When in Paris... (Language of Love)

by Beverley Kendall

  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.

  Half of the students around me have their hands up. I curse that part of me that’s wondering if Zach’s going. I really hope he’s not. He’s a headache I can do without.

  The professor then asks for a show of hands of the students who still intend to register. A smattering of hands shoot up. But I can tell by the crestfallen expression on Blue-Spanx girl in front of me that Zach’s isn’t one of them. Or at least I don’t think he is.

  April saves me the embarrassment of looking to find out for myself and the guilt that would have plagued me if I’d given in. Leaning over, she whispers, “Crap, your high-school hottie isn’t going.”

  My high-school hottie? As if. I stifle a snort and roll my eyes.

  Honestly, I’m relieved he’s not going. But a part of me can’t help the feeling of disappointment that contradicts it. I’m completely hopeless and pathetic. I’m beginning to make myself sick.

  By the time class is over, I’m so ready to get out of here it’s not even funny. First day, no assignments or homework. A small reprieve that won’t happen again, mademoiselle Dubois warns us with a laugh.

  I’m done for the day but April is still looking at two more classes. Here’s where being a morning person pays off. As we head out, one of the guys in the back row heads us off near the door. He’s hot and he knows it and his primary interest is April. But as he’s talking to her, he gives me the odd surreptitious glance. I know what he’s thinking, that if he strikes out with April I’d be the lucky runner-up. Not going to happen. I hope my polite smile contains enough frost to clearly indicate my disinterest.

  As I’m standing there with my purse slung over my shoulder, books in hand, resisting the urge to tap my feet as I wait for April to finish up with monsieur Suave, I’m surprised to see Zach still sitting reclined at his desk, his long legs stretched straight out in front of him. But even more surprising is that while most of the guys passing us on their way out have their eyes riveted on my best friend, Zach’s are unmistakably and unwaveringly on me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ZACH

  Olivia Montgomery.

  Christ, am I really going to have to put up with another four years of this shit? Like the last four weren’t tortuous enough?

  It took me a good half hour to get over my initial shock. But even now, my mind is still reeling that she’s here and standing feet from me.

  After staring at the back of her head for the majority of class, I take my time checking her out now that I have her in full view. I enjoy the view down and up, admiring slim legs, the slight curve of her hips and a very nice ass.

  Life would be so much easier if she wasn’t my type. Well, technically speaking, she isn’t the type of girl I usually go for. If you don’t count the odd hookup, all the girls I’ve gone out with have been brunettes, the last one a redhead. All my girlfriends were also outgoing and popular, quick to smile and always up for a good time.

  I don’t know Olivia that well and she may be hot as all hell, but she’s always come across as pretty reserved. Some of the kids at school accused her of being stuck up; the girls for obvious reasons—jealousy—and the guys’ probably bad-mouthed her because she shot them down.

  In our junior year, things got worse when Olivia returned from summer break looking noticeably bigger. Rumor had it she’d gotten implants, so she’d been stuck-up and fake and shallow.

  Publically, I chose to reserve judgment, but inside I’d latched on to the idea like a burr on a horse’s tail. Just as I’d thought, the apple really didn’t fall far from the tree. I decided she must be just like her mother, which supported the reasons I didn’t like her—couldn’t like her. There’d just been one problem, not only was she gorgeous but, real or bought and paid for, she’d had a first-class rack to boot. Truly a winning combination.

  My gaze moves to her friend, who, goddamn it, is just as hot. Some guys might say even hotter but for reasons beyond my control, Olivia has always done it for me. Maybe that’s why I usually steer clear of blondes.

  But Olivia—her I’d avoided, period. The whole shit with her mom made being friends, being anything with her impossible. It was easier to keep my distance and forget. The former was easier than the latter.

  She moves her purse to her other shoulder and glances around. Her whole attitude suggests she’s growing impatient. As I suppress a smile, my gaze is snagged
by one of the guys on his way out. His pace is almost at a crawl as he passes her, his eyes practically devouring her. I have a feeling I’m not going to like this guy.

