Chapter Twenty-One
When I explain the composition I’m considering featuring my dress to Wes the next morning, he lights up.
“Put you out in a field with some lightning and you’d pass for a Valkyrie.
” His gaze roams hungrily over me. “That would make a great contest entry to go with the shot you got yesterday. Let’s do it. ”
“A Valkyrie, huh?” I slash my arm like I’m wielding an imaginary sword and stop just short of pretend-slicing off his head before I relax with a laugh.
“Not far from what I’m envisioning, though.
I just need to find the right spot. I only have”—I glance at the date on my watch—“nine days left to get this right.”
“Let’s focus on that today, then. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try again tomorrow.”
“You need to figure out your shot for the contest too,” I remind him.
“And I will,” Wes assures me with a light kiss on the tip of my nose. “But I’ve got another month of chasing ahead of me. We can focus on you and make sure you get what you need before you have to go home.”
It shouldn’t be a big deal, but the dirty secret of being chronically single is that the only person who makes you a priority is, well, you. To everyone else, there’s always someone more important.
It’s damn good to be Wes’s priority.
The weather sends us northwest in pursuit of a lazily spinning supercell spitting out lightning every couple of seconds. We stop a few times to photograph the storm’s structure from a distance before pushing on in search of the right setup for the shot I have in mind.
I know we’ve found it the second I get out of the car twenty minutes later.
A long stretch of pale gravel road runs straight to the horizon, the storm looming over rich green fields to my left, while off to the right, blue sky peeks out from behind soft white clouds.
The road neatly bisects the wrath of the storm with nature’s more gentle side, allowing me to stand smack in the middle.
I’ve always loved storms in part because no one tells Mother Nature to swallow her rage.
There’s a paradoxical beauty in supercells, in the swirl of the clouds and the turquoises of a powerful storm, in the pinks and oranges and reds that sunset splashes across the towering mass of destruction.
Storms are probably one of the reasons we think of weather in feminine terms—beautiful, yes, but deadly under the surface.
Barefoot in the middle of a country road, wearing an unapologetically vibrant pink dress as a storm rages in the atmosphere high above, I let that same power wash over me.
Sure, it’s just a dress, but it’s the kind of dress my mother has always wielded as a weapon, all romantic lines and yards of fabric flowing out of the bodice to swirl around my legs.
And it’s a color I’ve avoided out here for years, a deliberate attempt to remove anything that might tempt the good ol’ boys club to treat me like anything other than a fellow photographer.
This shot is more than a photo. It’s a reckoning. With my mother. With the photographers who’ve told me to go back to weddings.
And maybe, most of all, with myself.
“Ready?” Wes gently adjusts a strap across my shoulder so that it lies flat and rakes his gaze over me. My resulting shiver has nothing to do with the wind.
I take a deep breath and reach for the end of my braid, remove the elastic, and hand it to Wes to shove in his pocket.
He moves behind me, sifting his fingers through the tangles, taking his time.
When he’s done, he slides his hands down to my bare shoulders and digs his thumbs into the tired muscles until he’s coaxed me into relaxing against him.
“Nervous?”
“Not exactly.” I tip my head back to rest on his shoulder. “It’s just weird, being on this side of the camera.”
Wes brushes loose hair back from my eyes, his expression soft. “You’re amazing, Sloane.”
I raise one brow in a tease. “Me or the dress?”
“The dress is nice, but you could be doing this in muddy leggings and it would still work. You’re so talented.
Talented and determined. You’ve made space for yourself out here, even when the idiots didn’t want to let you.
It doesn’t matter if you’re telling someone else’s love story with their wedding portraits, or if you’re out here telling your story. This is your gift.
“I may not have always known how to tell you in a way you’d hear me, but I’ve always been so impressed by you,” Wes continues. “Today included. This is going to turn out amazing.” He squeezes my shoulders one last time and then straightens. “Where do you want me?”
I gather up the long skirt in one hand before I turn, pausing to rub my thumb along his jaw. From under the rim of his baseball hat, his gaze is reverent. It’s almost overwhelming, having someone believe in me the way Wes does after a lifetime of the opposite.
