Chapter Twenty-One #2
I shimmy into a pair of leggings and Houdini my way back into a bra and tank top on the side of another dirt road, the car and Wes acting as a privacy screen, before carefully replacing the dress in its garment bag.
“That’s going to need a hell of a dry cleaning.
” I wince at the dust and blades of grass clinging to the hem.
“Sloane, darlin’, the last thing I’m thinking about right now is your dry cleaning.
” Wes backs me up against the car once the door falls shut, caging me in with his hands planted on either side of my shoulders just like the afternoon the migraine took me out.
Except this time, his eyes burn with need.
“And if it’s all right with you, I’d really like to post one of those shots of us together on my social media.
Because not only do you look incredible, but I can’t think of a better way to make it clear that I’m all yours. ”
I don’t think twice about grabbing a fistful of his T-shirt and yanking him into me.
The last week of my chase season passes in a blur.
We cover just over three thousand miles, the storms keeping us on our toes as we race first north, and then south before rushing east, just to hurtle west the following morning.
My days are a frenzy of radar scans and forecast models, craning my neck toward the sky, and snarking at Wes—who snarks right back, mischief behind every playful twist of words.
As for our nights, well, those are a different kind of frenzy altogether.
It’s not a surprise when Tracy and Matt’s wedding photos make the rounds among the broader network of our chaser friends and acquaintances.
What I don’t expect is that suddenly, it’s not only Wes who gets stopped for a chat.
When we pop by an informal picnic being held in the back of a truck stop on Memorial Day, no fewer than ten different people want to talk to me.
Not only about how much they love Tracy and Matt’s photos, but also could I do the same for them?
Not everyone wants to get married in a random farmer’s field, of course.
But just like Wes predicted, there are a lot more couples looking for ceremonies in alpine meadows and on backcountry cliffs than I ever thought.
What starts as a promise to draw up a quote for a wedding someone wants to have on the sand dunes of a nearby national park next year grows into a list of potential clients a dozen deep.
Wes, to his credit, refrains from saying I told you so—but he does get a smug look about him every time someone else comes up to me for the rest of the trip.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
We squeeze every last minute we can out of my final day, lingering to photograph a spectacular sunset that lights up a picture-perfect barber pole supercell.
I couldn’t ask for a better farewell from Mother Nature, but the atmosphere in the car is decidedly melancholy when we pull into my driveway an hour before dawn.
Wes cuts the engine, lets his head drop back into the seat, and turns toward me with a tight smile.
“Home sweet home,” he whispers, every minute of the ten-hour drive in his weary voice.
Our little bubble is about to burst. Even if he lingers with me another night, I have three weddings and an engagement shoot over the next four days to prepare for, a mountain of emails to deal with, and all the other assorted chores that need to be done after being gone for so long.
I blame the sudden urge to cry on lack of sleep and drag myself into the house, Wes at my side.
Within fifteen minutes we’ve collapsed into bed, and though I should be exhausted enough to fall asleep immediately, my eyes stubbornly refuse to shut.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear, his skin warm against my cheek.
He’s got to be tired too, but when I glance up at his face, he’s watching me, eyes gleaming in the faint light leaking around the edges of the curtains.
“Two weeks,” Wes says gruffly, running a knuckle down my cheek. “That’s my limit.”
Despite the sadness threatening to choke me, I push myself up onto an elbow with a teasing smile. “Going to need a little more information there.”
I expect his usual humor. His serious expression doesn’t budge. “I refuse to go more than two weeks without you. I don’t care how many hours I have to drive, or what kind of flights I have to deal with. Two weeks, Sloane. No more.”
A little thrill goes up my spine at his pronouncement. “Okay,” I agree, cupping his jaw and leaning down for a kiss. “Two weeks. We can look at our schedules in the morning.” I glance wryly at the pale light seeping around the edge of the curtains. “The later morning.”
Wes hums his agreement, wrapping his arms around me and shifting my weight so I’m sprawled across him. These kisses are comfort and relief and care, soothing the anxious tension that’s been humming along in the background since we woke up knowing it was our last day of chasing together.
This time, when I settle with my head tucked under his chin, sleep is waiting.
Wes is as reluctant to leave as I am to let him go. We stay in bed an hour longer than we should and then linger over breakfast, sipping coffee on my porch in the warm morning air. My attention snags over and over again on the repaired step, an indelible sign that he was here.
It’s only when I recognize I’m getting emotional over a stair tread that it sinks in just how much it’s going to suck to watch Wes drive away, even with plans to see each other in two weeks.
He’ll still be out chasing, but we block out a few non-wedding weekdays for him to either hop on a quick flight or drive back, depending on where the storms take him.
We add a plane ticket to Houston for me at the end of June, when Wes will return home for a week or two before heading for monsoon season in Arizona.
Once plans are made, showers are taken, dishes are washed, and his car is repacked, we’re out of excuses. I have errands and emails waiting for me, none of which will go any faster distracted by six-plus feet of sexy charm in my house.
“Going to be weird being in the car alone again,” Wes says gruffly when I walk him out to the driveway. He leans back against the driver’s door and pulls my hips flush to his. “All I want to do right now is kidnap you.”
With my palms flat on his chest, I lean my forehead onto his shoulder and laugh into his T-shirt. And maybe sneak one more big breath of his intoxicating scent. “Kidnapping probably wouldn’t be a satisfactory excuse for my clients if I don’t show up for their weddings.”
His arms tighten around me, hard enough that my breath catches, but I don’t ask him to loosen his hold. The pressure feels good. Proof that he’s going to miss me as much as I’m going to miss him.
“I’ll call you when I get to wherever I stay tonight,” Wes promises, nuzzling his cheek against my hair. “How late will you be up?”
“Call even if it’s late.” I tip my head back so I can catch his heavy gaze under the shadow of his hat. “I don’t have to leave until ten tomorrow. I can sleep in a bit.”
“Okay. One more kiss for the road.” Wes bends, and though I’m expecting a quick kiss, he doesn’t care that we’re in full view of my neighbors.
Tongues and teeth and need explode between us like it might be years before we see each other instead of eleven days.
Not that I have much room to talk when I’m clinging to him like a barnacle the whole time.
When Wes finally loosens his hold, I take a step back and fold my arms around myself to keep from reaching for him again. “You should go or you’ll miss the storms.”
“I gotta tell you, Sloane, in this moment?” He doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second. “I don’t really give a damn about storms.”
There’s so much emotion packed into the quiet words that I almost ask him not to go.
The way he’s looking at me, longing and tenderness and something more in the line of his lips, I think he’d stay if I asked him to.
Blow off chasing and spend every minute we can together in between my client work.
Linger with me in the happy bubble I never thought I’d find, just a little longer.
“I had the time of my life chasing with you this season, Wes, but we both know you need to go,” I say gently. “This only works between us if we can go back to our normal lives without everything falling apart.”
“I know. And you’re right. I just…” Wes sighs, one hand on the door handle. “I’m going to miss you like hell, Sloane.”
“I’m going to miss you too.” I take a shaky breath.
“Now go away.” I make a shooing motion with my hand, smile to soften my words, and try not to cry when he finally backs out of the driveway.
I have far too much to do to lose time to a little breakdown, and besides, there’s no reason for it.
Wes will be back in less than two weeks. I’ll be too busy to even notice.
“Get it together, Sloane,” I tell myself as I head back in the house, purposely stepping on the repaired stair. I have a mountain of things to do to distract me. He’ll be back before I know it.