Page 13 of Love: Take Two

Noah quickly smacks his hand over his mouth to keep quiet, but his snort is unmistakable.

"You're funny, Awa Faye," he says admiringly, and now it's my turn to pretend to take offense.

"What? Just because I'm smart and driven, I can't also be funny?"

"Au contraire, mon ami," he replies. "Smart people are some of the funniest people I know."

His pronunciation is terrible, and I'm almost positive he's teasing, but I'm delighted, nonetheless. I'll also take any opportunity to speak French, especially whenMaman's already scolded me for slipping into Franglais.

"Parlez-vous français?!" I ask excitedly, earning another glare from the group two tables over. "Où avez-vous appris? C'est un plaisir de rencontrer une autre personne qui parle français."

Noah's eyes widen almost comically.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! I'm sorry to tell you, but that's just an expression here. I don't really speak French."

When I quirk an eyebrow in response, he shakes his head ruefully.

"Oh, I see. You're busting my balls. Touché, Awa. Touché."

I break into a smirk then.

"You say you don't speak French, yet that too is a French word. You may as well take a class at this point."

His sigh is almost wistful.

"Alas, my course load is already overwhelming." He gestures to our Entertainment Marketing textbook. "Shall westart there, since we've already established you could practically teach the class?"

I nod, and we finally settle into studying after what felt suspiciously like…flirting? The preposterous idea takes root even as I actively try to push it away. What I think is flirting is likely the signature charm that has all the girls flustered. It's possible he can't turn it off. That's fine with me. I'll just consider it some much-needed practice with banter.

I open my binder to the notes from yesterday's class.

"OK. Why don't we start with the case study on Dove's 'Campaign for Real Beauty'?"

Noah stretches his arms above his head, and I hear a few vertebrae pop. He's tall—tall enough to make me feel petite at five foot eight—and well-built. The lines of his muscles are visible beneath his fitted t-shirt, speaking of hidden strength. I wonder if he does one of those sports that gives you long muscles, like swimming or long-distance running.

"Are you OK?" he asks, jerking me from my reverie.

"Huh?" I sputter. I hastily collect my things to avoid eye contact. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. But my eyes are starting to cross. We should call it a night."

He nods, putting away his books in between more neck and arm stretches. I don't risk checking him out again.

"Stiff?" I ask, and he's the one to choke this time.

"Uh, what?"

I motion to his neck.

"The stretching. Are you stiff? Before, you said the chairs were uncomfortable."

What looks like a blush creeps across his cheeks, but I must be mistaken.

"Oh, yeah," he stammers, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "They really do a number on my back. You'd be open to studying in your dorm next time?"

"Of course," I reply, securing both straps of my own backpack. "I'll just make sure to have energy drinks or something."

He playfully nudges my shoulder with his.

"I doubt that'll be a problem with such good company."