When in Paris... (Language of Love)

by Beverley Kendall

  My next breath releases on a dreamy sigh.

  Reluctantly, slowly, Zach levers himself up from over me, his not-to-be-satisfied condition unchanged. Following my ardent gaze, he looks down and then back at me with one eyebrow cocked. He chuckles and says, “Give it a few minutes.”

  I can’t help but laugh while thanking the anatomy gods that, in that respect, females definitely came out on top.

  Without the warmth of his body over mine, the cool air hits my bare breasts. Before I can tug my sweater down, Zach is there to help.

  Ten minutes later—after another five minutes of heavy kissing and fondling, getting us both so hot and bothered I can hardly stand it—we both look presentable. Well at least we don’t look like we just tumbled out of bed.

  We separate with one last kiss (to get him through his practice and me through my rehearsal) at my car.

  I make it to rehearsal with three minutes to spare. But it takes another fifteen to properly erase the grin from my face and get into character.

  ***

  ZACH

  In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving break, life is crazy. My time is split—not evenly—between football, studying and Olivia. And not in that order.

  We’re spending as much time together as our busy schedules allow, mostly at my apartment where she tends to be every night. I’ve tried to get her to spend the night but she says it’d be too awkward having to face Troy in the morning.

  It’s amazing to me, that given how many times and ways we’ve done it, she’s still a little shy after. Like she’s still not used to everything we do in bed or that she’s not completely comfortable in front of me naked. I tease her about it but secretly I find it a total turn on. Call me a chauvinist pig but I love that my girlfriend becomes completely uninhibited in bed but just to look at her, the way she carries herself, no one else would ever know.

  After spending the last two days smoldering under Florida’s relentless sun and getting knocked on my ass too many times to count—hate those bloody blitzes—our team comes home with a win. I’m just glad to be back period. Yeah palm trees and sun is a nice change from the cold weather that’s gripped New York, but snatched phone calls throughout the day and texting is nothing compared to being able to see, touch and kiss Olivia, which is something I’ve been looking forward to since the day I left.

  I get to her dorm by four and as usual, a girl lets me in—someone always lets me in. By now I’m familiar with Olivia's and April’s schedule and I know April won’t be back until tonight and Olivia should already be in her room. I tried to call her twice since I got back but she didn’t answer and hasn’t.

  When I knock on her door, no one answers.

  “She’s not back from class.”

  I glance to my right and one of her suite mates—Janet or Janice—is standing in the doorway of the room next to Olivia’s. It’s about fifty degrees outside and the dorms are heated but only just. Suffice it to say, it’s definitely not shorts weather. But the chick is wearing a short-sleeved blouse, sporting a whole lotta cleavage.

  “Uh, thanks. I’ll wait.” I’m already reaching into my pocket for my cell phone.

  “So are you a football player?” she asks, venturing farther out. Her jeans are so tight, I’m sure it’s hard for her to swallow. The first time I saw her, around the second or third time I was here, I pegged her as the kind of pretty girl who knows exactly how pretty she is and is completely ruthless when she wants something—or someone.

  The predatory look in her brown eyes indicates she’s seen her prey and she’s moving in for the kill. I stifle a smile. I’ve met her type before, even slept with one before realizing they’re just not my type. She’s wasting her time on me.

  “What tipped you off?” The football letters on my jacket? You’d think she’d be experienced enough to think of another line. Note to self: Mention to Liv that her next-door neighbor has no problem trying to steal her boyfriend.

  “Do you—?”

  My finger motions pointedly to the phone at my ear. With a silent “o”, her mouth slams shut, precisely the way I like it.

  Just as my call to Olivia is going into her voicemail—for the third time today—I see her coming down the hall. She doesn’t immediately see me, her attention on the guy at her side. The guy from the party I accused her of flirting with to make me jealous. The idiot who looks like he forgot his surfboard in California.

