Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,22

a junior Navy Officer, but here at BUD/S, he was just a tadpole like everyone else. There was only one way to become a SEAL regardless of how you came into the Navy, and BUD/S was it.

Milo had been a Rhodes scholar—a community of outstanding academic achievers—who had studied at Oxford as an international student and majored in international relations. Hemingway had started calling him Professor, and the name stuck as the other candidates adopted the nickname.

Tonight’s party marked the move from BO to First Phase—one step closer on his journey. It was also a place to unwind and relax just a bit before the real work of BUD/S started. They would have three grueling weeks before the brutality of Hell Week. He wasn’t going to think about it too much other than to mark the time in his head. He would do as he had done in BO—take it one evolution at a time.

The sun was just setting, flooding the sky with a blanket of color, liming the clouds with a purple cast, the huge spiky sun sparking out spears of orange, red and yellow against the rolling beauty of a blue ocean.

The strains of an acoustic guitar strummed through the dusk with a decidedly flamenco cast to the music. Hemingway found that he liked the spicy strains. “That’s probably Lopez. He plays a mean guitar,” Milo said as he pushed a cup of beer into Hemingway’s hands. Several picnic tables were laden with the usual party fare and several kegs were buried in the sand.

He ruffled Hemingway’s hair and said, “Ready to get it all shaved off?”

“Aw, you gotta love tradition,” Hemingway said, running his hand through his blond hair. It would all soon be gone in the time-honored tradition of BUD/S candidates getting it shorn right before First Phase.

Milo knocked his cup against Hemingway’s. “BO down. Cheers.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Brown said. The clumsy kid who had slammed into grumpy Dan Wilson on the first day of BO still had a ways to go to get his sea legs.

“Hoo-yah,” Hemingway said and they each took a gulp. Wilson sauntered up with a scowl on his face. That was no surprise.

“So, we have some eye candy who’s going to be some distracting piece of ass,” Wilson said, and Hemingway’s shoulders tightened.

“That’s no way to talk about a lady,” Hemingway said. His mind hadn’t been far from Shea Palmer, and that kiss at her car had only whet his appetite. Even with what had happened between them, he wasn’t quite sure if she was going to take him home tonight. He had to grin at that, because she shook his confidence and that had never happened to him when it came to the opposite sex. He also realized that he didn’t have to defend her. Shea looked like she could handle anyone, even a bunch of alpha males.

Milo looked at him with raised brows, then said, “Hemingway is right. Women are due respect.”

“Okay, mamas’ boys,” Wilson laughed softly. “If you say so.”

Hemingway grabbed Professor’s arm when he made a move to get physical with Wilson. It wasn’t worth it to get into trouble and shook his head. “Hey, we came here to party, not throw punches. Do you want our asses to end up in a sling? Come on.”

Wilson had only gotten surlier, and Hemingway was wondering if it was because a couple of the guys he hung with had rung out. Wilson seemed to have taken it as a personal affront. He was in thick with seven other trainees, and they were often together at chow and off hours, looking like they had serious business to discuss. That look on his face, maybe. Something. All he knew was that whatever that something was, it had made the hairs prickle along his neck.

Hemingway was here to train to be a SEAL, and these guys could be potential teammates, but they were also the competition. Maybe that was getting in the way of his perception of Wilson, or maybe he just didn’t like the son of a bitch and couldn’t imagine Wilson at his back in any environment—air, land or sea.

But none of that mattered now. Something wasn’t right here. And if there was one thing Hemingway believed in, it was following his gut instinct. Maybe that was what had been nagging at him all along—that despite appearances, something wasn’t what it seemed with Daniel Wilson.

“Speak of the devil,” Wilson intoned as he gestured across the beach to Shea, who