Read Online When in Paris... (Language of Love) by Beverley Kendall - Free Book Online

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