  Seeing them together, his head angled down toward hers, their body language tells me they’re both intent on their conversation. So intent in fact, that she doesn’t see me standing in front of her door, my shoulder propped up against the wall, my right hand clutching my cell, having ended the call she had been too busy to answer. And now I know why.

  As if sensing my presence, her head turns and her eyes meet mine. Her hazel eyes instantly widen, lighting up as a smile spreads across her face. For a second I forget who she’s with. All I feel is my stomach clench, the increased beat of my heart. Those eyes, that smile, her beautiful face and that make-me-wanna-spend-a-week-in-her-bed body does it to me every time.

  “Zach!” she cries, her expression surprised and excited.

  While surfer boy beside her slows down, her pace picks up as she hurries toward me. Now the only thing I’m thinking about is kissing her.

  Pushing myself off the wall, the tension gone from my body, I catch her tight to my chest as she practically hurls herself at me. She’s kissing me, my neck, my unshaven jaw—because I didn’t take the time to shave today—wherever she can reach. I bend my head to accommodate her height and crush her against me and capture her parted lips in a kiss that’s hot, wet and deep and all the more potent considering how brief it is.

  Cognizant that we have an audience, I break the kiss with the firm intention of taking our reunion into the privacy of her room. And if the kiss lets surfer guy know what’s what, so much the better. I don’t think she’s cheating with him but I do want to know what she’s doing with him. There’s no way I trust this guy.

  “I didn’t think you’d be back this early.” Her voice is breathy and soft, and she’s looking at me like she can’t get enough. Big time turn-on. I’m wondering how long it’s going to take to get her out of her clothes.

  “I’ve been trying to call you.” I hold up my cell phone while keeping my other hand around her waist, never breaking the contact.

  For a second, her eyes go wide. Her gaze then flies to her backpack and her hand. “I’m sorry, my cell must have died. I forgot to charge it last night but I didn’t want to leave it in my room in case I missed your call.”

  Then as if she just remembered him, she turns to surfer boy, her expression suddenly uneasy. Her gaze darts up at me and then back to him. I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  Her next-door neighbor steps back into her room, but she doesn’t close the door, content to watch the upcoming event from the sideline.

  “Scott, this is my boyfriend Zach.” Her introduction is halting and awkward at best.

  Scott advances toward us, his expression guarded, not friendly at all. “Hey,” he grunts with a tip of his chin. I return the gesture without the sound effects.

  Silence.

  “Scott—I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Olivia’s trying to act like everything’s normal but it’s obvious it’s not, which has me studying her more intently. What the hell is going on?

  “Right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says, clearly uneasy. With that, he turns and leaves, straight past the girls who haven’t managed to make it into their rooms yet, too busy gawking at him.

  Her next-door neighbor’s door closes with a thud. Show’s over. Nothing to see here. You can all move on now.

  Chewing on her bottom lip, Olivia watches me closely as she blindly unlocks her door. I don’t say anything and follow her in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  OLIVIA

  “What was he doing here?” Zach’s question is deceptively benign.

  I tell him
the truth. “He’s Rebecca’s ex. But I didn’t know that when I met him. Actually, our brothers are friends. They work for the same company.”

  “Right, but what was he doing here with you? Were you bringing him to your room?”

  “He caught me coming out of my class. He wanted to talk, give me his side of the breakup with Rebecca. We ended up walking back here together.” Okay, that didn’t sound kosher and the crease in Zach’s forehead tells me as much. “Look, it’s nothing. There’s nothing going on between us if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  His jaw starts working and he angles his head a little to the side. Stance wide-legged and his arms folded across his chest, he asks bluntly, “Was he coming on to you?”

  Honesty is the best policy, my mother always says, but in this case I’m not sure I agree. “He knows I’m seeing you.” The truth is I don’t know exactly what Scott wants although from some of the questions he asked me, I’m starting to get the feeling his interest isn’t me but Rebecca. But I could be wrong. Anyway, even if Scott is interested in me and I wasn’t with Zach, there’s no way I would get in the middle of whatever bad blood has spilled between him and Rebecca.

