When in Paris... (Language of Love) Page 6

  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 ar
en’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.

  “No, you’re wrong. I-I-I—” The moment I begin to sputter, my denials are rendered ineffectual. I know it as well as April does.

  Her hand falls back to her lap. “Okay, so what’s the problem? Who’s not speaking to who?”

  “Whom,” I instinctively correct her.

  Manicured brows gather over the bridge of her nose and her eyes roll up to the ceiling. “We’re not in English class, so please spare me the lecture. Honestly, you’re incorrigible.” She sticks out her tongue. “But I should get extra marks for my exemplary use of incorrigible.”

  I can’t help but laugh. April has a knack for that—turning my melancholy moods around.

  “So who is it, you or him?” she asks, continuing to prod.

  I summon one of my most aggrieved looks. Who me? Never.

  “Okay, so it’s not you,” she concludes. With her thumb under her chin and her index finger pressed against her pursed lips, she takes on The Thinker pose. “Did you ever find out why he never spoke to you in high school?” she asks after several seconds of silence.

  I shake my head.

  “Then you need to talk to him. I know you and I bet it’s eating you up inside, not knowing why.”

  “Maybe it’s because he’s an ass and likes to play games,” I mutter snidely, not feeling charitable.

  April’s jaw juts out mulishly. “Liv,” she reasons, drawing out my name, “you need to do this. Let’s not even pretend you don’t like him, plus he’s Troy’s roommate. Don’t you want us to be able to hang out together and have a good time?”

  My mouth snaps closed, her words effectively cutting off any further argument I would have made.

  Uncrossing her legs, she swings her feet to the floor and stands above me, hands perched on her hips. “And there’s no time like the present. C’mon, get off your butt and go over and talk to the guy before your French class tomorrow.”

  Self-preservation, a powerful, basic instinct, kicks in. “I’m not going—”

  “Yes. You. Are.” Her expression, her stance, the stubborn jut of her chin indicates she’s declared war on me. Which means she’s prepared to harangue me until I throw up the white flag of surrender because I can’t take it anymore.

  “Fine,” I say grimly and push to my feet. “I’ll go talk to him if it’ll get you off my back.” What I really intend to do is spend the next half hour driving around, wasting time and gas on this futile endeavor.

  April doesn’t try to hide her smile of triumph. “And don’t even think about pretending to talk to him. I’ll find out if you did or didn’t.”

  Right, Troy.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “You know, you’re a cruel, cruel bitch.”

  April’s tinkling laughter is the only reaction I elicit from her.

  ~*~*~

  As I stand outside Zach’s apartment, my thoughts are chaotic and the urge to flee nearly drives me back to the safety of my car.

  But April’s right, I have to do this for me. I’ve been living with this thing between us for over four years now and I need to put an end to it one way or another. And she’s also right when she said I want to know. I do. A lot. On some of my braver days in high school, I’d actually thought about confronting him and asking him what was his beef with me. Of course I hadn’t, and now it’s like I’m stuck in that place. A place I need to get out of.

  I summon my courage and knock briskly on the door. Seconds later, I hear the sound of advancing footsteps. There’s a pause and I presume either he or Troy is using the peephole, then the door opens to reveal a barefooted Zach, hair mussed, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and his eyes looking like he just woke up.

  “Olivia.” There’s both surprise and puzzlement in his voice.

  I so wish my name didn’t sound so damn sexy coming out of his mouth.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Um, sure.” He steps back, opening the door wider for me to enter.

  I follow him to the living room, where he gestures toward the couch. “You wanna sit?” he asks, plowing his hand through his hair.

  I shake my head in refusal. With what I’m about to say, I’m better off standing. I take a deep breath and take the leap.

  “Why don’t you like me?” I meant to sound cool and decisive, like my reason for asking wasn’t entirely personal. Instead I ended up sounding hurt, a reediness to my voice I don’t like.

  Clearly caught off guard by the question, he blinks and his head jerks back. “What?”

  “You heard me.” My voice is stronger now and has the edge I’d been striving for but couldn’t master before.

  For several seconds he says nothing, just stares at me with unblinking eyes before emitting a husky laugh. Something that isn’t a smile or a smirk tips the corners of his mouth. With his head tipped back, he stares down at me. “Why do you think I don’t like you?”

