Chapter 2: Pretty, Pretty Boys She Calls Friends

They are all standing at the rental car counter, and though I'm a
good distance away (all the better to look like I'm not with them) I
can hear Josh's voice climbing. He wants a full-sized or a mini-van.
They only have compacts. They're lying. He knows that's a lie
because he's seen an expose. The rental car companies are involved
in a conspiracy.

With the people with oversized carry on bags, apparently. Because
why would the rental car company rent us one of the minivans they
have hoarded--a vehicle that would cost more initially and more by
the mile--when they could get less money by renting us a compact and
thereby annoy Josh Lyman. It really isn't such a bad business
strategy, I muse.

Clearly, Josh isn't well.

I am watching the line of cancellations roll down the screens with
the flight numbers. Listening to groans of dismay all around.
Cursing. Pacifying airline worker voices. CXL. CXL. CXL. I knew that
already. I have a cool job.

Except that I don't, really. Because I'm about to spend the next
twelve (I know Sam said ten at worst, but Sam's a damned optimist
and I have zero confidence in these three people's ability to get
from the bull pen to the oval office without some catastrophe, so
excuse my pragmatism) hours packed into a compact car with these
guys. Then I'm going to get out of the car, with no change of
clothes, and go to work setting up a press event.

By the time of the fundraiser, I'll have been up approximately 38
hours. And then there will be the usual cocktails and schmoozing and-
-I think that the word schmoozing just actually ran through my head
which disturbs me--then it'll be onto Air Force One for a night
flight to Los Angeles, where we're going to need to prep the
President for a town-hall meeting of sorts at UCLA, and then back up
to Seattle to finish out our run at a benefit for the
environment.

I sigh, shrug, and say aloud, "I've pulled all-nighters with these
guys before." Then I notice a security guard is watching me
suspiciously, and with a defiant look at him, I edge closer to the
rental car counter and Josh.

So Leo wasn't too enthusiastic about our plan to head down to San
Francisco, but he had to give over to Josh's logic (an oxymoron if I
ever heard it) that the President has been prepped and needs his
rest and that there is really absolutely nothing left for us in
Portland. (Except a bed, I pointed out during this part of Josh's
relay of his conversation with the Chief-of-Staff). It makes sense
to try to get as far as we can to San Francisco, because even if the
airports are reopened in the morning, it will be chaos. And if the
President isn't well enough to fly first thing, and we've waited,
then we will have absolutely no time to prepare beforehand.


Leo likes preparation. Therefore, we're going to California.

Maybe.

If Josh stops arguing about the cost of a car he doesn't even want.
There's a line forming behind us. People are looking. And while it
would give me a perverse sort of satisfaction to read a piece in the
Portland paper about what an asshole Deputy Chief of Staff Josh
Lyman is, it's not something I really want to deal with in the press
room any time soon.

I just don't think I can spin it.

"Oh my God," I interrupt Josh suddenly and reach across the
counter. "Give me the pen. We'll take what you have."

Josh's jaw goes slack as I sign my name on the form and hand the pen
back the grateful looking man behind the counter. In moments, I have
the keys and instructions on where to find our car.

Josh's mouth is still open and as I turn and lead the way toward the
automatic sliding glass doors, he finally is able to sputter…he
really does sputter. "CJ, I was *haggling* there. I was getting us a
deal! You can't just give into those people, you can't just…"

"San Francisco, Josh. Tomorrow," I remind him.

"You're telling me to pick my battles."

"I'm telling you that you're unbalanced, but you know, you say
potato…"

"Sure hope Carol can find your bag," Josh says in an offhand way,
and I falter in mid-step and victory is his.

"Be a shame to lose all that underwear," Sam adds, and sounds like
he means it.

*
"No way. This thing has a GPS!" Josh half shouts as soon as we are
in the car. I wince. Josh doesn't really have an indoor voice. Even
less so an enclosed-vehicle voice.

"A what?" I wonder.

"A GPS. Global Positioning Satellite." Josh screeches, and starts
pressing buttons. "I've heard about these! You see what I did back
there? I intimidated them and they gave me GPS."

"And GPS is good because?" I wonder.

"It's not." Sam mutters.

"Are you kidding me?" Josh asks. "Are you kidding me? This is
awesome."

Me again. Louder. "What does it do?"