  Zach’s eyes narrow to a squint. “Why won’t you answer my question?”

  “Because it shouldn’t matter if he’s trying to get with me or not because I’m with you. He and I aren’t getting together and that’s it.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to lead him on?”

  “I’m not leading him on.”

  Before I can say anything else, his phone starts to ring. Zach pulls it from his pocket and jabs his finger on the screen, rendering it silent.

  “Look, I don’t want to fight with you, especially when I haven’t seen you in two days. Scott may have wanted to get to know me better before…well before he knew I’m good friends with his ex, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think of me that way now. Plus—”

  I close the distance between us, my hands curved over his shoulders. I tip my head back to look up into his eyes.

  “—I told him I’m with you.”

  His expression softens and he visibly relaxes. Threading my hands through the silky black strands near his temple, I palm the back of his head, pulling him down. Once his mouth is within reach, I kiss first his bottom lip and then the top, whisper kisses that give little but promise a lot.

  A second later, I’m caught in his vise grip, one arm circling my waist, the other angling then cradling my head. My lips part on a startled gasp and then he’s kissing me, his tongue exploring the interior of my mouth, sucking, licking in wet demand. My senses are whirling as I lock my arms around his neck, holding on tightly for fear of falling—literally—because in every other way, I’ve already fallen.

  From my mouth, he switches his attention to my neck, leaving me panting. “God, I missed you,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Stay at my place tonight.”

  Fighting the passion-filled haze I’m currently functioning under, I part my lips, my mouth forming a refusal. As if sensing what I’m about to say, he hoists me up until my legs circle his hips, walks me back and then lowers me onto my bed.

  His body is a welcome weight on top of mine. Then he’s kissing me deeply, touching and caressing me all over and before long, my sweater and bra are gone.

  Our welcome home make-out session lasts a good half hour and by the time we end it, I’ve only got fifteen minutes to get over to Lawrence Theatre for rehearsal.

  This time, I refuse Zach’s assistance to dress. We both know how that will end. Me, late for rehearsal and him driving to practice with a hard-on.

  The ding of a cell phone announcing the arrival of a text message has me glancing down at my desk where Zach must have left his phone when he came in. I’m acting more out of curiosity than nosiness when I note the name—Ashley—and scan the content of her text that reads WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING YOUR PHONE??? all in caps.

  My gaze flies instantly to Zach. In the midst of tying his boot laces, he stills and peers up at me from beneath his absurdly thick lashes.

  “It’s Ashley. She wants to know why you’re not answering your phone.” My voice is surprisingly calm, at complete contrast to the jealousy clawing and scratching to come out.

  It’s as if the sound of my voice is the trigger he needs to resume what he was doing, as he quickly finishes tying his boots and then pushes to his feet.

  Regarding me warily, he sighs and runs a weary hand through his tousled hair. “Look, I don’t want us to fight right before we go home for Thanksgiving so please don’t give me a hard time about this. I’m dealing with her but it’s going to take a little more time.”

  I fall mute as I try to form a coherent response that doesn’t scream jealous shrew. And just to let you know, it’s much harder than you think when you consider my current situation.

  I cross my arms over my chest and roll my shoulders back. “Why is she still calling and texting you at all? What exactly are you dealing with?”

  Instead of answering me, he gives me this look, the one that says he’s trying to figure out how to handle me. When he starts toward me, I have a pretty good idea what he’s come up with.

  Placing his hands on my waist, he pulls my stiff body against his and lowers his head. But I’m ready for him—the kiss—angling my head so that his lips glance off my left cheek.

  On a long exhalation, he raises his head and looks down at me. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about where Ashley’s concerned. Nothing to worry about where anyone is concerned.”

  I back away from him until he’s no longer touching me, his hands falling to his sides.

