Chapter Twenty-Five
After two weeks of asking myself hard questions, I spend every minute of the flight to Los Angeles, and the subsequent ride to the hotel where the gala is being held, quietly losing my shit.
With five minutes to spare, I nervously smooth down the silk dress and give myself a critical once over in the hotel room mirror. Maybe it’s too on the nose to wear the dress from the cover shot, but it’s not like I packed another one.
The fact that all I can think about in the elevator is the look on Wes’s face the first time he saw me in it, well, that’s a problem I’m just going to have to ignore. Easier said than done when his ravenous gaze locks on me seconds after I step into the ballroom.
Maybe it was a mistake to wait until tonight to talk to him. Maybe we should have done this over the phone, or FaceTime, or bought a cheap plane ticket. Because I know the second his eyes land on me that if I had let him, Wes would have been on a plane to Colorado weeks ago.
The sight of him in formalwear has the same jarring otherness it did months ago at his friend’s wedding, but his suit is a little loose now.
Tracy was right. He has lost weight. But it’s not just that.
His usual easy confidence has gone brittle, shadows under his eyes and his lips not quite forming a smile as we stare at each other.
Wes moves before I do. His first step is tentative.
Then he’s weaving through the tables and other guests with single-minded determination, using the advantage of his long legs to cut through the crowd with ease.
I should move, step into the hallway, meet him halfway, something.
I remain frozen, my heart pounding with nervous anticipation as I watch him approach.
When he stops in front of me, he sucks in a breath before he says anything. His eyes race over my face, searching and just a little desperate.
The sound of my name in his all-too-familiar husky murmur triggers an avalanche of memories so strong I can’t suppress a shiver. We’re in the middle of a crowded room, and yet everything else, everyone else, falls away.
The ache in my chest turns sharp when I catch a whiff of his spicy citrus scent. The seconds tick away between us, and I need to say something, anything, but all I can do is clasp my hands together to keep from reaching for him.
Wes lifts one hand from his side like he’s going to touch me, but it lands on the back of his neck instead as he says, “I’m so glad you’re here.” His accent bleeds through despite the low tone, thick as honey.
“Me too.” I clear my throat and tighten my fingers around my clutch in the hope they’ll stop shaking. “Wes, I—”
“Sloane! I was wondering where you were,” Tracy says as she rushes up and throws her arms around me. “You look hot!” She steps back, an amused grin curving her lips upward as she glances between me and Wes, and then adds a little too pointedly, “Doesn’t she?”
“Tracy!” I hiss at the same time Wes says, “She always does.” His eyes snap to mine, not quite so frantic now, but no less intense. “Though I’m rather fond of that particular dress.”
My mouth goes dry at the cascade of memories. The yards of pink silk suddenly feel like so much more than a dress as flashes of Wes twirling me on a dirt road, head thrown back in laughter, mingle with the blazing heat of his dark stare in my bedroom, all that silk pooled at my feet.
Tracy’s giggle breaks the intensity of the moment. “Okay, you two, awards first, hot make-up sex later.”
Heat erupts in my cheeks as I sputter, but then Wes laughs.
Not his usual laugh—a hoarse, rusty echo of it, as if he hasn’t worked those particular muscles in a long time.
And then our eyes meet again, and his laughter fades.
He crooks his arm toward me, an invitation and an offer.
I don’t let myself overthink it as I slip my arm into his.
“I have so many things I need to say to you,” Wes murmurs as we wind our way toward our assigned table, too soft for Tracy to hear over the hum of voices filling the room.
The way his accent weaves in and out reminds me far too much of late nights on long stretches of open road and whispers in the dark.
“Right now, I’m just glad you’re here, Sloane. Really fucking glad.”
He pulls out my chair, his warm palm ghosting over my bare back. I lean in just before I sit, my lips close to his ear to make sure he hears me. “Me too.”
Carter Walsh chooses that moment to appear.
There’s a flurry of introductions, and though I’m half holding my breath when he turns to Wes with a wry expression, I don’t miss the way his eyes dart toward me just before he says, “Wes, always good to see you. At least when you’re not interrupting dinner with my wife. ”
“Won’t happen again.” Wes lets his arm rest on the back of my chair as he relaxes into his own. The very tips of his fingers graze between my shoulder blades as he drops his arm, the contact so brief I’m not sure it was intentional. “I promise,” he adds without taking his eyes off mine.
