Chapter Seven
Monday dawns blistering, baking the road and us along with it. Wes and I are both up early, buzzing with energy ahead of what looks to be a big day. Multiple storms. Likely multiple tornadoes.
The long hours in the car yesterday after our detour to Carlsbad—the bats were kind enough to put on a show for us—pay off. We’re in a good position, maybe an hour or two away from our target area, once things get going in the afternoon.
To kill time, we find a tiny local coffee shop that makes the most incredible iced cherry mocha I’ve ever gotten my hands on. I pair it with one of the largest cinnamon buns I’ve ever seen.
Wes shakes his head as we settle in at one of the café tables. “If I knew all it took to make you stop scowling was some decent coffee, I’d have thrown a French press at you ages ago.”
I laugh the comment off and shove a bite of cinnamon roll into my mouth. It’s nothing different from what he’s said to me before. I’m too serious. I need to relax. Try to have more fun.
Except Wes isn’t actually poking at me this time, is he?
I frown into my coffee, wondering when he started to care about my mood—or if I’m just sleep-deprived and reading more into it because of that stupid kiss I need to stop thinking about.
Especially when Wes licks away a trace of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
Thankfully, once we sink into our work, I mostly forget about him.
I’ve been ignoring my business email since my break started, but I try to still go in every week or two to clear it out.
I groan when I open my inbox and see one bride has sent no less than twenty messages over the last week.
The latest one is an all-caps ANSWER ME!
!!!! that makes me want to throw my laptop into traffic.
“Everything okay?”
Not realizing my groan was loud enough to get Wes’s attention, I wave off his concern. I’m not unloading my tale of burnt-out wedding photographer woe on him. “Just a cranky client who can’t read.”
“You get a lot of those?”
I shrug. “Weddings stress people out. Most women are told from the time they’re toddlers that it’s the single most important day of their life. I get why they freak out the way they do sometimes. Comes with the territory.”
“Maybe you need new territory.”
“Some of us don’t have a trust fund, and I’m fresh out of magic wands.” I take a long sip of my coffee before I say something I’ll regret. Wes and I are going to be spending too much time together for me to fire back at him full tilt. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
He scowls at me across the table. “You say that like I don’t have clients of my own.” I must do a poor job of hiding my surprise because his frown deepens. “You really think I just sit on my ass all year, don’t you?”
I shift uncomfortably. I’m aware of Wes’s commercial work, but I’ve always assumed he got those jobs trading on his daddy’s connections, not the usual grind most professional photographers go through to work their way up to high-profile clients.
Wes laughs under his breath, a humorless puff of air. “That campaign I shot last year is getting national placement. A trust fund didn’t do that. I earned it. I know how to work for the things I want, Sloane.”
“I’m sure your family name helps.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw, his expression turning cold. “My family had nothing to do with it. Trust me, if my father had his way, I wouldn’t even own a camera.”
There’s a depth to the undercurrent of anger in Wes’s voice that makes me want to comfort him, but getting personal about his feelings—especially if his relationship with his dad is anywhere near as complicated as mine with my mom—is a step in the wrong direction.
It’s better for everyone if Wes stays in the tidy little box I’ve labeled reckless and shallow.
“Fine, but weddings are very different from commercial work,” I remind him, steering the conversation away from the family minefield.
“I know.” Wes lets out a short breath that’s not quite a sigh. “I’m just saying you seem more and more stressed out every year. Do you even like shooting weddings anymore?”
I stare at him and wonder why he’s pressing the issue. First he wants me to be happy, and now he’s concerned about my stress levels. I didn’t know Wes even paid enough attention to notice if I’m stressed out or not.
“I’m good at what I do,” I say slowly.
He yanks his hat off long enough to jerk his hand through his hair and jam it back on. “That wasn’t…Never mind.”
His visible frustration leaves me feeling like an asshole for not answering. We’re not having one of our drive-by insult contests on the side of the road. His question wasn’t unreasonable.
“There’s nothing quite like the way a couple looks at each other in that first moment of the ceremony,” I say quietly. “Even when everyone is stressed out, for the most part, it all falls away for them when they finally see each other. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.”
