Chapter Eight #2
“Sloane?” As I start to move around him, Wes curls his fingers around my wrist in a gentle hold I could easily break but don’t. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing across my skin with searing gentleness.
“Not like you were getting in my car covered in mud,” I say with a forced laugh. With my thoughts already so jumbled, he’s being far too serious for me to handle. “Besides, I’m hungry.”
Wes doesn’t let go. “I know I’m a pain in the ass. You could have left me in Colorado. You probably should have.”
“You aren’t a pain in the ass,” I grumble, surprised to find it’s not just people-pleaser-Sloane saying it. “Occasionally irritating, sure, but so am I.”
“You do love your rules,” he agrees, but it’s not a criticism. Not when he says it in that warm, affectionate voice, full of humor. “Don’t suppose you have a trash bag for all these wipes in your Girl Scout collection of supplies?”
When we get back to cell service, a voicemail pops up from my brother. Wes’s windows came in, but there’s glass stuck in the door mechanism so it’s going to be at least a couple more days.
“Not really in a rush at this point.” Wes shrugs in the passenger seat, his expression lit by the harsh glare of the parking lot lights as we pull into the hotel. “Unless of course you want to get rid of me. Totally cool if you do.”
I frown, something about the way he says it twisting uncomfortably. I’m not thrilled about how close my car—with us inside it—came to going for a swim, but that aside, I like having Wes around more than I expected.
“I don’t want to get rid of you,” I say firmly. And then, to prevent things from turning too serious, I add, “As long as you don’t try to make friends with another mud pit.”
He laughs and the moment passes. “Not looking to repeat that anytime soon. You mind telling your brother he can take his time? If you’re okay keeping me, that is.”
“We’ll end up back out that way eventually,” I say, ignoring the fact that it’s the second time in as many minutes Wes has slipped a self-deprecating comment into the conversation. I’m not sure he even realizes how frequently he implies he’s not worth keeping around.
I quickly text Eric that we’re not going to be back for at least another week. My brother replies with a string of question marks. I ignore him. It’s chase season. What else would we be doing out here?
“I obviously need a shower in the worst way.” Wes slings his camera bag over his shoulder and reaches for his duffel at the same time I go for mine, and there’s an awkward pause before he adds, “Give me half an hour and we can grab dinner.”
I nod my agreement. I may not have fallen into a ditch, but helping him clean up left me grimy too. I could use a quick shower—and a few minutes to myself.
I let out a long, slow breath once I’m in the quiet dark of my room.
Leaning back against the cold of the metal door, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind of thoughts of Wes, anxiety about the contest, worry about what my brothers are or aren’t doing for my mom back home, and all the other stresses piling up in the dark corners of my thoughts.
If only counting to ten actually made any of those problems disappear.
At least the shower is hot and clean, with great water pressure.
Once I start to relax, it doesn’t take long for my thoughts to drift back to all the little digs Wes has made over the last week at his own expense.
I’ve always thought of him as a talented photographer too arrogant for his own good.
What if I was wrong? What if it hasn’t been arrogance at all?
I emerge in a cloud of steam, scrubbed clean but without any answers. Impulsively, I grab my phone and text Tracy. Matt would probably be the better choice, but he’s also more likely to tell Wes.
How well do you actually know Wes?
What do you want to know? I can ask Matt.
I frown, suddenly unsure if I want to talk about my suspicions with her when she’s likely to tell Matt about our conversation. If Wes is masking his insecurities, he has his reasons. Just something he said.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and then pops up again before Tracy finally sends a reply. Seems like it’s going well. How long do you think you’ll be chasing together?
That’s the million-dollar question. I sigh, toying with my phone before I send an answer. Not sure. Just taking it one day at a time. And then, to push the conversation to a safer topic, I add, He fell in a ditch today. Always possible he finally takes himself out and solves the problem for me.
He fell in a ditch and you let him back in your car?! Also, where are the pictures?
Only after he stripped and used an entire package of wipes to clean off most of it.
Tracy’s typing bubble appears and disappears a few times before she sends back, Did you help or just enjoy the view?
The memory of skin and ink and muscle and mud pops into my mind far too easily. It was faster to help.
I bet he appreciated that.
My face burns at the implication. I hastily send back a reply to make it clear that there is absolutely no appreciation happening between us. And then have a small panic attack that I sent the text to the wrong person when Wes himself pops up in my notifications.
Thankfully, I did send the text to Tracy, but my heart rate doesn’t exactly return to normal at the sight of Wes, eyes closed under a spray of water in the shower, a soft smile curving his lips.
The photo cuts off halfway down his chest, but I am once again painfully aware that he’s sending me naked selfies.
Finally, a Wes-sized shower! My vanquished mud monster thanks you for the hotel selection.
Despite myself, I let out a snort of laughter and set my phone aside to get dressed and absolutely not think about him in the shower.
Judging from the parking lot, we’re not the only chasers staying here tonight, so I throw on a clean pair of black leggings and a loose T-shirt before twisting my damp hair into a tight braid.
Ignoring the notification from Tracy that looks like nothing more than a string of laughing emojis, I carefully avoid looking at the shower selfie again and text Wes that I’m good whenever he is.
Bring your camera. I want to see those photos you took of me, he texts back. I’ll be down in five.
More like he probably wants to delete them, but I already transferred copies to my portable hard drive while I was showering. Grinning to myself, I grab the camera and memory card, and take the stairs down to the lobby.
Wes strolls in a minute later, roadside mud monster replaced by snug dark-wash jeans and a fitted T-shirt that brings out the blue flecks in his eyes.
His hair is still damp, and when he sinks down next to me, I’m suddenly surrounded by soap and spice and a hint of citrus.
It’s far more appealing than it should be.
“Feel better?” I can only hope he doesn’t hear the strain in my voice as much as I do.
“You have no idea.” He turns toward me with a grimace. “That mud was in places it had no business being.”
“Guess you’ll have to be more careful next time,” I tell him while resisting the mental image of all that bare skin. “You good with just walking to the place across the parking lot? Not like there’s many choices.”
Wes pushes to his feet and holds a hand out to help me off the small couch. It’s not like I need help standing, but I let him tug me up anyway.
The temporary coolness left behind in the wake of the storm has given way to a sultry night. Hot, sticky air presses in around us as we cross to the local steakhouse, which is delightfully air-conditioned.
Inside, it’s no surprise that Wes’s entrance attracts attention, not only from the female hostess and servers, but also the dozen or so chasers.
The more surprising part is that he doesn’t seem interested in holding court, offering little more than smiles and a few generically friendly words to anyone who calls out to him as we’re led to our table.
It’s only when he eases into the booth across from me that I notice how stiffly he’s moving. “Hey, you all right?”
His grimace quickly transforms into an easygoing grin I’m beginning to think is his go-to expression to hide behind. “Nothing a margarita won’t fix.”
“Wes.”