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.
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.
UPCOMING
ALWAYS BEEN YOU
April & Troy’s Story
Book 2 in the Unforgettable You Series
Coming Fall/Winter 2013
The best way to ruin a perfectly wonderful friendship?
Have sex with your BFF.
Prologue
The night that changed everything
APRIL
I’m probably a little tipsy but Troy must be drunk.
He doesn’t look drunk. But then he’s one of those sober-looking drunks. You know the type, the ones whose heavy-lidded eyes and panty-dampening smile may be the only things that hint at his true condition.
But you want to know the real reason I know he’s drunk?
Well, I’ve known Troy for over seventeen years—so since we were toddlers. Our mothers are best friends, which should tell you how close our families are. We’ve shared hugs and kisses as well as—but not limited to—a red roadster and a pink-canopied princess bed when our thoughts were as innocent as the children we were. And much to the consternation of our prom dates, we shared a dance that night too.
In a nutshell, Troy is the best friend I’ve ever had, and probably the best one I’ll ever have. We’ve seen each other at our worst, and stood by each other through the good and bad times.
Snort. Yeah, we’re a regular Hallmark card.
However, never in all the years that I’ve known him, has he ever attempted anything as overtly sexual with me as squeezing my ass.
If one judged by the tremors of pleasure coursing up, down and between my quivering thighs, his hand is doing a fine job of it now.
And it’s about damn time.
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
Epilogue
Only For You
Excerpt
Up Next
All Over You (Unforgettable You, Book 1.5) Page 15
