When in Paris... (Language of Love) (8 page)

And my dad would do it. If I tell him I’m staying on campus, he’d have no qualms about showing up uninvited and would try to drag me off to Michigan. Of course I wouldn’t go but then there’d be a huge fight. Fuck. I already feel a headache coming on.

“
I don’t know, maybe I’ll talk to Troy and see what he’s doing.”

“
Hey, it’s your birthday next month, why don’t you let me send you somewhere as an early birthday gift? You and a friend.”

That’s my brother, generous to a fault. But after his more-than-generous graduation gift—my Ford F-150 truck—there’s no way I can accept another big gift like that. Plus, I have a sizeable college fund my grandparents set up for me, most of which will go largely untouched due to my full athletic scholarship. And then there’s the money I saved to buy the truck.

“
Nah, I’m good. And unless I’m leaving the country, it wouldn’t do any good.”

Leaving the country.

Pushing myself off the counter, I straighten. Hell, I actually
could
leave the country.

“
I think you can still—”

“
I could go to France.”

“
What?” Brett sounds bewildered. Not that I blame him. Even for me this is coming out of left field.

“
There’s a trip to France over the break. I wasn’t going to go but I’m thinking it might actually be a good idea. If I stayed here, I was just planning to chill, ya know, hit a couple parties.” Suffice it to say, I’d be doing jack shit.

“
Why the hell wouldn’t you go? Don’t think it’ll be like when we went with Mom and Dad. Christ, if I had a chance to go to a place like Paris in college, I sure as hell wouldn’t have turned it down.” Brett’s scolding laugh rumbles in my ears.

“
Well, now I’m going so you can stop lecturing me.”

And that’s it, new plan in place. No blowup fight with my dad. I won’t even have to see him, which is definitely to my advantage.

Brett offers to give me money. I tell him no. He insists some more until he finally gives up. We shoot the breeze for a little longer before saying goodbye.

After the call, my thoughts immediately go to Olivia. What I’m doing is asinine. I’d been serious at dinner when I told her I was messing with her. She’d been paying more attention to Troy than to me, and for some crazy reason that’d gone over like a lead balloon. Teasing her had been my way of getting under her skin, rattling her. And if I’m being honest, I wanted her to look at me the way she used to in high school. The same look I’d glimpsed in French class.

When I got what I was looking for, my own response had scared the shit out of me. There’s no denying my physical attraction to her but last night, I don’t know, I was having a hard-assed time controlling my reaction. If Troy and April hadn’t been there, I’m pretty sure I would have made a move on her.

But getting involved with Olivia would be bad in so many ways. I actually think my mom and aunt would refuse to breathe the same air her mother breathes. Plus I like my life right now. No Dad and Ashley in my face every day, and no drama. Thank God I realized that before I did anything to complicate a situation that’s complicated enough. So I’d pulled back.

Sure we don’t have to go back to the cold-war days of high school but that doesn’t mean we’re ever going to be as friendly as I want.

Which means I can never allow us to get
too friendly
.

Which essentially means I have to try my damnedest to stay the hell away from her if not physically then for sure emotionally. And I’m not even going to examine the reasons I decided that going to Paris is a good idea.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

OLIVIA

I hate running late. As a matter of fact, I always try to arrive ten minutes early to any scheduled event. I’m anal like that. But with Lawrence Theatre located all the way across campus—eons away from the language arts building—and only fifteen minutes between classes, arriving that early is going to be impossible. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to get there on time.

I seriously hope the parking situation on Wednesdays is an anomaly because on Monday, the parking lot wasn’t packed to the nines. Today it takes me almost ten minutes to find a spot. And I get lucky, managing to catch someone pulling out, barely thwarting the girl behind me in a sporty red Mercedes following me so closely you’d think I was towing her.

The temperature outside is a nippy forty degrees, so I’m grateful the spot is close to the entrance. Clutching my books against the cold nylon of my blue jacket, I head to the double doors, my quickened pace just shy of a slow jog.

As I draw closer to the door, I spot him. Zach.

His back is to me so he hasn’t seen me—yet. I slow down. Not sure why. Maybe because the sight of him causes my stomach to pitch. And I haven’t even seen his face or had his baby blues turned on me.

I watch as he pulls the door open and toss a glance over his shoulder. The instant he sees me, he does a swift double-take. His head-to-toe perusal of me is so quick, if I blinked too long, I would have missed it and by the time his eyes go back to mine, his expression is guarded. He’s not even wearing his trademark sexy half smile. Not that his hooded stare isn’t sexy enough.

I draw in a cold breath and swallow. When he sees me, he stops and holds the door, which means I can’t dawdle. Resuming my pace, I offer him a grateful smile. We’re no longer in high school and we’re speaking now. If not exactly friends, we’re at least cordial, right?

“Hey, Zach.” I strive for casual and nail it like a pro.

“Hey, Olivia.” His voice is deep and dark, and the sound of my name causes an involuntary shiver down my spine. Well that, the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting at two in the afternoon and the way his black turtleneck brings out the specks of gray in his eyes.

“Thanks,” I say as I pass in front of him and into the heated entrance of the building.

A brisk nod is his only response. Now we’re heading to the same class so I figure we’ll walk there together. I slow down to give him an opportunity to fall in step beside me. What does he do? He slows his pace, trailing three or four feet behind. That’s when it hits me that he has no intention of walking with me. We’re not going to chat like the old friends we’re not nor is he going to make even a token attempt at a stilted conversation that usually characterizes fledging acquaintances.