It also gives me hope that maybe one day I’ll meet someone who looks at me like that—but that’s far too personal to tell Wes.
He gives me a long, skeptical look. He must decide I’m not worth arguing with and goes back to his own work, leaving me to mine.
It’s a relief to close out of my email and switch back to photo editing. I’d much rather spend twenty minutes cleaning up yesterday’s freehand lightning shot, fussing with the tiniest adjustments to shadows and highlights to make the storm’s structure really pop, than answer another email.
Wes’s phone buzzes over and over as the morning wears on.
He ignores it at first, his eyes glued to his laptop and his leg bouncing as he works.
With his Longhorns hat flipped backward and short sleeves exposing the tattoos on his forearms, he looks more like Wild Wes than ever, even if we are plunked in the middle of a coffee shop.
My attention strays to the ink. Usually we’re moving around too much for me to get a good look, but today I have the time to study the designs.
There’s a collection of what appear to be stamp marks on the inside of one forearm.
I lean closer, trying to figure out what they are, when Wes chuckles under his breath and twists his arm so the designs are more visible.
There’s no point in pretending he hasn’t caught me. “Passport stamps?”
He nods, already stretching out his other arm for me to inspect the tattoo there. “Seemed like a good way to commemorate my more memorable travels. Paddling the Colorado was pretty special, though, so it got its own.”
The detail work is incredible. What at first appears to be the meandering path of a river curling around his arm is shaded with tiny details suggesting canyon slots, the curl of campfire smoke, a tent, and a smattering of wildflowers growing along a riverbank.
My hand is halfway extended to trace the images before I snatch it back.
Wes lifts a brow. “I’m not going to bite if you touch me, Sloane.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
We both know I’m lying, but he doesn’t push the issue.
I go back to my laptop. He goes back to his.
At least until his phone starts ringing a few minutes later.
He snatches it up, glances at the screen, and shoves it in his pocket without responding.
For how outgoing he is, the move piques my curiosity instantly. “Spam?”
Wes lets out a sharp noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff.
“Yeah,” he says, shadows lurking in his voice.
“That’s a good way of putting it.” He closes his laptop and yawns like a bear after winter hibernation.
“We should head out soon. I’m going to grab another coffee for the road.
Want another one of those cherry chocolate things? ”
“Sure.” I start to hand him cash, but he waves me off and goes back to the counter.
I don’t put up a fight. I’m not about to turn down a freebie coffee.
Especially not when my phone lights up with yet another text from my mom, who’s been sending me links to wallpaper designs I’ve ignored all morning.
She claims she’s going to redo her powder room.
Translation? She’s going to buy a bunch of stuff, moan about the cost of hiring a contractor for four months, and then guilt me into doing the majority of the work.
I’ll take all the chocolate I can get.
Today is going to be the real test of whether or not Wes and I can chase together.
Yesterday’s storms had nothing on what conditions are due to spit out today, the heat and humidity setting up a tinderbox.
I want to get my shot as much as anyone else, but I’ll be damned if I let him put me in a bad situation because he doesn’t know when to back off.
I accept my coffee with a smile of thanks, and when we stop to top off the tank and give the windshield a good scrub an hour later, I impulsively grab a bag of the candy he’s obsessed with and tuck it under my cheese sticks.
We show up at the register a tale of two personalities. There’s me with my somewhat healthy snacks, while Wes is clutching two different kinds of energy drinks, three different types of candy, and a family-size bag of Doritos.
At my dubious glance, he just grins. “You’ll thank me later when you’re tired and want something unhealthy,” he says as we head back out into the heat.
“Did you not see that massive cinnamon bun I already ate?” I stop next to the car and toss him the blue bag of candy. “But since you clearly never have enough…”
Wes snatches the Nerds Gummy Clusters out of the air with a surprised laugh. “You bought these for me?”
I shrug. “You bought me a coffee.”
“You sure it’s not that you secretly like this stuff too?” He grins, a little too pleased.
I scrunch my nose with exaggerated distaste. “Pure sugar and violently orange fake cheese? No thanks.”
“Yeah, okay, so when you ask for some in an hour, I should remind you that you don’t actually want them.”