When in Paris... (Language of Love) Read online

  When In Paris…

  Beverley Kendall

  Copyright © Beverley Kendall 2012

  Published by Season Publishing LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  www.theseasonforromance.com

  www.beverleykendall.com

  Cover Design © Hot Damn Designs

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To the love of my life, Ryan.

  Mommy loves you always.

  Acknowledgments

  Dawn, thanks again for holding things together while I wrote and for loving the book. Grace, thanks for your invaluable input and edits. Lori, you just made the book better with your spot on observations and really helping me pull the blurb together. Barb, thank you for the blurb aid and the brainstorming sessions. Kim, I know it took a bit of back and forth, but you nailed that cover better than I EVER could have wished, hoped and prayed for. I bow to your enormous talent.

  WHEN IN PARIS...

  College freshman Olivia Montgomery is thrilled at the chance to start over, escape the rumors that plagued her in high school. And she can finally put her juvenile crush, Zachary Pearson, where he belongs—in her past. Then her unrequited love strolls into her French class, shattering Olivia’s newfound peace, and the feelings she'd thought buried for good come rushing back. Now she can't shake her unwanted attraction to the one guy who can twist her stomach into knots with just a smile...but has never given her the time of day.

  Zach’s good looks may have always gotten him his pick of girls, but it's the star quarterback’s skill on the football field that gives him his pick of the Big Ten colleges. To escape the crushing demands of his win-at-all-costs father, Zach opts for a private university in upstate New York where, his present and past collide. And the one girl he’s always wanted but can’t have—and a class trip to Paris—turn out to be the ultimate game changer that has him breaking every one of his rules.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Also by Beverley Kendall

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Also by Beverley Kendall

  Historical Romances

  The Elusive Lords Series

  Sinful Surrender

  A Taste of Desire

  All’s Fair in Love and Seduction (Novella)

  An Heir of Deception

  CHAPTER ONE

  OLIVIA

  Did you know in your mind a lie can morph into the truth if you tell it to yourself long enough? I heard that once.

  As I’m sitting waiting for class to start, that’s the thought that goes through my mind the instant I spot Zachary Pearson framed in the doorway. It’s also the moment I fear I’ve fallen victim to the same phenomenon.

  How? By fooling myself into believing that what I felt for him was something between antipathy and indifference.

  It had all started on the first day of high school. I’d been fourteen—you know, the age when our bodies are a flux of surging hormones. The instant I laid eyes on him, I felt a physical attraction so powerful I swear it left me dazed. I think my heart had been in the smile I sent him, to which he’d responded by giving me the colder-than-arctic shoulder.

  The memory of that look still sends shivers through me.

  Beyond crushed is the only way to explain how I felt when he’d completely ignored me. At that point, disliking him had been a simple matter of self-preservation. Of course that’s not how I looked at it back then. No, back then I was just plain hurt, not to mention nursing a bruised pride. You see, by then I’d become accustomed not only to male attention, but their admiration. It hadn’t been anything I’d actively sought or was particularly proud of, it just was.

  He hasn’t seen me yet so maybe there’s still a chance I can escape before he does. But the only exit means I’d have to walk right past him, which means I’m stuck.

  Stuck with Zachary Pearson.

  Stuck on Zachary Pearson.

  I’m not even sure I know the difference anymore.

  In high school, it’s not like I expected him to instantly fall at my feet or anything like that. What I had expected was that he, at the very least, acknowledge my existence. What I’d gotten was him looking through me like I was glass. Call me young and foolishly naïve, but it had taken me an entire week to finally get the message that he did not like me. And was never going to like me.

  The clincher had been the first day of French class. Zach had arrived late and the teacher had instructed him to take a seat in the desk beside mine—one of only two available. His expression had given nothing away when he’d shifted his blue-eyed gaze in my direction, then to the vacant desk to my left. Without saying a word, he seemed to make it a point to bypass me to take the other desk at the opposite side of the room.

  I can still remember how hot my face had gotten and how badly I’d wanted to get up and leave, aware of the curious stares and speculative glances being cast in my direction. Steely pride had kept my butt in the chair and my chin high.

  And it was at that precise moment that any remotely warm feelings I’d had for him died. At least that’s what I’d convinced myself.

  Here’s the thing, I believe in karma and I’ve always tried to conduct myself in a way to stay on its good side. Irony, on the other hand, is a cruel and heartless bitch. There’s no reap what you sow philosophy to it, more a betcha didn’t see that coming sort of thing.

  Well, I definitely didn’t see this coming because when I arrived at college last week, memories of high school and Zach were just that, memories. I’d filed them away in the section of my brain where I stored all the other unpleasant things and never-to-be-relived events in my life.

  But as usual, life has other plans for me. Filing Zach away is going to be anything but easy. Life, as I’m learning, likes to “eff” with me. And today, I’m not finding the joke it’s playing funny.

  Nope. Not one little bit.

&
nbsp; A shallow breath catches in my throat and my heart starts this fierce, uncontrolled thumping, as if it’s trying to escape my chest. I’m treading water, trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening.

  Zachary Pearson is standing in my French class. That’s what’s happening.

  Yes, me and my one-time and all-too-brief high-school crush—but more notably my long-time nemesis—are attending the same college.

  Zach.

  At my school.

  In my class.

  My French class no less. That’s irony working overtime.

  While part of me is mentally gasping at his appearance, the other part tries to convince me he must be a hallucination. Part of a bad dream from which, God willing, I’ll soon awake.

  Seriously, what are the chances that having moved to a different state more than three-hundred miles from home, I’d run into him here?

  I close my eyes, but when I open them again he’s still there, scanning the room in search of a place to sit. When our eyes finally meet, he goes still, surprise flaring in his pale-blue eyes. Wickedly beautiful eyes that can appear a dove gray in a certain light.

  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 sa
y, “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.