Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,25

at the base of his neck. She fired up the clippers, and with slow, measured sweeps, she buzzed the razor over his head. His hair slipped down a little bit at a time on the sides of his head, but when she plowed through the thicker hair on top, it showered down in clumps. She brushed at his shaved skull, his skin ultra-sensitive to her touch, and she almost made him groan when she blew on his neck to clear out the rest of the shorn hair.

Before he could catch his breath, a BUD/S trainee was pushing his way to the seat and Hemingway moved so as not to be knocked to the ground. He watched as she finished the rest of the class and handed the clippers back to Lane.

She walked back over to him, even though she was mobbed by a lot of the guys asking questions and trying to get her to engage, but she kept looking over at him. Smiling, she finally slipped away.

“How about a stroll on the beach?” she suggested. He nodded, and they walked toward the surf. The waves crashed and rolled in a whooshing sound that was relaxing. He’d lived his whole life connected to the Pacific and to him it was a haven. The sand between his toes, the sounds of the waves roaring, the sight of the open, vast ocean in front of him, and the saltiness of the air always brought this feeling of adventure and vitality where anything seemed possible.

Maybe it was because life of a land walker who breathed air and rose to two feet had started in the deep depths of the ocean, and when humans looked at the limitlessness of the waves, they instinctively thought of home.

This far from the lights of Coronado, the stars burned brightly, and he slowed down to appreciate their beauty. The stars were another reminder of the vastness of the world and drove home to him that he didn’t have to limit himself to this small space in San Diego. SEAL training would take him to many places, some even more dangerous than the last mission, but he drew comfort from the fact that he would have a team at his back. It was something he could depend on one hundred percent. Home or away.

“You are even more gorgeous with your head shaved. I was right about the bone structure.” Shea said the last part with almost a slight air of resentment, though with some dry amusement thrown in as well to temper any actual attitude, but he was sure the woman had it in spades.

His body leapt in response to her softly spoken compliment, urging him to do something—anything about it. Hard to keep telling himself she wasn’t his type when the sexual tension between them was clouding the night in a thick fog.

“What’s your take on the class as a whole?”

Her abrupt shift of gears had him taking a moment to shift along with her. He frowned, wondering at her question. “Some good guys, hard chargers, some duckers, but those will be weeded out.”

“Anyone stand out as problematic?”

Wilson came immediately to mind with his buddy huddles. “A few.”

“Like whom?” She’d said it lightly, as if she were just making conversation. She wasn’t focusing on him, instead moving sand around on the beach with her foot.

He liked Shea, and it was no secret he was intrigued by her. She seemed down to earth, which, he realized, most of the young women he’d met weren’t. She was herself—not playing or enhancing her femininity only made her more sensual and attractive.

“One of my roommates. He’s been off since he got here. Grumpy, antisocial…secretive.”

Her brows rose. “Secretive? How?”

“He’s got these buddies he groups up with during chow and at down times. They seem like they’re in heated debates half the time, but that could be about anything.”

“Sure. What’s his name?”

“Daniel Wilson.”

He started back the way they came. “Couple of his buddies rang out and that seemed to make him even less social. Maybe they all had some pact.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Do you know their names?”

He rattled them off.

They got back to the bonfire, loaded up some plates with food and settled down to eat with a bunch of his friends. The conversation was lively, the laughter helped along with the beer. He noticed that Shea drank very little and listened to all the conversations with a deep interest. Hemingway also wasn’t a big drinker, a beer or two his limit. He liked