  When I direct my attention back to Olivia, I catch her quickly looking away. This isn’t the first time she’s done that. Hell, not even the twentieth time. I used to catch her looking at me a lot in high school. I’d been convinced it was because she had a thing for me—talk about body and mind going to war—but there had been times I’d gotten the feeling she was trying to figure me out. Probably wondered why I hadn’t tried to hit on her. Not once in four years. Something that should have gotten me immortalized as a saint.

  When I realize I’m just sitting there staring at her, I force myself out of my reverie. I’ve got to get to practice. The penalty if we’re late is a mile around the track. I ran my three miles this morning so I’m not trying to add another to today’s regimen.

  I grab my backpack off the floor and leave with Olivia, her friend and some guy standing in the same spot they’ve been the last few minutes. I’m only a couple steps out the door when this girl materializes in front of me. She’s so close, her appearance so abrupt, I instinctively take a step back.

  “Whoa!” I laughingly say, holding up both hands like I’m preventing a collision.

  She chuckles. Well actually it’s more of a giggle—the kind I can stomach only when I’m drunk off my ass. Sober, it’s like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She gives me a blinding smile and I note straight teeth, dark-brown hair and brown eyes. Definitely easy on the eyes and she’s fairly tall. I’d put her at around five-eight based on where the top of her head is in comparison to my chin.

  “No harm, no foul,” I say, flashing her an easy smile.

  “I noticed you in French.” I must have had this blank look on my face, because she hurries on to say, “I was in the front row so you probably didn’t see me.”

  The class wasn’t that big but I’m not going to say that. The real deal is my mind was otherwise occupied.

  “No, I remember you.” I do. Now. Kind of.

  She smiles, clearly pleased at that. “I notice you didn’t raise your hand when Dubois asked about the Paris trip. Pleaaassse don’t tell me you’re not going?” she pleads in a little-girl voice.

  Another nails-on-chalkboard moment. Christ. Does that voice really work on guys? I guess it must or why else would she be using it on me.

  “Yeah, sorry, can’t. Football.” Why am I explaining anything to her?

  A crinkle appears between her eyebrows, her sigh audible proof of her disappointment. “Awww, that’s too bad.”

  This for a guy she saw for the first time a little over an hour ago? Is it just me or is her reaction a bit over the top?

  “By the way, my name’s Jessica.”

  “Zach.” I try not to make my voice too friendly just in case she reads more into it than I want.

  Oblivious, she continues, smile back in place. “So, Zach, if you’re not doing anything Friday night, my sorority is throwing a Welcome to College party at our house. I’d love it if you’d come.”

  I’m trying to figure out what to say when Olivia, her friend and three guys emerge from the classroom.

  In high school, she hardly ever wore her hair down, usually wearing it up in a ponytail. Today it’s streaming past her shoulders in barely there waves and looks good enough to run my hands through.

  Our eyes meet and something more than surprise and recognition flashes in hers. Before I can identify it, she quickly turns away and tugs her friend’s arm, urging her along.

  As she passes, she makes sure to avoid eye contact. Her friend, on the other hand, gives me a good once-over, her bold stare flirtatious. Okay, so I certainly wouldn’t kick her out of bed. But given a choice between her and Olivia? Yeah, her friend may technically be considered better-looking—but then the girl is supermodel gorgeous—but there’s always been something about Olivia…

  I don’t know, I’m probably suffering from the want-what-you-know-you-can’t have syndrome. Been suffering from it for four years and counting.

  Jessica watches the whole exchange with a cold glint in her eyes. Okay, it’s official, she’s definitely the jealous type and I make a mental note not to encourage her. She’s a messy breakup just waiting to happen and I’ve had my fill of them.

  Knowing it would be rude to give Olivia more than a cursory look, I reluctantly turn my attention back to Jessica.

  “What time’s the party?” I’m copping out and I know it but it’s just easier this way.

  Eyes shining and excited, she pulls out her notepad and scribbles down the when and where of it. I take it like I’m really considering it when I know I’m not. Troy and I are hitting a club that night. But hell, who knows, right?

  “Great. Thanks for the invite. Gotta run or I’ll be late for practice. I’ll see you around.”

  I start down the hall and then exit through the first door I see. It’s not even the one I came through but I don’t want to risk Jessica offering to walk me to my truck.

