Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m not sure I handle being separated from Wes particularly well, but at least my clients are thrilled with the much-faster-than-expected turnaround for their edits.
Also, my house has never been so clean. I even find time to call Tracy and talk about nothing when she’s sitting around waiting for storms as she and Matt finish out the season.
I load my lightning-tornado-rainbow photo to the Nature Shots contest page a week before the deadline, glass of wine in hand.
Taking an extra-large gulp of wine, I hesitate with my finger hovering over the submit button.
On my other monitor, the dress shot is still open from my last-minute waffling on which photo to go with.
Wes thinks I look like a mythical creature in that dress.
With the storm raging in front of me, complete with a distant though distinct lightning bolt, I can’t say I disagree.
It’s a modern take, sure, without the armor or sword or shield—or mythical wings—but the image does invoke a sense of power and defiance.
It’s telling a story, but I’m still not convinced it’s the right story for Nature Shots to choose me.
Maybe things would be different if I had the option to send both shots, if I could take the chance while still having a “safe” photo in the running, but the rules are clear.
Only one photo per photographer. Only one chance to get it right.
And whether I wish it were different or not, the less overtly feminine option is the obvious choice.
Decision reaffirmed, I click submit, finish my wine, and put myself to bed after sending Wes a Can’t wait to see you text.
Humming to myself two endless days later, mood buoyed by the promise of Wes waiting on the other end of the short flight to Houston, I throw on the same maxi dress I wore the first time he stayed with me.
I can chalk up the flush in my cheeks to the heat of the hair dryer, but the sparkle in my eyes is all anticipation.
Especially when I remember our text exchange last night.
I have a surprise for you when you get here.
I hate surprises.
I think you’re going to like this one…
Shivering at the promise, I grab my phone to order an Uber to the airport. Habit has me tapping on my email for a last-minute check for anything urgent from clients. Thankfully, there’s nothing I need to deal with, but there is an email from Nature Shots.
Curious what they would be emailing about so soon, I open the email—only for my stomach to drop through the floor.
Dear Ms. Michaels…regret to inform you…violation of contest rules…previously submitted…disqualified.
Convinced there must be some mistake, I blink a few times and try to read the message again.
I’ve been disqualified for violating the rules against submitting more than one image per photographer, except that’s impossible.
I triple-checked my submission. There was only one file with one image attached.
Which is when I notice the file attachments at the very bottom of the email. One is the file I submitted. The other is labeled Valkyrie.jpeg.
“No,” I whisper, my thumb shaking as I tap to download the attachment. “Wes wouldn’t…”
Except he must have, because there I am, pink dress billowing in the wind, lightning in the distance.
Wes is the only one I sent a copy of the finished photo to. For his personal collection. How did they even get it when we can only submit one photo each?
Except as soon as the thought passes, I remember how basic the submission form was.
There were only a handful of fields: name of photographer, email address of the photographer, name of image, and date the image was taken.
Nowhere did it ask for the name of the person submitting the file.
Anyone with the link could, theoretically, upload whatever they wanted.
Uber forgotten, I dial with shaking fingers. Betrayal burns hot as I listen to the phone ring once, twice, and then there’s Wes and his oh-so-casual “Hey, darlin’, everything all right with your flight?” like he hasn’t been sneaking around behind my back.
“How could you?” Tears I don’t bother trying to wipe away spill down my cheeks. “I told you when you were here that I was going with the other shot. I told you it wasn’t your decision to make!”
There’s a long beat of silence followed by his sigh.
“I know that. And I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you.
All of your photos are stunning, Sloane, but I wanted to give the judges the chance to pick between them.
I thought it would be a nice surprise if it was chosen, and if not, well, it wouldn’t hurt anything. ”
“Wouldn’t hurt anything?” The bitter noise that comes out of my throat isn’t precisely a laugh. “You deliberately violated the contest rules.”
“I didn’t—” Wes cuts himself off. There’s a rustle of fabric, the sound of footsteps cutting through the sudden silence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally says, his accent thickening in an emotional tell I wish I didn’t recognize.