"Well, it tells you where you are and where you're going. Or
something, you know." Josh shrugs. Josh is very technical.

Feeling slightly encouraged by this piece of news, I sit up
straighter. "You mean it's going to get us to San Francisco instead
of you guys?" My voice is a glitter with hope.

"It's crap," Sam growls.

I ignore Sam per my usual policy. "How does it work?"

Sam turns around and looks at me. "Well, it works on the theory of
trilateration, you see. Which means that it locates three points and
calculates your distance from each of them in order to place you. In
the case of GPS, the three points are satellites. There are twenty-
four of them, and at least four on the horizon at any given time.
Now, since we know where the satellites are positioned, and we know
how fast the radio waves from the GPS signals travel…186,000 miles
per second, which is also, you might be interested to know, the speed of light,

then the unknown factor of where the signals are coming from becomes a simple

equation."

Sam stops talking when he realizes we are all staring at him.

"Seriously," Josh says, "you should leave your house more often."

Josh figures out how to turn on the GPS finally, and then enters
some stuff. We have yet to leave the parking garage at the airport.

And suddenly, the weirdest thing happens. The little black box
mounted on the dashboard starts talking to us. Telling us to back
out of the space and to bear to the right, right out of the parking
garage. When we don't respond fast enough, it repeats itself.
Sounding a little annoyed.

I'm duly impressed. Josh nearly backs into someone in his eagerness
to obey the little radio voice that's ordering us around. Toby
doesn't seem to have heard anything that was said. He's just sitting
behind the driver's seat, staring.

Sam is sulking.

Focusing on him, I wonder, "What do you have against GPS?"

"It's the lazy man's way out. It's a cop out. There's something to
be said for real maps and road signs and, and…" he gropes for words.

"Celestial navigation?" Toby supplies and Sam snaps his fingers.

"Exactly. Humans were meant to be explorers. This is what we do. Why
would you trust this tiny little computer without a heart and a soul
and a natural spirit of exploration?"

Toby answers what was likely meant to be a rhetorical question on
Sam's part. "Because each satellite costs $12 billion to build and
launch and because you don't know the difference between the North
Star and the dark side of my ass."

Sam shuts up.

I ignore the fact that my legs are folded about four times behind
Sam's seat (he called shotgun first, although I don't believe we
were in sight of the car and I put up a hearty protest), and press
my nose to the very cold window. GPS is happy because we've followed
instructions and have no more turns for several hundred miles. Josh
has pretty decent taste in music, actually, and I am softly humming
harmony to Tom Petty's "You Don't Know How it Feels."

Portland is a beautiful city. Although I would never admit it to
any of my comrades, I am honestly enjoying the drive out of town.
There's sort of a shimmering view of snow-capped Mt. Hood caught up
in the pinkish rays of the lowering sun, which is starting to slip
below a very threatening looking line of clouds. Further away still,
so that it looks like a mirage, Mt. Rainier wavers on the horizon.

The speech for tomorrow is locked, there's nothing I can really do
until I see the forum, there's no press to brief, no wires to read.

It feels like vacation. Maybe this wasn't the worst idea Josh ever
had. Not that I'm going to say so, mind you.

"Let's roll another joint!" Josh and Sam sing—I use the term loosely—
with *feeling*, and I'm rethinking.

Toby, in the back seat with me, seems to be looking for a way out of
the car.

*

I must have fallen asleep not long after we left the city limits. I
don't remember closing my eyes, but I'd been gazing out the window,
listening to the familiar rise and fall of their voices and NPR's
monotonous drone underneath it. NPR always reminds me of my father.
Whenever our family took vacations, I can remember laying in the
back of the family station wagon, listening to my mother and father
talking, my brothers' snoring, and NPR. I always loved to come
awake slowly to those sounds again, and then sit up to discover
where we were, how much closer to our destination we'd moved while I
lay dreaming.

Not so much this time. No gentle fluttering of eyelids. No slow
bleeding of dreams into wakefulness.

"A Waffle House!" Josh shouts and the car dives to the right, "You
gotta be kidding me!"

I jerk upright, and nearly install a sunroof. I make a few confused
sounds and then realize Josh, and, by association we, are swerving
across three lanes of traffic in order to make for an exit. It's
nearly dark outside, and I lean around Sam, who is gripping the arm
rest and grinding his own right foot down into the floorboard. I
check out the clock. It's only 7:00.

