-hard abs. That’s why my attraction to him is a complete and utter anomaly.

“You know him?”

My attention immediately swings to the girl sitting on my right. She’s got this Kate Beckinsale in the girl-next-door-role look about her, except this girl’s eyes are dark-blue not brown.

We exchanged polite, noncommittal smiles when I first sat down but beyond that, we’ve kept to ourselves. From her question, I can only assume that mine and Zach’s unspoken exchange didn’t go unnoticed. At least not by Eagle Eyes over here.

She glances back at him, her eyebrow raised suggestively. Her interest doesn’t quite rise to the fervid level of Blue-Spanx girl in front of me but there’s no denying it’s there.

I clear my throat and say, “We went to high school together.”

Eyes wide, she swings her attention back to me. “Seriously? Do you know if he has a girlfriend?”

The good manners my parents instilled in me prevent me from rolling my eyes. I feign a smile and shrug. “We weren’t that close.” I should have said,
he hates my guts
. I bet that would have stopped the questions cold.

Undeterred, she lets out an amused laugh. “And how
not
close was that?”

Well isn’t she nervy?
I give her
the look
—the one that says,
do I know you?

“Relax, I’m only teasing. But c’mon, I’m sure you were close enough to get me an introduction.”

I’m not exactly sure how to take her. She seems more interested in learning the status of mine and Zach’s nonexistent relationship than actually snagging him for herself. Or maybe that’s me projecting.

Alarmed at that line of thinking, I force another smile. “Sorry, no can do,” I say, knowing I’m anything but.

Before Eagle Eyes has a chance to utter another word, April makes a grand entrance in only the way April can. Swishing to a halt beside the door, her eyes go straight to the empty wood podium up front. And her breathy, “Thank God I’m not late” draws all eyes to her.

Now I love April to death but she can be a bit of a drama queen. She’s been my best friend since we met at an audition for a cereal commercial in Manhattan ten years ago. She got it, I didn’t. Since then, we’ve taken turns spending summers with each other, me traveling to spend six weeks with her in Illinois and her coming to Maryland to be with me.

April’s biracial—mother’s white, father was black (he died when she was four). And when it comes to looks, as my mom says,
April inherited the best of both worlds
. Modeling agents and men in general tend to agree with that. She has beautiful green eyes, long dark hair with the kind of loose spiral curls most females would give their eyeteeth for. Tall, slim and drop-dead gorgeous, she’s an insecure girl’s nightmare and a cameraman’s dream.

The moment she spies me, her eyes light up and she smiles. A low, appreciative whistle that originates from the rear of the room ripples through the air. I don’t have to turn around to know that the guys are salivating. I wonder if that includes Zach.

I return April’s smile in full measure, glad to see a familiar, friendly face in a place where I don’t know a soul. Zach doesn’t count. Familiar he may be, but friendly he’s not.

Today April also decided to snub her nose at the widely accepted convention not to wear white after Labor Day. Decked out in white hip-hugging jeans and a white, waist-length leather jacket, my best friend is unapologetically fashionable.

“Great, you saved me a seat,” she says, making her way over as I grab my stuff off her chair and hang my purse over the back of mine.

April huffs as if she’s short of breath and then plops down beside me. “I got lost. God, every building around here looks the same.”

Typical April. God may have gifted her with incredible looks, but slighted her by giving her no sense of direction. Yeah, big slight.

“You get lost using your GPS,” I teasingly mock. “I did say look for the G. Norman building. As far as I know, there’s only one.”

She ignores me as I knew she would and takes a moment to look around. Unlike most, who are pretty subtle when it comes to checking people out, April’s open about what she’s doing. She’s always been like that.

As expected, every guy in the class—including Zach (and I know because I looked)—reciprocates the eye contact. After she’s through with her perusal, she turns back to me and says, “Hottie at seven o’clock.”

You want to guess who that is?

April and Zach? My stomach lurches. I shake my head emphatically, as in,
don’t even go there
. “I went to high school with him,” I say as if the statement itself is self-explanatory.

Her eyes pop. “No shit!”

I give her my fiercest don’t-you-dare-turn-and-look-at-him stare because that would have been my instinctive reaction. In no way shape or form do I want him to know we’re talking about him. April gets the message and manages to restrain herself. We’ve known one another long enough for her to be able to read me by now.

Piqued, she mutters, “When we get back to the dorm, I want the dirt.”

Right, like I didn’t already know that.

At this point,
mademoiselle
Dubois finally makes an appearance—I turn to really check the clock this time—five minutes late. She enters through the door at the front of the room, which I take note as an alternate escape route. Kidding.

Our French teacher is a woman. She’s petite, scholarly looking and speaks English with a French accent. A native of either France or Quebec I assume. This should be better for us,
non
? I hope so.

“
Bonjour monsieurs et mademoiselles.
Pleez pardon my tardiness.” She adjusts her glasses and launches into
la première instruction
.

For the next hour we go over the syllabus. Thank God she doesn’t force us to introduce ourselves. I hate when professors do that. It’s only toward the end of class that she broaches the topic I’m most interested in—the reason April and I chose this particular class—the planned trip to Paris during mid-fall break.

“There are still two weeks to register for the trip,”
mademoiselle
Dubois says. “May I ’ave a show of ’ands of those already registered?”

My hand shoots up. Maybe a little too fast. I lower it a bit and share excited grins with April.

We. Can. Not. Wait. To. Go.

It’s all we’ve talked about since we discovered the trip was being offered for bonus points toward the final grade.