There’s only one reason he would say those words in that tone of voice. It’s so typically Wes that it all makes a horrible kind of sense.
“I know you sure as shit weren’t listening on the call when Carter went over them, but I—quite foolishly it seems—assumed that for something this important, you would, I don’t know, go back and read the fucking rules,” I seethe.
Wes sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry. I obviously missed—”
“Did you read the fucking rules, Wes?” I cut in.
I don’t need to hear excuses while my heart slowly fractures piece by piece.
“Or did you just go off half-cocked and do what you wanted to do without any thought to how it might impact me?” I don’t give him a chance to reply before spitting out, “I’ve been disqualified.
For duplicate entries. Because the rules very clearly stated one entry per photographer. ”
“Shit. I…I’m so sorry, Sloane. There’s never been a limit before and I…well, that doesn’t matter. This is obviously my fuckup. Let me call them. I’ll explain, and by the time you get here, it will all be straightened out.”
I shake my head and scowl when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Hair styled, makeup perfect, a dress that shows off my curves and the nip of my waist. I wasted my entire morning trying to look extra nice for a man who couldn’t even read a goddamn email.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since the day I lost my temper on her, but somehow, it’s still her snide voice in my head screaming I told you this would happen.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come to Houston right now.”
“Sloane, please.” Wes’s voice cracks, raw emotion pouring over the line. “The last thing I was trying to do was screw things up for you. I can fix this.”
“It’s not just the rules.” I shake my head, wiping tears away with sharp, jerky motions. “I told you this wasn’t your decision. I told you why I didn’t want to submit the photo. I trusted you.”
“I know. It’s just…” He takes a long breath.
“Not reading the rules is my bad, and I’m going to call them and explain that.
But that photo is stunning. The concept, the composition, the technical pieces.
It belongs on that cover. You belong on that cover.
I get why you’re pissed at me, and I deserve that, but I was trying to help,” he insists, something desperate creeping into his voice. “Please, Sloane.”
Unbelievable. Even now, when I’ve been disqualified because of him, Wes is still trying to tell me he knows best. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m the idiot who started sleeping with him and let lust alter my perception. Underneath it all, he’s the same guy he’s always been.
“Yeah, well.” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh, the soundtrack of a dream crumbling.
“That’s not happening now, is it? One photo per photographer.
They were very clear.” I pause and then, through clenched teeth, ask the question I already know the answer to.
“How many photos did you submit for yourself, Wes? More than one?”
“I haven’t sent mine in yet. I have a few narrowed down and was going to ask you to help me decide tonight when you got in.” He hesitates, and then in a whisper-soft voice pleads, “Please get on the plane. We can talk about this when you get here.”
I don’t care that he’s practically begging, desperation tightening his words. It’s too little, and it’s way too late. “You’re out of your mind if you think that’s happening after what you just cost me.”
“I can fix it,” Wes repeats. “I’ll call Carter Walsh right now and tell him it’s entirely my fault. Just…please don’t shut me out.”
I almost cave, the way his voice cracks a battering ram against my freshly re-guarded heart. Then I think about the parade of men and endless tears pouring down my mom’s face every time one of them left for good. It was never the first time they made her cry.
This is the first time I’ve cried over Wes, and I’ll be damned if it’s not the last.
“That’s just it.” I strip all the emotion out of my voice.
Tears might still be pouring down my cheeks, but I learned a long time ago how to fall apart behind closed doors only after doing what needs to be done.
“There’s nothing else to say. You think you’re above the rules.
You’ve always thought you were above them.
Wild Wes strikes again. I refuse to get caught in the crossfire of your shitty choices. ”
“If you’re not getting on that plane, I’ll come to you.” Keys jingle softly in the background, a sound far too merry for the way each word scrapes out of him like broken glass. “Whatever it takes to make this right, I’ll do it. You’re too important to me. Making this right is too important to me.”
“You knew how much this contest meant to me. You knew how badly I wanted to win entirely on my own merit. I didn’t want your help. I didn’t need your help.” I let out a shuddering breath and add, “I don’t need you.”