"Your breaks working up there Sam?" Toby asks. Toby doesn't seem
nervous. Then again, Toby grew up in New York. He's ridden in taxis
all his life.

Sam finally relaxes a little as we live to see the exit ramp,
although personally I am wondering when Andretti is going to stop
going 70 mph, more so when I see a red light swinging in a gusty
wind, and the tail lights of the car stopped before it.

"Our Father who art in Heaven," I murmur as Josh finally decides to
break, and the car bucks and protests and eventually rolls to a stop
inches from the other car's bumper.

"Plenty of time," Josh says with a smirk over at Sam and into the
rear view mirror at us.

"And it's nice that we get to see what radio station he's listening
to," Sam mutters.

GPS is putting up an absolutely ardent protest, ordering us back on
the interstate. Over and over again it tells us to get back onto the
ramp and merge onto the interstate again.

"That's why this sucks. See? It isn't smarter than we are," Sam
mumbles, and reaches forward to turn it off.

Josh slaps at his hand. "Don't! We will not silence the protest of
the GPS. He is entitled to a peaceful protest. Although he's
starting to sound less peaceful."

I lean forward, pushing my face between Josh and Sam's shoulders,
and look at the latter. "He does know there's actually not really a
little man in there, right?"

"It's unclear," Sam replies.

"What in God's name are we doing?" Toby growls from behind all three
of us.

"Eating. I'm hungry. It's the Waffle House. You just don't see those
anywhere, you know."

"Except that you see them everywhere," Toby counters, "which makes
the fact that I avoid them on a regular basis a much more impressive
accomplishment, really."

"They have pie! You're telling me that you don't like the Waffle
House?" Sam asks, turning around. "Didn't you go to college?"

"Yes, and I believe the two things are mutually exclusive."

"So what did you do when you needed a study break?" Josh asks.

"I never needed a study break. I have an infinite capacity for
learning," he retorts. And looks to Sam. "You go to the gym. You eat
well. You're concerned about, you know, dying. And you're telling me
you like this?"

Sam nods happily. "It's a treat."

"You're a little sassy, Tobster," I add with a smile.

He turns to me with an expression as close to incredulous as Toby
can get. "Surely to God you're on my side in this."

"Bring the waffles!" I say with enthusiasm. "Oh God," Toby says,
without any.

*

I have to say, I'm a little amazed by the Waffle House's ability to
stay packed at virtually any time of the day or night. I believe
I've never been inside of one where I didn't have to wait my turn
for a booth. Even with a winter storm bearing down on the West
Coast, the usual assortment of students, truckers, and people it's
safer not to wonder about the profession of are mingling together.
It's the same hazy smoke-filled, glass encased, text book littered,
haggard waitress staffed, orange tinted, juke-box blaring old
country hit and American rock atmosphere that you'd find in any of
the millions (I may be exaggerating here, but drive a stretch of I-
75 in a campaign bus sometime if you think so) of Waffle House
locations across the United States.

I am horrified by it and disgusted, and I love every minute of being
here.

We are clearly strangers to this place and heads swivel and watch us
as we cram ourselves into a booth by the window. Toby is practically
clawing at the glass to get out. Josh slides in across from him. I
leave Sam to deal with Toby and take a place beside Josh. I watch a
group of students working physics problems at the counter and wonder
what college we could possibly be close to.

"I feel the grease accumulating on me," Toby mutters. "I actually
feel it in the air."

"Yeah. It's great isn't it." Josh agrees.

Samuel N. Seaborne smiles brightly at the waitress who sort of
stomps, sort of saunters over to our table and stands glaring down
at us, pen touching her pad, drawn-on eyebrows raised expectantly.

Now Sam is a pretty humble guy, but he's not ignorant to his own
charm. He's used to flashing that smile he's flashing up at our
waitress right now and seeing people's reservations about him melt
away. I've seen women lose their ability to say words when targeted
with his very pretty face. He's guileless and handsome, and his
eyes carry the breath-stealing warmth of an August wind. His charm
even works on Toby Ziegler to an extent, so you can imagine that
he's pretty confident in his ability to warm our waitress up.

"Hello. How are you today?" Sam inquires, leans forward and reads
the waitresses' name tag, "Angelica. Well that's a pretty name."