  “Right, like you trusted me when you saw me with Scott,” I scoff.

  His lips thin and his jawline becomes more pronounced. “I wasn’t going to invite Ashley into my room.”

  Seriously? He really doesn’t want to go a round of tit-for-tat with me.

  “Well, I’ve never slept with Scott. We didn’t go out senior year. He doesn’t call and text me every day. And he knows we’re going out. Can you say the same for your ex?”

  By the expression on his face, I know I hit my target every single time. But his chagrin soon gives way to frustration. He throws his hands up in exasperation and rolls his eyes. “Christ, Liv, that’s all in the past and you know it.”

  “And yet, there she is.” Uncrossing my hands, I gesture to his phone. Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Look, I’ve got to get to rehearsal.”

  For a second it looks like he’s all set to argue his point but then his expression shutters. He grabs his jacket and yanks it on. As he passes on his way out, he pauses at my side and drops a hard kiss on my unsuspecting lips, muttering roughly, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He’s gone before I can collect enough of my wits about me to respond.

  ~*~*~

  Rehearsal doesn’t end until seven thirty and it’s after eight by the time I’m back at the dorm. When I enter the room April’s head pops up from where she sits at the desk, textbooks spread open all around her and lined loose-leaf paper covering every square inch of the faux-wood surface.

  “Hey, stranger. I wasn’t sure you still lived here,” she teases. “What are you doing home so early?”

  I force a wan smile and pray she’s too busy worrying about the English paper she has due tomorrow to take close notice of me. “Trig quiz.”

  “Tell me about it,” she mutters darkly, turning her attention to the book open in front of her. “I’m writing a comparative analysis of Death of a Salesman and Raisin in the Sun. God give me strength.”

  I look longingly at my bed. “I’ve gotta study too. At least tomorrow’s the last day before break.” I drop onto the side of my bed and unzip my brown ankle boots.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Oh, you might want to check your phone. I swear it rang at least five times while you were gone. By the way, why didn’t you take it with you?” April asks, looking over her shoulder at me.

  “I needed to charge it,” I ex
plain as I lean over, snatch it off my nightstand and disconnect the charge.

  Seven missed calls? That’s strange since the only people who regularly call me are Zach, April and Rebecca. My mother is religious about calling Sunday mornings. With some of my friends from high school, their calls come in every couple weeks.

  I scroll through the calls and note three are from my mom and one’s from my dad’s cell. When I see the next one is from my brother, my heart starts to pound and panic begins to set in. I know something’s wrong. The last two are from Samantha and the voicemail icon is lit.

  Don’t panic, I tell myself as I hit the button to pick up voicemail. The first one’s from my mom.

  “Liv honey, give me a call when you get this message.”

  I release a breath after I hear her voice. She doesn’t sound her usual happy self but there’s nothing in her general tone that gives me cause for concern. My mother wouldn’t sound that calm if something absolutely horrific happened. And I mean sickness, injury or death. Relieved I can dismiss that from my mental list of possibilities, I go on to the next one.

  My dad. Who never leaves messages. My panic returns, pulsing in my veins stronger than before. I clutch the phone tighter and press it closer to my ear.

  “Livvie, it’s Dad.” That’s my dad. As if I wouldn’t know his voice. “I-I-I—”

  Now I close my eyes. My dad is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and oversees a staff of over five hundred people. Not once in my entire life have I heard him stutter.

  “—I’ll be traveling for the next two days, but I’ll talk to you when you come home for Thanksgiving. I love you, sweetie.”

  The breath I’ve been holding comes out in a whoosh. I have no idea what to think. Next message, my brother, who sounds pretty normal and leaves me a simple and to the point, you need to call home message.

  The last is Samantha, my best friend from high school. We touch base once every couple weeks or so and I spoke to her three days ago.

  “Liv, oh my God, I heard. Call me.”

  Oh my God, I heard?