Free When in Paris... (Language of Love) by Beverley Kendall

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