`Angelica' who looks to be about thirty-five, a chain smoker, and an
axe murderer on the weekends, purses her red-painted lips and glares
at Sam, her face frozen into an expression of tried patience on the
very edge of expiration.

"You don't have enough money in your genuine leather wallet to make
it worth my while to pretend that I can stand you. I'll be back
when you are ready to order," Angelica tells Sam and turns to half-
stomp, half-saunter off. "Or not."

"I think she likes you," Josh snickers.

"Bitch," I say, and look after her, spoiling for a fight a little
bit.

"I like her," Toby says and for the first time since we left the
airport, grins.

Sam has just now regained the power of speech and looks wounded and
indignant and stunned. He says, "well, that was uncalled for."

*

I was going to order a salad, I swear to God I was. When I went to
order it though, silently daring Angelica to say the wrong thing to
me so that I would have an excuse to show her what happens when
Southern Oregon bitch meets DC Bitch, Josh and Sam both gasped and
put up a loud protest.

"Salad at the Waffle House?"

"What? You can't do that!"

And even Toby added, "you really want to try this place's produce?"

I'm only reminding myself of this to justify why I am wolfing down a
dripping patty-melt and shoving forkfuls of hash browns, scattered,
covered, and smothered, into my mouth. They made me do it.

Toby and Sam, who were done with their meals long ago, are sitting
and watching me and Josh still eat with sort of morbid fascination.

"If they live till morning, I'll be impressed," Toby mumbles to Sam,
who tenses because Angelica is approaching.

She glances into Sam's coffee cup, which is dryer than the
Sahara. "More?" She growls, with a threatening look.

She turns away before Sam shakes his head, but I swallow my mouthful
of greasy meat and shout at her retreating back. "Hey, Happy! Yes he
wants some more! He paid for it! And I'll have another Diet Coke and
a piece of apple pie, grilled, and my other friend here needs some
more Dr. Pepper…do you need to write this down?"

Angelica whirls and meets my gaze and we wage a battle of wills. I'm
suddenly aware that I'm sitting very straight in the booth and that
Josh, Sam, and Toby are a little cowed down. They've seen this look
on my face before. They know to get out of the way.

"Run, Angelica, run," Josh whispers to his waffle.

I don't let my gaze drop from Angelica's, and I'm aware that the
people nearby, people who have probably been waited on by Angelica
before are watching us, half fearful, half awed, but mostly
entertained. I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to do if Angelica
comes at me with nails and teeth, but I think that although I don't
outweigh her, I've got a good half-foot on her height.

She narrows her eyes and then stomps (no saunter) to our table
again, snatching Sam's mug, my glass, Josh's glass. "Anything else?"
She asks, glaring at me and daring me to say anything else.

Which is what persuades me to add sweetly, "service with a smile?"
as she walks away.

Josh looks like he's about to say something to me when a shadow
falls across our table. And I turn and look up and up and up and see
a bear of a man standing there, staring right at me.

"Hello there, Baby," he says with a grin.

I take in his flannel shirt and well-worn jeans and admit to myself
that he wears them well. His jaw is a little square, but it gives
him a hard sort of look that is appealing. His hair is black and
falls carelessly across his forehead, almost into his very nice
brown eyes. He looks like he knows all of this already, so I see no
need to tell him so.

"Hello there Lumberjack Joe," I say flippantly and turn back to
Josh, who isn't looking at me, but still is staring at the giant
standing beside me. His lips are parted slightly, the comment he was
going to make before lost somewhere between his vocal cords and his
lips. In the window behind Josh, I see that my new friend is still
firmly entrenched in his spot on the grease-slick floor.

"It must have hurt," he says down to me in an offhand way as I turn
back around, getting the idea that he's not going anywhere long
before he gets the idea that I would like him to.

"What?" I say, annoyed now by the way his eyes keep dropping down
and further down my body. I mean, I don't mind being checked out,
but there's something to be said for subtlety.

"I said it must have hurt."

"Yeah, I heard. What the hell are you talking about?"

"When you fell straight from heaven."

Toby coughs to cover his laughter, but Josh's hand finds my knee
under the table and he squeezes in warning. What Josh doesn't know
is that I'm extremely ticklish there and it's all I can do not to
yelp. At the same time, Sam's foot comes down over mine, putting
steady pressure on my toes. How well they know me.