  The minute the cool air hits my face, I feel the vibration of my cell phone against my side. Thrusting my hand in my jacket pocket, I pull it out, look at caller ID and the familiar feeling of impending doom comes over me.

  Fuck! Ashley. My ex.

  But I know if I don’t answer her call, I’ll pay for it later.

  My finger jabs the call button on the screen and I hold the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Ashley, what’s up?” I try to sound cool, calm, like I’m not completely frustrated and aggravated by her calling me 24/7.

  “You didn’t call me last night.” She’s got that whining twang to her voice that drives me absolutely apeshit crazy. I take a deep breath before answering.

  “Ashley, we’re not together anymore. I’m not going to be calling you…every day.” The last words are a copout because I know how loosely she’s hinged. I don’t want to set her off but I’m beyond the end of my rope. And I’m trying. Seriously trying not to lose it completely.

  She sniffs and I know if I don’t get a handle on this, next thing she’ll be bawling. Then I’ll get a call from her mom and the guilt tripping will commence in earnest.

  “I hate this school. I hate California. We should have convinced my parents to let me go to school in New York with you.”

  I’m heading toward the parking lot and my plan is to be off the phone with her by the time I hit the asphalt. I’m dangerously close to those four laps. Coach Brighton’s a ballbuster. If you’re late, you better be on crutches and sporting a cast of some sort.

  “You haven’t given it a chance.” I try to make my voice soothing while trying my best not to grit my teeth, which is not an easy feat. Why the fuck did I ever get involved with her? The decision to ask her out is going to haunt me longer than the year we were together.

  “I have,” she says, drawing out the words. Whining. Again.

  “Look, Ash…ley.” I catch myself and tag on the “ley”. Calling her Ash gives her the impression I still want us to be together. I’m not trying to encourage her any more than these phone calls warrant. “I’m on my way to practice. Why don’t you call your mom or Heather.” Heather is her best friend from high school who’s going to school at Northwestern in Illinois.

  “I don’t want to talk to my mom or Heather, I want to talk to you.”

  This is good. I’d rather she sniped at me than succumb to tears. Christ, they say redheads are temperamental but they forgot to include neurotic, juvenile and needy.

  “Look, Ashley.” I hear the impatience in my voice as I approach my truck. “I gotta run. Don’t worry about Berkley, things’ll get better.” I end the call before she can get in another word.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Fishing in my jacket pocket, I retrieve my key and hit the door-open button. At the click of the lock, I yank the door open and almost simultaneously toss my backpack onto the passenger seat. Behind t
he wheel, I grip the sides of the steering wheel with both hands, and wearily rest my forehead on the top rim.

  This is the shit I’ve been dealing with for nearly eight months. Eight months. Damn, why didn’t I see this in her before I asked her out? Because she was pretty and looked perfectly normal. And she’d been the new girl at the school, moving in from out-of-state sophomore year.

  Lifting my head, I give it a shake, as if that’s enough to clear everything from my mind—dating her, sleeping with her, trying to break up with her and everything that followed. I never wanted a do-over so much in my life and right now, I just don’t have the energy to deal with her.

  Despite the call, it’s images of Olivia’s gorgeous face and not irritated thoughts of Ashley that fill my mind as I make the fifteen-minute drive to practice. It was the same in high school, once I got a glimpse of her, I couldn’t get her out of my head for days running. I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore.

  When I arrive at our brand-new practice field the school just spent half a million dollars on, a glance at the clock confirms I’m late—but only by five minutes. Maybe the coach will take pity on me, first day of classes and all that. Fat chance and I know it.

  A cool million and a half was spent to upgrade Jaguar Stadium, our home field. Needless to say, Warwick is investing heavily in their football program. The last bowl game they played in—and lost—was three years ago, but Coach Brighton sees the Rose Bowl in our future. How far is the real question.

  As I jog to the locker room, I can’t see them but I can hear the coach barking out orders and my teammates’ grunts as they’re put through the paces.

  Yep, I’m late. And I’m screwed.

  When I enter the locker room, I’m not expecting company, so I’m surprised to see my roommate Troy, leg propped on the bench, lacing up his cleats.