Chapter Twenty-Two
Time passes in fits and starts.
As I dodge ice sculptures and five-foot-high centerpieces, I can’t help comparing the lavish weddings I’m photographing to Matt and Tracy’s low-key ceremony.
These six-figure weddings are visually stunning, but I miss the creativity of a less traditional ceremony as I work through yet another shot list obviously helped along by Pinterest.
I need to get serious about looking into what it will take to shift my business.
It’s a risk—a change in strategy is always going to be a risk.
But if I somehow manage to win the Nature Shots contest, the cash prize could give me the cushion I’d need to be comfortable losing out on some bigger contracts while I get the new venture established.
Nevertheless, wedding weekends go by in a blink.
It’s the nights alone in my bed, or the long stretches of editing in my office, where time slows to a crawl.
I’m not sure if burrowing into the sweatshirt Wes left behind—quite purposefully since I found it folded under my pillow—helps or makes me ache for him even more.
He resumes the tradition of the daily shower selfies, though, and as much as it makes me miss him more, I look forward to the sometimes silly, sometimes steamy nightly reminder that he’s thinking of me.
In the summer heat, it’s not unusual for me to opt for dresses when I’m not working. But the selfies I snap in them and send Wes? Those are all for him.
Missing him is just as hard as I thought it would be. It’s easier too, the little reminders that we’re on each other’s minds soothing the sting of separation. At least until I make a rookie mistake and wear his hoodie to my mom’s.
“I know a man’s clothing when I see it,” she sniffs as soon as I walk in the door.
“Hi, Mom. Nice to see you too.” I don’t bother to choke down the sarcasm. This is the last place I want to be, but Eric and Sam have been good about following the rotation we agreed on when I got home. Today it’s my turn.
“Honestly, Sloane, he might like seeing you in that shapeless thing in your bedroom—cavemen, all of them—but you dress like you’re still a child. Never mind wasting months of your life on that reckless hobby.”
I barely manage to swallow the Are you fucking kidding me and brush past her, heading for the kitchen where she claims to need help changing a light bulb.
As much as I want to give her a piece of my mind, I want to get out of here without a fight more.
Wes will be here tomorrow. I’d much rather focus on that.
“I assume it belongs to tall, dark, and handsome that you refused to introduce me to?” Mom presses, teetering after me into the kitchen. Why she’s got four-inch heels on in her own house, I’ll never understand. “You need to make an effort with a man like that.”
My tenuous hold on my temper falters. “Yes, the sweatshirt belongs to Wes. And you know where I met him, Mom?” I mimic her snide tone. “My reckless hobby.”
“Well, now you’ve caught him, you’ll need to work to keep him.
When was the last time you had a wax?” Mom barrels on.
“I’ll make you an appointment with my girl.
Your hair is so dark. Highlights at minimum, but really, a nice honey blonde could work with your skin.
” She pauses in her litany of my shortcomings long enough to tip her head to the side and scowl at my face.
“I’ll call Dr. Barre too. A little filler will fix that line you’re getting. ”
Amazing the phone calls my mother is capable of when she wants to be. Can’t call a damn lawn service on her own for two months, but the plastic surgeon’s office is probably saved to her favorites for easy access. Typical.
“Mom,” I grind out, the hold on my emotions that’s held for thirty years threatening to finally collapse, “Wes likes me just the way I am. He likes this version of me. Maybe you could try that.”
I might as well be having a conversation with the wall.
She purses her lips, hands on her hips, and shakes her head like I’m the one who can’t seem to keep her life together without someone else constantly picking up the pieces.
“You’re not getting any younger, Sloane.
You need to get that man to marry you before he gets tired of waiting for you to settle down.
Getting pregnant wouldn’t hurt. You don’t want to be alone like me when you’re old.
And don’t sign any prenups. I looked up his family.
Even divorced, you’ll be set for life. Stop wasting time with this silly photography nonsense and focus on the things that matter. ”
I’ve spent nearly all my life holding my emotions back behind a dam when it comes to my mother. And every single brick of that dam has had a steep price, demanding piece after piece of me.
This time, I refuse to reach for another brick. This time, I’m not bracing the dam. I’m blowing it up.
“Because that worked out so well for you, didn’t it?
