Goddess Rising (37 page)

Samantha looked at him, expression uncertain and a little shy. “Can we take this slow?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” For the first time in his life, he was willing to take it gradually with a girl when what he
really
wanted to do was kiss the hell out of her. “I came over to ask you on a date.”

Sam’s brows rose disbelievingly. “You came over here in the middle of the night to ask me out?”

“I never said I was conventional,” Wes responded with a lopsided grin.

“So this is like the opposite of a booty call?”

He laughed a little. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Sam’s smiled slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

“You like pie?” Wes asked, surprising her again.

Sam blinked. “Who doesn’t?”

Wes rubbed a thumb down her cheek, fought hard not to kiss her senseless. “Meet me at Mabel’s Diner on Friday at seven?” he asked as he stood up.

Sam nodded slowly, watching him as he walked toward the door.

“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” he said, making his way out before he gave in to the temptation to pick her up and carry her back into her room.

*

September—Friday Night

Mabel’s Diner, College Station, Texas

S A M A N T H A

Entering Mabel’s Diner
was like stepping back in time. The place looked just like an old-school fountain shop, with checkered floors and chrome stools and a wide retro countertop that had probably been around far longer than she’d been alive. Sam admired the coin-operated jukebox that still held vinyl singles by the greats like Elvis Presley, Sam Cooke, and Chuck Berry.

“You bring all your dates here?” Sam asked Wes as she leaned over the glass-covered selections of the day’s fresh-baked pies.

Wes ran a hand down her back as he sidled up next to her, leaning close as he browsed over the choices. She was still unused to his touch, but she liked the little zing of pleasure that raced down her back each time his fingers brushed her skin.

“My ideas of dates usually involved a keg stand at a frat party, so no,” he answered with a wry grin. “I figured if I was going to ask a girl out for the real thing, might as well go classic.”

“And here I am without my poodle skirt.”

“You in a poodle skirt?” Wes grinned. “Now there’s an image.” Wes turned his attention to the older lady at the counter waiting to help them. “Ma’am, I do believe I see a key lime pie with my name on it,” he told her with a wink. The lady chortled and lifted the cake cover to slice him a piece. “You know what you want?” he asked Sam.

“Red velvet,” she decided succinctly, recognizing a slice of cake was going to be the nicest thing she ate the rest of the weekend. This time tomorrow night, she’d be eating an MRE with the rest of the cadets out at Camp Swift.

“Any reason why we’re eating dessert instead of dinner?” she asked, standing next to him at the counter.

“We started everything else backward.” He shrugged. “Figured we might as well go with dessert for our first date. Dinner for our second, and if we make it that far, I’m going for broke and taking you out for drinks and appetizers,” he told her with a smile. “You like blooming onions?”

“I’m more of a chips-and-salsa kind of girl.”

“I think we can swing that.”

The lady served them their pie and coffee in an old, vinyl booth next to the window. Sam watched Wes slice into his key lime with the side of his fork, biting into the pie before closing his eyes in obvious pleasure.

“
Parlez-vous français?
” Sam asked, brow raised.

“
Je ne parle pas très bien
,” he replied, looking a little sheepish.

Not well, huh?
Sam raised her brows. She wasn’t an expert, but his accent seemed pretty on the money.

“My grandmother was French,” Wes explained at her surprised look. “She taught me a little when she was still alive.”

“Oh, I bet the ladies love that,” Sam teased. “I can see you now, whispering sweet nothings to hapless girls who have no idea what you’re really saying.”

“What d’you reckon I was really saying?” Wes asked confidingly as he licked the meringue off his fork.

“Yeah, well…show me a girl who doesn’t love a little sweet talking in any language, and I’ll show you a liar,” he answered.

“So besides making you even more irresistible to the female population, what else do you recall fondly of your grandmother?” Sam asked, biting into her Red Velvet cake.

Wes sat back, sipping his coffee. “The way I heard it, she was part of the Allied resistance during World War II. She met my grandfather while he was in the Signal Corps and came back with him to Texas when the war was over.”

“Sounds like the stuff of great romances,” she remarked.

“Those are kind of your words to live by then, huh?”

“I guess they are,” Wes admitted, taking another bite of pie. “How did you learn French?”

“Business trips with Dad,” Sam replied. “He’d take me out with him sometimes when I was growing up. It was the only time we’d spend any time together,” she told him, her heart squeezing a little. “Paris is a favorite of his. He told me he took my mother there once.”

“Nice,” Wes replied, brows raised. “I’ve never left the U.S., but I’d like to…someday.”

“I saw your globe,” Sam told him. “When I woke up in your room that morning, it was one of the first things I noticed.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just sort of a thing I do when I read about a place that looks interesting.”

Sam picked up her coffee cup. “Is that why you got interested in photojournalism?”

Wes leaned forward, swiping a bite of her cake. Sam smiled, letting him, enjoying the light camaraderie, the ease of being together when all their previous interactions had been charged with sexual tension and melodrama. This felt surprisingly real—just a guy and a girl getting to know each other on a date. No pressure.