  The sound of his voice is sexy as all get out. And I’m sure he knows it and uses the knowledge like a weapon. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I’ll ever let him know how well it works on me.

  “I don’t think it, Zach, I know it.”

  I’m not sure what I expect him to say much less do but now that I’ve finally put the question out there, I’m dying to see what he’ll do, what he’ll say.

  Dying.

  But all he does is continue to stare at me. So long that my hard-fought bravado starts to wilt. Worse than that, the way he’s looking at me is causing havoc with my breathing and my heart is beating double time.

  “I don’t hate you.” His tone is reassuring but there’s a rough edge to his voice that causes a shivery sensation at the nape of my neck. His voice has a way of doing crazy things to my insides. I don’t like that.

  “I didn’t say you hated me, I said you didn’t like me, there’s a difference.” Perfect, now I sound like a professor.

  One corner of his mouth lifts and amusement lights his eyes. “Oh yeah? What’s the difference?”

  “Hate is too strong a term. Dislike is more passive and not as forceful or volatile an emotion. ” It wouldn’t surprise me if he pulls out a notepad and starts taking notes. I can’t believe I’ve managed to screw this up.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he steadily regards me, his back braced against the off-white living room wall.

  “I don’t dislike you.”

  “You either do or you did.” No one goes to school with someone for four years and hardly speaks two words to them. Even the girls who’d spread rumors about me had occasionally thrown me a fake smile.

  I sigh. It appears I’m not going to get the truth from him. “Never mind, you’re not going to admit to it and instead of ignoring me and pretending I don’t exist like you did in high school, you’re going to be all fake to me now that we’re in college. Don’t worry I get it.”

  I turn and start to leave.

  With snakelike speed, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm. His grasp is firm and unyielding like a human vise. My gaze snaps to his face and then down to where he’s holding me. Touching me.

  His gaze follows mine. A heartbeat of a second ticks before either of us move.

  “Fake?” he asks, his eyes narrowed. “You are calling me fake?”

  His gaze drops to my breasts. And there is no denying that’s where he’s looking when my nipples begin to pebble under his scrutiny.

  Flustered, I yank my arm and he immediately releases it. “Yes, fake. Like you were when we came over for dinner. You said you wanted to clear the air, that you wanted to be friends. You were actually nice that night. That’s the kind of fake I’m talking about.”

  Zach straightens to his full height, which means he’s towering over me. It makes me wish I’d worn boots with higher heels.
He whistles long and low under his breath, his expression inscrutable.

  In an apparent game of tit-for-tat, he turns to leave. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” he mutters, speaking low enough that I have to strain my ears to make out what he said. But I can and I do.

  Now I’m the one grabbing him by the arm and it’s one-hundred-percent-solid muscle that my hand can’t even span halfway, which means I physically cannot stop him from leaving.

  “What exactly does that mean? Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

  He halts mid-stride and looks down at my hand on his arm the same way I’d just done. His mouth tightens as he raises his eyes to meet mine. “If the shoe fits.” Again his gaze drops to my breasts.

  It takes several seconds before I finally, finally comprehend what is going on. If it wasn’t so utterly insulting and erroneous, it would have been laugh-out-loud funny. Right now, I’m so not in the mood to laugh.

  “Oh. My. God. You think I have implants.” And to think I’d been a little turned on when he’d been staring at my breasts. The whole time he’d probably been wondering how much they cost and if they feel the same as real ones.

  “Hey, what you do with your body is your business.”

  When it looks like he’s going to turn away again, my hand tightens on his biceps.

  Ever so slowly, he turns around and regards me. I drop my hand from the warm flesh of his muscled arm.

  “You’re right, it’s no one’s business, but just so you know these,” I gesture pointedly at my breasts with both index fingers, “are real. I never got implants despite rumors to the contrary.”

  Later on, when I’m away from this Twilight Zone experience, I’ll be mortified at what I’ve done. But in the here and now, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him walk away thinking my boobs are fake.

  It’s funny, in high school I’d been pretty good at ostensibly shrugging off the rumor. I couldn’t care less about it now. However, the thought of Zach believing it turns me certifiable because when his gaze drops to my breasts for the third time, I do something the sane, logical Olivia would never do.