That’s also when I realize I’ve made a huge misstep. My mistake was assuming things I shouldn’t have—that things would be different between us. I naïvely assumed that since dinner on Monday I’d now warrant more than the sort of greeting he’d extend a virtual stranger. What the hell is his problem? What had dinner been about, all that crap about clearing the air and us being friends? Obviously he’d just said it for April and Troy’s benefit.

But you know what hurts—no pisses me off—the most? It’s that I wanted, hoped to get to know him better, further solidifying that my crush, infatuation, whatever the hell it was from high school had never completely died. Not in my freshman year, not in my senior year when I started going out with Jeff and not now.

When will I learn?

With new conviction, I lift my chin a fraction and lengthen my strides. I don’t need Zach’s friendship. I don’t need for him to like me. Right now, I don’t
want
him to like me because I’m not exactly thrilled with him.

I’m in my seat with one minute to spare by the time he trails in after me. I refuse to look. My gaze never strays in his direction for the duration of the class and I’m out the door while he’s still collecting his books off his desk.

So much for us being friends.

~*~*~

Two weeks later, April is standing beside my bed, her arms folded over the words
Oh la la
emblazoned on her sweatshirt that’s stretched across her chest. “Okay, what’s wrong?” she asks in that stern I’m-going-to-get-to-the-bottom-of-this tone.

Half-reclined on my bed, I was trying to study for my first English Lit quiz when April entered the room, stopped, looked at me and then marched over.

I lower my used copy of
The Great Gatsby
and peer up at her, noting the determined glint in her green eyes and act like I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What? Nothing’s the matter. I need to have the first five chapters read by tomorrow,” I reply, giving an unconvincing laugh.

“Don’t give me any of that crap. You’ve been—” she pauses and throws her hands up in the universal language of
I don’t know
“—in a funk. I know you can be quiet but not like this.”

“What? Studying for my class?” I ask, quirking my brow.

I am not in a funk. What I am is adapting to college life, college food and college guys. And by guys, I don’t mean Zach.

April’s eyes narrow and her mouth flattens into a line. “Very funny.” Pushing my bare feet none too gently aside, she takes a seat on the edge of my bed, her body angled toward me.

“C’mon, tell me what’s going on. This isn’t like you. I always thought one of the best times of my life would be us rooming together in college. But in my mind, I thought we’d be having a helluva lot more fun.”

I scoot up into a sitting position and place the book on my lap. “I am having fun.” Not technically the truth but not an outright lie. I love the independence of living on my own. And I love rooming with my best friend, being able to see her every day and not only six weeks during the summer.

April regards me in silence, her gaze probing. “What you need is a boyfriend,” she concludes as if she can now somehow see into my mind.

“You think a boyfriend is the solution to everything.”

She laughs, her head thrown back, the pitch high and contagious. It takes a good fifteen seconds for the sound to eventually trail off.

“For some of us, yes.” She looks pointedly at me. Gesturing to herself, she continues, “And for others of us, no. You like the security of being in a relationship. I, on the other hand, do not.”

April is a serial dater and although she says she prefers it that way, sometimes I think that’s just what she’s convinced herself.

“Anyway, what about Zach? You guys seem to—”

“No. Absolutely not!” I vehemently shake my head.

She slowly tilts her head to the side and soon her eyes are narrowed and glimmering with suspicion at the violence of my response. “Well, well, well, he sure gets a reaction out of you.” Her mouth slowly curves into a conspiratorial smile. “Okay, spill. What’s going on between you two? I knew there was something. When I saw you together at the apartment, sparks we’re going off.”

Right, that’s what she’d said on our way back to the dorm. And kept repeating once we were back in our room. When I denied there was anything there, she’d pointed to the way he’d looked at me and that she’d never ever seen me blush so much.

I’d given up trying to convince her that I wasn’t interested but staunchly denied any interest on his part, finally getting her to admit his attitude toward me had definitely cooled by the end of the night.

Pushing my legs over until they’re butting up against the wall, she swings her legs onto the bed, crossing them in classic yoga style. “Tell me all,” she demands.

All?
There’s no all to tell. We talk as much as we did the day Zach had held the door for me. Which meant me mumbling a greeting in response to his brief nod that may or may not accompany,
Hey Olivia
. Actually, these days I’m lucky if I get that—actual words. Most of the time it’s a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and a sharp jerk of his chin. It’s like the dinner at his apartment never happened. It’s like we hadn’t said we’d start over fresh. Zach definitely doesn’t want to be friends.

“There’s nothing to tell. Zach and I barely speak.”

“Barely speak? I thought you guys were friends now?”

Friends my ass.

Well, the past couple weeks proved how friendly we are not. But I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, why I even care. So he’s hot and I’m physically attracted to him, it’s not like he’s ever been a remotely integral part of my life. It shouldn’t matter that things haven’t really changed between us.

The problem is, as much as it shouldn’t matter, it does and I can lie all I want but I also know why I care. Why I’ve always cared. It’s that crazy thing called lust.

I shrug. “Look, Zach is not the issue. Actually, I have no issues.” I force a smile and offer up another weak laugh that sputters and dies before it makes it halfway off the ground.

“Bullshit,” April says with tender conviction. “Your mood makes sense now that I know you guys aren’t talking.”

When I turn my head away, she places her palm gently on my cheek and brings my gaze back to hers.

“I
know
you and I know you like him. I knew it before I even saw the two of you together at dinner.” Her voice is soft, her green eyes compassionate.