Maybe they had really done everything backwards
, she mused. This felt so natural and easy now.

“When I was really young, Mom was a receptionist at a dentist’s office,” Wes continued. “She used to bring back these magazines they were going to toss.
National Geographic, TIME, Highlights
—and I’d read them all.” He took another sip of coffee. “I imagined sailing to Easter Island and writing about it, or going to Iceland and taking pictures of the Blue Lagoon. I thought I’d go to the refugee camp in Pakistan—meet the girl with the electric green eyes from that one
National Geographic
cover—you remember it?”

Sam nodded.

“I guess it’s far-fetched—” he shrugged, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “But when other kids were dreaming about playing for the Cowboys or becoming firemen, I thought I’d make my bones taking pictures. Go travel. See the world.”

Sam smiled slowly. She liked this side of Wes. He came off exactly as he intended the majority of the time—as a sexy-as-sin tomcat who had more tricks up his sleeves than the day was long, but she liked
this
version of him. Relaxed and open like this, Wes had an irresistible combination of hopeful earnestness mixed with just the right amount of rascal, like he wasn’t sure he could conquer the world, but he sure as hell was gonna try.

This is a guy I could love
, Sam realized, sitting back in the booth.
And therein lay the danger.

Wes must have noticed the sudden change in her, because he picked up her hand across the table, squeezing it gently, the pressure assuaging.

“Why is it that every time you start to like me, you have to remind yourself not to?” he asked, almost unerringly accurate in his assessment.

Sam flushed. “Not everything I think is about you, you smug jerk,” she managed haughtily, taking another bite of her cake.

“Then we’re definitely not in the same place, because damn near everything I think about these days involves you,” he replied, light in his amber eyes.

“I was just thinking about this weekend,” Sam redirected. “This next elimination is going to be tough.”

“Yeah, about that…” Wes looked uncharacteristically nonplussed. “I won’t be there.”

She wouldn’t ever have admitted it to Wes, but she was immediately relieved. It was pressure enough to endure these trials without his eyes on her every move, worried about what he was recording or worse, what he might think.

“And why’s that?” Sam asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. “I know it’s not because I asked you to drop the story. You’re too damn stubborn for that.”

Wes smirked. “Just ’cause I like strong women doesn’t mean I’ll take to getting bossed around by one.”

“That’s fine by me,” Sam replied. “Bending you to my will is just half the fun,” she told him with a superior smile.

Wes leaned forward and surprised her by stealing a swift kiss. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than have you try,” he murmured against her mouth.

Sam flushed again, leaning back. “So what’s your sudden absence from the FTX all about then?”

“Sasser’s pulling my access,” Wes admitted, clearly irked. “Some bullshit about wanting to avoid negative publicity if y’all don’t win.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Sam replied confidently. “I’m not usually one for counting my chickens before they hatch, but we’ve got this in the bag.”

“I agree.” Wes nodded. “So ask yourself: Why would Sasser not want any coverage of the Challenge all of a sudden?”

Sam turned it over in her mind, looking at the angles, thinking through the possibilities.

Wes watched her, his expression unusually serious. “You watch your back this weekend, all right? Because I’m not going to be there to watch it for you.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t back down when I asked you to?” Sam asked him.

“How else could I learn more about you and keep an eye out for you at the same time? I saw Alejo nearly shoot you point blank at the hostage trials—”

Sam frowned. “Wes, I don’t need your help.”

“Maybe you do, Sam,” he countered gently. “What doesn’t Sasser want me to see all the sudden? I know the guys around you are divided. You have supporters, guys who are indifferent, and a handful who outright don’t think you should be there. I’m not saying you don’t know how to handle yourself, Sammy—I’m just saying…take extra precautions, all right?” he squeezed her hand. “Please.”

He sounded truly worried, his concern palpable.

“Don’t worry about me, Wesley Elliott.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’ve got this.”

September—Saturday Night

Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas

S A M A N T H A

“C
adets, listen up!”
Colonel Sasser barked. “The final elimination round for the competition is field training in night land navigation.” He walked down the row of cadets standing at attention, examining them from their spit-shined boots and dark fatigues to their camoed faces.

“Darkness presents its own challenges with limited or no visibility within the navigational process,” he went on. “But the techniques and principles remain the same: advance tactical planning, map and terrain analysis, and predetermination of distances and azimuths so you knuckleheads don’t get lost.”

Piece of cake
, Sam thought, looking up at the clear night sky without shifting out of her stance. She knew more about land navigation on foot or on a horse than any military could teach, just from growing up on thousands of acres of rough prairie land with cowboys who were deeply offended by the very idea of GPS.

“We’re going to split the remaining eighteen of you into two groups. Each team will need to designate a point person as the lead navigator.” Sasser paused, his lips twitching in a semblance of a smirk. “To make things interesting, we’re not only going to time your performance across the course, we’re going to have a few obstacles set up for you.” Sasser looked a little too happy about the prospect of waylaying the cadets. Sam wondered what he had in store for them.