Chapter Eight #3
There’s a long pause where he stares at me, expression unreadable, before the smile slips.
“I came down hard when I fell. Nasty bruise, but nothing to be done about it. I’ll ice it when I get back to my room.
” He laughs, though this time I think it’s genuine when he raises a brow at me.
“Hopefully that’s the end of my injuries this season,” he says, gesturing to the barely formed scabs on his face.
“It better be.”
Wes studies me, his head tipping slightly to the side before the grin is back. “I’m so touched that you care.”
“Losing a day of chasing to find an urgent care is not on the agenda.” I’m pretty sure he knows I’m lying.
The server interrupts long enough to take our order.
When Wes opts for a watermelon margarita, I shrug and order one too.
It’s not the drink I’d have picked for him, but there’s something weirdly attractive about a guy who looks like he could bench press me getting a fruity drink and not giving a shit.
To distract myself, I grab my camera and scroll back to the beginning of the day’s shots. “You wanted to see those photos?” I ask with a faux-innocent flutter of my eyelashes.
He snorts out a laugh and curls his long fingers around the camera one-handed. We fall silent, him scrolling through my photos, me checking my email and sending another round of out-of-office reminders.
I look up at his muttered curse. “I knew it was bad,” he muses, shaking his head at himself, “but damn. You mind sending me these? My mom will get a kick out of them.”
My mom would use a photo like that as a launchpad for a tirade.
It must be nice that he has a good relationship with his, though I can’t help noticing that the only times Wes has said anything positive about his family, it’s been about his mom.
The only mention he made of his father was laced with hurt and anger.
Not that this is the time or place to get into family skeletons.
“Oh, I was going to send them to the group chat later.” I widen my eyes with false innocence. “You can download them from there.”
I expect him to be annoyed. Wes just laughs before he agrees, “Yeah, that works.” Then he turns the camera around, and though I’m expecting it to still be on the mud shots, he’s got one of the daisy photos pulled up.
It’s framed to give the illusion of the flowers sitting at the base of the rainbow where a pot of gold should be.
“You have a great eye. This is really beautiful.”
I shrug, shutting my camera off and carefully putting it down on the seat next to me before reaching for my drink. “It’s not bad, but it’s not good enough for the contest.”
“Give yourself more credit. I know we talk shit, but you’re talented, Sloane.”
The dangerously soft tone of his voice has me fidgeting in my seat. “I’m not the one with my stuff already published by Nature Shots,” I say, hoping to deflect the conversation away from me.
“Not yet,” Wes says firmly. His eyes lock on mine and hold me in place with an intense stare. “You could win this cover contest just as easily as I could.”
It’s nothing I haven’t told myself, but coming from him, the praise sits awkwardly in my stomach. “Or they just invited me, Tracy, and a couple other female photographers so the optics weren’t overtly sexist.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw, but before Wes can say whatever is about to come out of his mouth, I flash a tight smile. “I’m going to run to the bathroom. Watch my camera?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, the frustration lingering in his voice at odds with the easy words.
A splash of cold water on my face helps. The three guys standing in my way when I head back toward the table, not so much.
“Hey, can I get by?”
They’re somewhere around my age, maybe a year or two older. One gives me a not-at-all subtle up and down. “You’re the chick with Talbot this season?”
“Wes is chasing with me for now.” I’m sure the distinction is lost on him, but it makes me feel a little better. I start to slide around them, but then another one steps into my path.
“I wouldn’t let my girl out of the house in leggings like that. Surprised Talbot is okay with it.”
I don’t bother explaining that Wes has absolutely no say over my wardrobe or that we’re not even together in the way this asshole is implying. It won’t do any good. There’s only one language a guy like this understands.
“Your wife must not like leggings,” I say with a shrug.
He scoffs. “I’m not married.”
I turn my voice syrupy sweet. “I can’t imagine why that is.”
He starts to sputter, anger darkening his expression. I’ve surprised him enough that I manage to dart around the three of them and slide back into the booth. Wes raises one brow and nods toward the group. They look away as soon as they realize he’s staring.
“What did they say to you?”
“Nothing important.” I take a long sip of my margarita to stall for time. More collected, I manage a smile that must look genuine enough for him to back off. “They’re fans of yours. I told them you were in a bad mood tonight so they’d leave us alone.”
Doubt etched into the line between his brows, Wes looks at me for a long time without saying a word.