Goddess Rising (19 page)

His room.

Sam dropped her hands, looking around slowly. Several large photos hung on plain white walls—some landscapes, others abstract. She guessed they weren’t his work, but she could see why he liked them. Sam noticed a few books stacked on his dresser and on the floor.

A biography of Robert Capa caught her eye.
Blood and Champagne
. Fitting title for one of the greatest war photojournalists and lotharios who’d ever lived. Sam wondered briefly if that’s what Wes wanted to do—travel to war-torn countries, report on what folks could only imagine, romancing a new woman at each port of call.

Near his alarm clock, an old globe chock full of plastic pins caught her eye. Sam ran her fingers over the colorful pinheads as she spun the globe. He had dozens of countries dotted. She wondered if he did this in the mornings when he shut off his alarm—imagining the places he’d go see one day. She wondered what the different colors meant.

Her fingers dropped to the pillow beside hers. No indent there. She’d slept in his bed alone.

Sam wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed, but she didn’t examine it too closely. Her head throbbed too much. She stood slowly, tucked herself into her jean skirt, blanching a little as she realized in the light of day how short it was. Sam paused in front of his closet, feeling like she’d already crossed a line by taking over his personal space.
What was one more infraction at this point?

Sam pulled out one of Wes’s henleys, slipping it over her tank top and tucking in the front a little so it wouldn’t swamp her like a dress. She breathed in the scent of clean laundry and Wes, closing her eyes again just before she opened the door to his bedroom, squaring herself to face the humiliating music.

She slipped out into the hallway, listening for sounds in their apartment. She was surprised to find the bathroom clean and unoccupied. Chris must have managed to drag himself to his own bedroom sometime during the night. Sam washed her face quickly, tying her hair back in a loose knot.

She’d just made it into the living room when the front door opened and Wes walked in with an armful of groceries and a couple hot coffees.

“You’re awake,” he noted, a pleased smile lighting his face. He looked irritatingly good and not the least bit hungover as he set the groceries down, handing her one of the coffees. His eyes ran down her torso. “I like you in my clothes.”

Samantha thanked him quietly, gulping down that first sip with a little moan of relief.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, amused.

“Like a rock,” Sam admitted. “You shouldn’t have let me take over your room. I’d have been fine on the couch.”

His high-wattage smile fell just short of nefarious. “I’ve been dreaming of having you in my bed since I saw you. Figured I’d take advantage.”

“You weren’t in there with me, and you and I both know it,” she responded finally, clutching the coffee.

“A guy can hope.” Wes shrugged in his easy-going manner, moving into the kitchen. “Figured I’d whip up some breakfast.”

“You’re irritatingly good humored in the morning,” Sam observed, sitting down on a kitchen stool across from him.

“Yeah, well, I stopped drinking after the first couple rounds at Dukes.” Wes smiled over his shoulder as he unloaded the groceries. “And for such a big guy, Chris is a real lightweight. He doesn’t drink often, because of football, so I knew he’d be hurting today.”

Sam watched him move around the kitchen. “You cook?”

“You surprised?” he asked, amused.

“In my experience, men aren’t particularly self-sufficient. My father and Uncle Grant would live on beef jerky and Coors if my Aunt Hannah didn’t keep them fed.”

Wes laughed outright. “Does anyone really need anything else?”

Sam smiled a little. “Spoken like a true guy.”

“How do you like your bacon?” he asked instead, working the skillet.

“Crispy,” she replied, grateful to be taken care of, considering how low she felt.

Wes made her a lovely breakfast, cutting up fruit fast and even, like he’d put in a fair bit of time in a kitchen. He served her pancakes, bacon, and more coffee at the kitchen table, the sunlight spilling through the window and warming her up.

“Should we wake Chris?” she asked after a while, wallowing a little in residual guilt.

“Let him sleep. Poor guy’s usually up at the crack of dawn for workouts,” Wes replied as he dug in across from her.

“Did he put himself to bed?”

“Nah,” Wes shook his head. “I got him in there after I tossed him in the shower.”

Sam’s brows rose. “You had to nursemaid both of us?” she asked. “That’s hardly fair.”

Wes shrugged, unconcerned. “You’re remarkably easy to manage when you’re hammered. Once you’re past wild and angry, anyway.”

Sam colored. Mortification—
table for one, please.
She fiddled with her fork a moment before taking a little breath. “Let me get my groveling out of the way. I don’t usually behave so badly,” she admitted, having difficulty meeting his eyes.

“Come on now, Sammy—” Wes replied, covering her fidgeting hand. “Where’s the fun in being buttoned up all the time?”

“I’m grateful, really,” she confessed, looking up at him. “But don’t take my gratitude to mean anything more than that. I still don’t condone you groping me outside of Dukes right under Chris’s nose.”

“Really?” Wes replied lightly, his eyes sparkling. “Because you were moaning pretty loudly otherwise.”

Sam wanted to slam her head into her hand, but she settled for hiding her embarrassment behind a quick sip of hot coffee.

“You didn’t take advantage of me last night, and we both know you could have,” she acknowledged quietly after a moment, and his expression changed.

“Sammy, when you and I get together—it’s not going to be with you drunk out of your mind. Because I want you to be wide awake to remember every single second of it,” he emphasized seriously, drawing out the words.

“We’re not getting together.”

He laughed lightly, like she amused the hell out of him as he popped a strawberry into his mouth. “Sure we are, darlin’. Resistance is futile,” he added with a wink.

Sam laughed in spite of herself. “You’re so damn cocky.”

“With reason,” he answered. “I came by my mad skills with the ladies honestly.”

“Don’t need to remind me.”

“I’d rather show you.”

Sam set her coffee down, pushing away from the table.

“Where are you going?” Wes asked her, hand coming down to cover hers. “You haven’t finished eating.”