The fear is practically oozing from them. They're afraid I'm going
to say something which is going to make Lumberjack Joe turn on them,
or that they're going to have to defend my honor in some way. I
almost snort with amusement at that thought, but I'm far too
irritated by this man who isn't even creative enough to come up with
a decent pick-up line.

I have no response for him though, so I obey Josh and Sam's wishes
for the moment and just stare, with what I'm sure is a horrified
expression on my face.

Thus encouraged, he continues, "You must not be from around here."

"Yeah, okay" I say, in my most dismissive tone of voice, "I'm going
to go back to eating with my friends now. We're done here."

I turn back to my nearly finished plate, but the shadow doesn't lift
from the table, and as I pick up my fork, Josh and Sam still haven't
moved. Even Toby seems a little uneasy now.

Lumberjack Joe chuckles and reaches out to touch me under my chin,
titling my head back to him. I'm so stunned by his audacity that I
let him do it.

Josh's hand lifts from my knee and he starts to push himself up,
saying to Lumberjack, "hey, don't do that," at the same time Sam and
Toby half-rise too.

"I've watched you since you came in. And I've been wondering. Do
those legs go all the way up?"

Toby suddenly sounds like he's choking, and it's not from laughter
now.

"Now is the point where you don't touch me anymore," I say and my
voice is starting to shake a little bit, from anger. I jerk back,
away from his touch.

He smiles and turns away, only to grab a chair from the counter
behind him. He turns it around and straddles it, resting his very
large forearms across the back. He's blocking my way out of the booth
and I am now officially uncomfortable.

I realize that I might be overreacting. We're in a public place. He
hasn't said anything overtly or even covertly menacing. But I don't
like how he's got me cornered, and I don't like it that he refuses
to leave after I tell him to, and I don't like the look in his eye,
and I don't care how anyone else feels about that.

"I didn't invite you to sit down. In fact, I'm inviting you to
leave," I say, quickly crossing the line to fury.

"Aw, come on now, Girlie. I just want to talk to you is all. Give me
a few minutes. You'll see I'm not so bad."

"Okay, you know what, I won't see if you're so bad. I've been very
clear here. I am going to go back to eating with my friends here.
Leave me alone."

"Now don't say that. You don't even know me," Lumberjack says and I
think that there's a beat of time that stretches for longer than the
rest as I watch his elbow slide off the chair back and see his hand
reach down to rest on my knee. There's nothing particularly
lecherous in it, really. But the touch is like a burn and I, on pure
reflex, swing out with my designer booted toes and catch him square
in the shin. Hard.

So hard in fact, that I'm fairly certain I've done damage to myself.
My yelp is as loud as his, and there is sick-pain that rips up my
leg and into my stomach.

He leaps up, loses his balance, and crashes to the floor, looking
dazed. He brings both hands to cover his shin, and he's gone pale. I
meant to kick him. I did not mean to kick him quite so hard. My toes
are pulsing with pain inside their leather prison. I seriously think
I've got broken bones here.

I'm still sitting, half-frozen, but completely defiant of this man.
I was justified in retribution. I have no qualms about kicking him.

Afraid he won't see it the same way, Sam and Toby are instantly on
their feet and Josh is clamoring over the table to join them in
forming a wall between me and him. It's really kind of a sweet
gesture in a humorous sort of way, because it's like the Incredible
Hulk vs. The Smurfs here, but it's also unnecessary.

And the last thing I need to do is to end up defending their honor
as well as my own.

Lumberjack finally stands up, without putting much weight on his
left leg, and looks over their heads at me. I am really trying not
to look smug but I hear that note in my voice as I say, "I did warn
you."

"What the hell is wrong with you!" His voice is approaching a shout,
and once again I notice that the entire Waffle House has given over
to silence. The jukebox has even run out of songs. "I was paying you
a compliment! I just wanted to talk to you! That's all!"

"And she told you to leave her alone, didn't she?" Josh growls, and
his voice doesn't even jump up the way it does sometimes when he's
nervous. He's Congress-ass-kicking Josh right this moment.

Lumberjack Joe doesn't even look at Josh. He's still watching
me. "Somebody ought to teach you some manners, Lady."

