Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 163209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 816(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 816(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Jeremy’s smile was radiant and unafraid, and Jean had to look away even before Jeremy said, “You wouldn’t.”
“Maybe not,” Jean said, “but I’ll think about it.”
Jeremy laughed. “Did you not bring anything to do?” Jeremy asked. When Jean only waved that off, Jeremy said in French, “Hello! My name is Jeremy Knox. What is your name?”
The sound of his language on Jeremy’s lips was enough to give Jean pause. He counted his heartbeats as he studied Jeremy’s face, committing the textbook-perfect sounds to memory, and finally said in English, “I am not an ideal practice partner for you. I am from Marseille,” he added, when Jeremy looked ready to argue. “You are learning Parisian French.”
It took Jeremy a moment to catch on, and he looked delighted. “You have an accent.”
“Yes.”
“So do Cody and Sebastian,” Jeremy pointed out.
“You already understand the language they are speaking,” Jean said. “You know how to compensate for unexpected pronunciations without risking your own progress.”
Jean took one look at Jeremy’s stubborn expression and swallowed a sigh. Explaining the difference between his mother’s nasal ‘proper’ French and the twang of his father’s dialect was not how Jean planned on spending this ride, but with six hours ahead of them Jean would make an exception. He broke it down as simply as he could, explanations followed by examples, and Jeremy listened with unwavering fascination. Jeremy tried sounding a few words out despite Jean’s best attempts to discourage him. The self-study course Jeremy had settled on would contradict these lazy vowels and lingering sounds; practicing it Jean’s way would only set him back.
Jeremy shrugged off Jean’s warnings. “Maybe I can find a tutor from Marseille.”
“No one will take you seriously if you learn French with a southern accent.”
“Does that really matter?” Jeremy asked, studying Jean with a stare that felt prying. “I’m not learning French for anyone but you.”
Getting kicked in the chest would be a little less painful. Jean desperately wished he’d sat with Cody; sitting thigh-to-thigh with Jeremy while he said such things so seriously was cruel. When Jean took too long to answer, Jeremy leaned into him to dig his phone out of his pocket. He dictated his message to his butler as he typed it out, perhaps buying Jean time to argue with him. Jean should, but the words caught somewhere between his lungs and teeth. He wanted to trace the memory of Jeremy’s weight down his side.
Rescue came from an unexpected corner: a hollered “Hey, bro!” from near the back of the bus jarred Jean from his frozen contemplation. He refused to believe it was for him until it came again in French, and he muttered darkly under his breath.
“I did not teach them that,” he said when Jeremy sent him a sideways look. Derrick was the next to call him. The last two voices Jean wasn’t sure about; he was too busy being offended by how terribly they butchered the pronunciation to sort it out.
“We do have French instructors on campus they could have asked,” Jeremy reminded him as he moved into the aisle. “Good luck!”
Jean made his way to the back of the bus. Shawn and Shane were in the very last row, each with an unfamiliar girl in tow. Derrick and Derek were in front of Shane, with Ashton and Emma across from them. Lucas’ group was next, Lucas alone and Travis with Haoyu opposite him. Jean let his gaze slide right past Lucas without hesitation and turned a disparaging look on the so-called double-D line.
“Do not mangle my language,” he said.
Derrick immediately pointed past Jean at Sebastian. “That was him. Anyway, look.” He elbowed Derek, who was already turning his laptop so Jean could see the screen. Derek had a photo album open, and he tapped to bring up a picture of him with two other people. Neither of the strangers was wearing Trojan colors, but Jean had only a moment to question their relevance to him when Derrick stabbed a finger at the beautiful woman tucked under Derek’s arm.
“That’s my future wife,” he said proudly.
The oft-touted Cherise, then. Jean understood in a glance why Derrick was keen on her, but he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of agreeing. He turned a steady stare on Derek and said, “This is not why you called me back here.”
“That’s about it, yeah.”
Jean turned to go, but Derrick came off his seat to snag Jean’s sleeve. “They get you all the time. You should stay and gossip with us.” It was a ridiculous demand when there was nothing to gain from his company this far from a court. Jean flicked him a suspicious look, but Derrick was already motioning wildly to Lucas. “Move your stuff, man, let him sit down.”
There was no chance Lucas would allow this, except after a brief hesitation he pushed his bag to the floor. Derrick turned a winning smile on Jean and said, “I won’t even talk about the Kings. Cross my heart, hope to die, pray the Sharks all up an’ die, et cetera et cetera.”