“You’re confusing the hell out of me, and I’m struggling enough this morning as it is,” Sam answered honestly, rubbing her brow with her free hand.

“Sit. I’ll be good for a while,” Wes answered, standing smoothly. He disappeared for a moment as she fidgeted, wondering if she should just leave. When he returned, he put a couple aspirin into her hand.

Sam glanced at him in surprise. “First you give up your bed, then you feed me. Now you nurse me back to health?” She swallowed the pills, chasing them with another sip of coffee. “You’re not going to expect me to repay your kindness with nookie, are you?”

Wes shot her an amused look. “Can’t a guy just be nice to you?”

“I dunno, Wes. Can a guy and girl just be friends?” she replied, pulling her hand out from under his.

Wes sat back, considering her as he sipped his coffee. “I’ll admit being friends with you is just about the farthest thing from what I have in mind. But you’ve said no, and my mama raised me right. I’ve never needed to push a girl into anything she didn’t want.”

“So you’re cool with just staying friends?” Sam asked in clarification, feeling strangely disappointed, though she’d have sworn up and down this was exactly what she wanted.

Wes shrugged lightly. “Let’s not give ourselves any labels just yet, alright?”

Sam considered him a moment. “What are you up to, Wes?”

“Consider this morning my apology for taking it too far last night.” He smiled at her, his eyes warm. “Start over?”

Sam had grown up playing poker with her Uncle Grant and the cowboys at the ranch, and Wes had a look she’d learned to pick up on early. It was the look of a man about to bluff his way into a good hand. But he’d done right by her last night when they both knew she would have happily let him do more. And he was extending an olive branch, even if she suspected it came with some kind of string attached.

So Sam shook his hand, trying to ignore the spark of electricity that shot up her arm when he touched her.

“Thank you for being so good to me this morning,” Sam told him.

Wes smiled. “I’d like to be good to you more often. I hope you stick around long enough to let me try.”

*

September—Sunday Night

Memorial Student Center, Texas A&M

S A M A N T H A

The MSC was
like a giant living room on campus. Students milled around the large student center, socializing, studying, and eating, some in groups and others in lone seats, headphones on as they all got back in the zone for the next week of fall semester.

Sam nursed a giant latte as she flipped through her notes from the study group she’d just finished. She was still a little queasy from the tequila hangover, but the breakfast with Wes and a short run with Rita in the afternoon had helped to get the worst of it out of her system. She was toying with the idea of picking up a snack when movement near the art gallery where she’d first met Wes caught her eye. She hadn’t been back to look at the exhibit, and as she watched a group of students shuffling out of the area, chatting, she figured there was no time like the present to get a good look at his work.

Sam stuffed her notebook and textbooks back into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder before she walked toward the artfully lit displays. She took her time with Wes’s photography, really examining the artistry, admiring his technique and obvious skill. She noticed discreet red dots next to most of his photographs. Works he’d sold, she guessed. When she arrived to the picture he’d taken of her and saw the red dot, she wondered who had purchased it. Sam was so caught up in the thought that she didn’t hear anyone come up behind her.

“I should have known that was you the moment I saw it.”

Startled, Sam nearly jumped out of her skin as Miranda stepped beside her, nudging her playfully on the shoulder before turning back to admire Wes’s photo of her. As always, Miranda looked fresh and lovely in a pretty sundress that matched her blue eyes. Sam plucked self-consciously at her t-shirt, wishing she’d taken the time to at least fix her hair into something nicer than a ponytail.

“My face is covered in the shot,” Sam pointed out instead, glancing back at the photo. “I didn’t even realize it was me at first.”

“You didn’t model for this?” Miranda asked, surprised as she looked at her.

Sam shook her head. “Wouldn’t know how to even if I tried,” she admitted.

Miranda laughed lightly, her smile teasing and sly. “It’s easy, honey. You just look at the camera like it’s the man you love.”

“Then I definitely wouldn’t know how to do that,” Sam answered frankly.

Miranda’s bemused expression morphed into one of surprise. “You’ve never been in love before?”

Sam shrugged, looking back at the photo. “Not really.”

“Not really or not at all?”

Sam considered the question a moment before answering truthfully. “I knew too much about the guys I grew up around to ever be interested, and the guys I didn’t know enough about…” she paused, thinking of Wes as she looked at his photos. “I guess they made me nervous.”

“
You
—nervous?” Miranda asked in mock disbelief. “I have a hard time seeing you nervous around anybody.” She looked at the photograph of Sam again. “The girl in this photo is confident and certain of herself. Just look at her stride,” she said, nodding toward Sam’s movement across the Arches, the time-capture a blur of quick motion. “That girl’s going places. And a girl like that—she doesn’t worry about what anybody thinks.”

“Yeah, well. I do.” Sam moved on to the next set of photos—a triptych of dreamy landscapes that made her feel a little languorous and quixotic. They looked like places she wanted to run away to, places she could hide, if only for a moment. “Sometimes I worry about what other people think so much that I wonder if I’m doing things in anticipation of what they’ll say or if I’m just trying to be contrary,” she admitted quietly.

Miranda tilted her head, considering her. If her friend was surprised by what she said, she didn’t show it. But Sam could sense Miranda’s wheels spinning.

Sam smiled a little ruefully. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a little hungover and talking crazy.”

“I don’t think you are,” Miranda responded, her eyes thoughtful.

Sam shifted on her feet, uncomfortable as she glanced around the gallery. “Do you have art in the show?”

“No,” Miranda told her. “I’m an adequate photographer at best.”

Sam glanced back at the triptych. “I wonder why this one hasn’t sold.”

“You want to buy it?”

Samantha shrugged. “It looks like a nice place to go to when you can’t go anywhere else, doesn’t it?”