” I snap, pushing to my feet. “Like I’ve told you a million times, I don’t want kids.
I did my time raising Eric and Sam because you were too busy with your boyfriends.
Stay the hell out of my relationship, Mom.
Go to therapy, figure out your shit, and change your own fucking light bulbs. ”
My heart is beating so fast it’s a miracle I don’t spoil my dramatic exit by passing out.
I ignore my mom’s crocodile tears and insistence that she’s a good mother, that she was there for us when it mattered—laughable—and I keep right on ignoring her when she moves on to the insult portion of the standard performance that comes with not getting her way.
It’s been a couple of years since I last talked to a therapist, but for the duration of my drive home I repeat what the last one told me like a silent mantra. It’s not my fault my mother is emotionally immature. It’s not my job to change her. I can love her and not be her emotional punching bag.
I’m so worked up that when there’s a knock on my door two hours later, I almost don’t answer.
At least until I catch a glimpse of Wes’s SUV through the window.
Then I can’t get there fast enough, flinging the door open so hard it bounces off the wall.
Thankfully it doesn’t hit me. I’m too busy throwing myself at Wes.
“Hi, darlin’,” he murmurs into my hair, his arms bone-crushingly tight around me. “Goddamn did I miss you. I know I’m a day early but I wanted to sur—”
“Early is good,” I interrupt, tipping my head back for a kiss. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
His mouth comes down on mine. Wes tastes like coffee and the candy he’s obsessed with. It’s so achingly familiar that I can’t help deepening the kiss until we’re both panting and possibly in danger of someone calling the cops for lewdness.
It’s only once Wes lets go of me to pick up his bags and come into the house that his eyes narrow. “You’ve been crying.”
“Got into it with my mom.” I can’t help rubbing at my eyes self-consciously despite knowing it will only make the swelling and redness worse. “Usual stuff. Just lost my temper today.”
Wes pulls me back into his arms and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry she doesn’t see the woman I do,” he says softly. “You’re amazing, Sloane.”
I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of dust and sweat and Wes all rolled up into one, then tip my head back to meet his tired gaze. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too. Let’s try to forget about our parents for a few days, yeah?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good.” A devilish glint in his eyes, he lowers himself enough to toss me over his shoulder with a playful smack on my ass. My surprised shriek quickly morphs into giddy laughter when he marches us toward my bathroom. “I desperately need a shower. And you.”
I wake to sunlight pouring into my bedroom and Wes propped up on his side next to me. There’s a steaming cup of coffee on my nightstand, a sure sign he’s been up for a while, but I’m in no rush to leave my bed.
If the last two weeks were our first test, having him here again feels like passing with flying colors. It wasn’t easy. Some nights, alone in my bed, I missed him desperately. But now that he’s here, there’s no awkwardness finding our way back to each other.
We just…fit.
“You watching me sleep?” I tease, poking the relaxed muscle in his chest and turning on my side.
“Maybe.” Wes smooths his palm over my shoulder and down my bare arm. “The light in here is great in the morning.”
“Leave it to you to be thinking about photography while naked in bed.”
His laughter is a low, seductive rumble. “I’ve been thinking about you in that dress on the other side of my lens for the last hour.”
Heat pools low in my belly, sleepiness fading. “You were serious about that?”
“Mmmhmm.” He drags his fingertip along the sheet where it just barely covers my breasts and tugs, his eyes rapt on my skin. “Only if you’re up for it.”
I’ve always preferred being behind the camera to being in front of it. I’ve never really thought about what it might be like to be under it.
Twenty minutes later, Wes has me on my back in the middle of the bed while he stands over me, barefoot and wearing only a pair of unbuttoned jeans. He’s hard, cock straining against his zipper. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I stare and press my thighs together.
I’ve done boudoir sessions for brides in the past, and there’s usually not much about it that I find sexy. My mind is too wrapped up in angles and lighting and the various requests the bride made before the shoot started.
Taking these kinds of photos with Wes in the privacy of my bedroom is something else entirely. The only thing that stops me from pouncing on him is that I want my turn behind the camera.
He groans and drops his arm to the side with his camera dangling from his fingers before sinking to his knees. He’s still hovering over me, thighs spread over mine, the pressure on his zipper dragging it down an inch. “Bite your lip again. And let me just…”