It isn't really a threat. Not an explicit one. I don't think he even
meant it as a suggestion that he be the one to teach me manners. But
the words, more than the way he says them, cause great waves of
nervousness to roll over me, and I'm caught between wanting to slide
further back in the booth, or stand up to closer meet his height so
I can better scratch his eyes out. But as I am, sitting here behind
Sam, Toby, and Josh, and having this huge man glare at me, I'm just
a little worried. Just a little, I tell myself.

Josh's fists are clenching and I'm thinking to myself, please God,
Josh. Do NOT put up your dukes. I'm not so sure that Josh has dukes
in the first place, but I'm definitely sure that he thinks he does.

Toby, thank God, is at his greatest in times of crisis. Not that
this is a crisis on the scale of other things we see on a daily
basis, but this is a new one for them. They are doing admirably, but
I wish I could reverse this whole thing, because I'm afraid it's
going to get out of hand. And there's going to be a killing. Or
worse yet, an embarrassing story. Then Leo will kill all of us.

My toes hurt *bad*.

"You should know something about her before you do something stupid
like make another threat." Toby tells him, in that low voice that is
more unsettling coming from him than the loudest yell that
Lumberjack's got.

"And what's that, Baldy?"

Toby smiles, again without any humor. "I'm going to use small words
and speak slowly here, okay? The President of the United States
thinks of this woman like a daughter. And it's only fair to tell you
that if you don't turn around and I mean now, the Secret Service
will make your life very bad."

Lumberjack Joe starts to laugh then, looking between Josh and Sam to
me. "You're all a bunch of weirdoes. Crazy. I don't want anything to
do with you. But someone ought to knock that look off your face,
Girlie."

Sam, who is right in front of me, is digging frantically in his back
pocket and I have a vision of him whipping out a switch blade and
embedding it in this guy's gut and I'm seriously freaked out by that
thought so I finally push myself up off the booth seat before they
do anything stupid.

"Here!" Sam says before I can say anything, and I see that he's
opening his wallet and I think I will stab Sam to death with a fork
if he tries to buy me from this bully.

Not to worry though, because Sam only pulls out a piece of well-read
looking newspaper. I see a glimpse of it as he unfolds it and
realize what it is. The picture from the Washington Post of the
President on Inauguration Day. I'm standing beside Sam to the
President's left. Josh and half of Toby are to the right. Sam
extends it in front of Lumberjack's nose and then quickly yanks it
away as soon as recognition and surprise register on Lumberjack's
face.

Sam traditionally holds his temper better than all of us combined,
but when he's had enough, he's quite simply, had enough. It looks
like now is that time. Leaning forward, putting himself directly
into Lumberjack's face and reach, his eyes have nothing of the
warmth in them that was there before. His voice is more of a growl
than I have ever heard it, and there are little prickles of
something uneasy along the base of my spine as he tells
Lumberjack, "my suggestion is that you walk away like she asked you
to do several times. The Secret Service would love the chance to
take you out, but not as much as I would."

I can't think of another instance or time when I wouldn't have
laughed heartily to hear Sam make a threat like this. But I'm not
laughing now.

And neither is Lumberjack. Holding Sam's gaze, he backs up and
walks, not quickly mind you, but away, which is all I care about. I
don't know if it's the evidence that we really are connected with
the President, the threat of the Secret Service, or Sam that makes
him go, and I couldn't care less.

The somewhat explosive contents of my stomach have settled for the
most part and my heart has dropped out from under my collarbone. My
foot still hurts though. "Ouch," I say out loud. I am unable to
bring myself to put weight on it.

Sam watches Lumberjack for a second longer with something like
regret etched in the hard lines bracketing his mouth. Then he drops
his head for a moment to fold up the picture of all of us on our
greatest day and slips it carefully back into a credit card slot of
his wallet.

Toby and Josh are a little stunned, standing there as Sam turns back
around, the rage gone out of his face a little, but there's still a
tenseness and an anger that makes him a little less pretty and a
little more rugged and a thousand times more attractive.

Officially as a woman who is perfectly capable of defending herself,
I'm more than a little annoyed by this macho kind of toe-to-toe
chest-thumping contest that just took place.

Unofficially, I put both hands on the back of Sam's neck and give
him a brief kiss on the lips.

Soon, Angelica reappears with two plates of apple pie. One she
throws down before me, with such force that my dessert almost slides
off the plate. The other, she sets carefully before Sam with a
brief, but unmistakable, look of admiration.

"On me," she says. With a smile poorly concealed in the corner of
her mouth.