“Thank you,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his in a light kiss before squaring my shoulders. “Stand here to start so I can test the framing and light.”
I dart over to where I’ve left my camera on the tripod, a heavy weight attached to the bottom to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere in the wind. Peering through the viewfinder, I let out a little squeal of excitement.
The very tip of the inflow band practically points its crooked finger at the spot where the road disappears over the horizon, while to the left a vibrant green field of winter wheat glows under the menacing clouds.
Behind the low-hanging cloud, rain darkens the sky further, turquoise ominously filling the entire left side of the frame, while to the right, blue sky and a hint of sunlight bathe the scene.
“A little to the left,” I call to Wes, watching him move closer to the middle of the road to mark the spot for me.
My goal is to use perspective to block the rest of the road from view with my shoulders, to create the illusion that I’m the only thing standing between the viewer and the storm.
Wes is taller, so I may need to adjust where I stand a little more, but having him as a placeholder is a good start.
I take a test shot of Wes with his legs planted wide, shoulders back. He’s in dark jeans today with his usual black T-shirt, and let’s just say the view from the back is almost as good as the one from the front.
I move to stand directly in front of him, making sure to center myself between his feet so I’m in the same spot I’ve tested. We have plenty of time—this part of the storm looks dramatic, but if a tornado drops, we’re miles away from the potential danger zone.
“Okay.” I breathe out and twist around to give Wes the all clear. “I’m going to take a test shot, and then can you stand here again while I go check it?”
This would be so much easier if I could mark the spot with tape like they do on film sets, but tape and a dirt road don’t exactly work together. Lucky for me, Wes makes a great assistant.
He moves out of the frame and waits for me to trigger the shot using the remote in my palm, and then slides right back into position while I jog back to the camera to review the image.
My position is good, but the exposure is a little too bright for the pink.
I make a few small adjustments, and we repeat the whole process until I’m satisfied.
I set up the interval timer, the shutter clicking away while I return to my spot, anticipation crackling in my veins.
Wes presses a kiss to my cheek before he backs away, his own camera hanging loosely from one hand.
“I’m going to take some shots too. Just for me,” he’s quick to add with a smoldering look.
Beneath the dress, I press my thighs together and hope he chalks up the flush in my cheeks to the heat of the day as I make a shooing motion. “Let’s get the shot. Then you can have your wicked way with me.”
A familiar playful gleam enters his eyes. “You wearing anything under that dress?” He brushes his hand over my hip and sucks in a sharp breath when he doesn’t feel anything but smooth silk. “Fuck, you’re not, are you?”
I shrug, enjoying myself far too much. “Didn’t want to ruin the lines.”
“And you call me a menace,” Wes grumbles, dropping his hand and moving back out of the frame. “Now turn around so you can make your masterpiece.”
Swallowing my laugh, I face the storm, take a deep breath, and relax my shoulders. As if on cue, the wind rises, tossing my hair back over my shoulder and ruffling the full skirt. I’m careful not to move, but when Wes lets out a low whistle, curiosity gets the better of me.
“Good?” I call over my shoulder, careful not to move my feet.
“From the preview that popped up, I think you’re going to be very happy.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, fiddles with it and the camera for a few seconds, and then jogs over to me. “Take a look. I can hold the spot for you again if you want to change anything, but I think you got it.”
My breath catches when I realize he’s used the camera’s Bluetooth to drop the raw image onto his phone so I can see it without disturbing the setup.
And he’s right—the shot is perfect. Exactly what I envisioned when the idea first formed yesterday.
A woman in a delicate pink dress, facing down some of the most powerful weather on the planet.
“This is going to get you that cover,” Wes says, affection and pride coating every word. “It’s a compelling image.”
I glance up, his confidence in me a warm glow deep in my chest. “Come here,” I murmur, and using the remote still tucked into my palm, I restart the intervals right before drawing Wes down into a kiss.
We spend another ten minutes in the same spot, hop back in the car, and repeat the process a couple more times. I’m not sure I like any of the other compositions more than the first setup, but it’s good to have options.