Carter’s low chuckle reminds me that we’re far from alone. I reach for my water and take a long sip while Tracy smirks across the table. Unhelpful, I mouth. Her smirk only grows wider.
The lights dim when Carter moves toward the stage to begin the opening remarks. I barely hear a word he says, not when I’m hyperaware of Wes next to me.
Despite the lingering tension lurking under the surface, it’s no small thing to find that, even with our edges a bit jagged, the part of me that’s always been drawn to Wes is still there.
That when he tugs at his collar and catches my eye, a small, private smile passes easily between us at the shared memory of that Houston wedding months ago.
The night that, looking back, marked the first subtle shift in our atmosphere.
Tracy takes the stage first. Her short speech flies by, and then she’s sinking back into her chair and reaching for her champagne while shooting me a Thank god that’s over look across the table. I mouth back Proud of you with a beaming grin.
Her eyes light up. She points at Wes and then tips her champagne flute toward me with a raised brow I choose to ignore.
And then Wes gets to his feet with one last lingering look in my direction.
“Thank you,” he says, all charm when he grips the edge of the podium and faces the audience.
He gestures to his photo, blown up and resting on an easel beside Tracy’s.
Mine is there too, covered with champagne velvet in preparation for the upcoming grand reveal.
“I know I’m supposed to get up here and tell you about my image, but tonight isn’t about me. It’s about Sloane Michaels.”
The silence that fills the room is more curious than anything, everyone holding their breath right along with me as Wes scans the crowd. He’s not known for his modesty.
“Sloane is as talented as she is driven, with a singular ability to turn images into an allegory for human emotion. You’ll see for yourself in a minute when I shut up.”
He pauses, laughter rippling through the crowd.
This time, when his eyes catch mine, the mask is gone, replaced by the naked vulnerability of regret. Then he turns back to the audience and flashes one of those charming Wild Wes grins. I might be the only one in the room who notices it’s a shadow of the real thing.
“Don’t let the pink dress fool you into thinking she’s anything other than a force of nature. Sloane, get up here and take your well-deserved victory lap.”
I stand automatically and move toward the stage in a daze while applause fills the ballroom.
Wes waits for me by the short flight of stairs, his hand extended like the perfect gentleman.
There’s no way he doesn’t notice how sweaty my palm is when he helps me onto the stage.
Especially when he holds on a few seconds longer than strictly necessary.
My hammering heart drowns out whatever nice things Carter says about my photograph before he pulls the velvet off the print. “Nice dress,” he deadpans into the microphone, offering the audience a wink before stepping back to make room for me.
Far too aware of Wes only feet away, I glance down at my notes. They’re a little smudged from my sweaty palms. Good thing I practiced this speech so much that once I start, muscle memory should take over.
“When I came up with this concept, I was interested in the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction. That’s one of the things that drew me to storm chasing early on.
These storms are as stunning as they are deadly.
The best image of my career”—I gesture to the blown-up photograph behind me—“could also be the worst day of someone else’s life. ”
I swallow hard, unprepared for the memory of Wes, sweaty and exhausted and hefting a chainsaw to help tornado victims. The audience is silent, all those eyes staring up at me.
This isn’t the moment to fall into my own head, and yet I can’t help glancing back at him for just a second.
Eyes shining with emotion, he dips his chin in the tiniest acknowledgment.
“I wanted to capture that dichotomy,” I continue, “and I wanted to do it in a way that evoked both the wildness of the storm and the careful box of femininity. So many women hide their ferocity behind gowns and smiles, but storm chasing is meant to be a little wild. When we’re out there, we’re all part of that storm.
” My eyes flick back to Wes. “The beauty and the destruction.”
I take another breath and turn my attention to the audience before the desperate ache in my chest steals my voice. I thank Carter and the magazine for the opportunity before posing for photos with one of those enormous cardboard checks and the various judges and sponsors.
When it’s time for a shot with all the winners, Wes stands awkwardly at my side. He shifts his weight when his arm brushes mine and mutters an apology before looking away—but not before I catch the flash of pain in his eyes.