Exasperated, I don’t bother to look up. “Yeah, okay, let me just go throw on a dress so when I bend over to get a close-up, I can give grandma a close-up of my ass at the same time.”
Wes’s laughter turns choked. He sets his glass down with athunkand coughs a few more times. When I glance up, his face has gone red. With one finger pointing accusingly at his unfinished drink, he rasps, “That really burns going down the wrong way.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” I wave my hand vaguely toward the rest of the guests. “Go terrorize a bridesmaid.” I narrow my eyes and smile sweetly. “Those stilettos look…pointy.”
Wes doesn’t move. He stares long enough that I have to fight the urge to fidget before he asks, “You hear about theNature Shotscontest?”
“Yep.” I curse under my breath when my hand slips, slashing a line across the bride’s face. Nothing a littleundowon’t fix, but I need to get rid of Wes if I’m going to have the preview gallery ready tonight. I have no idea why he’s decided to chat me up, but then again, this is the same man who regularly attends the Sweetwater rattlesnake roundup each spring. I stopped trying to figure out why he does half the crazy stuff he does years ago.
“Are you entering? They must have invited you.”
Leaving the bride momentarily disfigured, I level a glare across the table. There’s nomust haveabout it. In the twenty years thatNature Shotshas been in publication, not once has a female photographer been featured on the cover.
“Yes, I’m going to enter.” I don’t bother asking if he was invited. Of course he was. He may not have graced the cover, but his work has appeared in the pages of the magazine a half dozen times. Despite knowing he’s likely to win, I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to beat him.
“That mean you’re not bailing early this year? I told you if you left last year, you’d regret it. That High Plains magic gets better every season.”
Shoving a sharp breath out of my nose, I try not to otherwise react. The worst part is that he isn’t wrong—Ididregret leaving, but I also didn’t have a choice. It’s bad enough that as a wedding photographer I close my books for the month of May. In June, when the storms tend to shift north into the High Plains, with their lush rolling hills, I have weddings bookedevery Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night. There are even a few Thursday ceremonies, not to mention several dozen engagement shoots crammed in around everything else. I work practically nonstop, and the cover contest isn’t going to change the fact that weddings pay my bills.
“Just because you need three months doesn’t mean I can’t make it work in six weeks,” I tell Wes with a syrupy smile.
The muscles in his throat flex as he swallows more alcohol, but to my surprise, he ignores the barb. “You think it’s going to be an active season? Last year was kind of quiet.” He flashes me a goading grin. “Except that June system.”
There it is.
Momentarily forgetting that my clients paying me many thousands of dollars may walk up at any second, I finally give Wes what he wants: my full attention in the form of a murderous glare.
“I’m trying to work,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I know it’s very hard for you to comprehend that there are things in life that don’t revolve around you, but someone else’s wedding day istheirday. I’m here to capturetheirmemories to the very best of my ability. You might think weddings are beneath you, but I’m good at what I do.”
Wes’s usual smile full of practiced charm slips a notch. “I never said that.”
“Right. I totally made up yourI’d get so bored shooting nothing but flowers and cakes and people pretending they like each other in fancy clothes all yearcomment? Or maybe it was the time you told me that the nice thing about tornadoes is they don’t argue about discounts?”
“Well, they don’t,” Wes says with a chuckle, polishing offthe rest of his drink. He shrugs, the movement pulling his shirt snug against his broad chest. “I guess I’ll see you on the road next week. Try to remember weddings are supposed to be fun, yeah?”
“For guests. Weddings are fun forguests.” I give him a long look over the top of my laptop. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be having fun, not hanging out with the help.”
Wes shakes his head as he pours himself onto his feet in a motion that shouldn’t be so smooth for a man of his size. “Sloane, you are a great many things, but you arenotthe help. I’ll see you next week.”
The fact that I can’t tell if he’s being sincere or screwing with me like usual is absolutely the reason I watch him walk away. It definitely has nothing to do with the snug fit of his tailored pants or the weirdly warm sensation in my chest—one that quickly cools when he looks back over his shoulder, catches me watching, and throws back a smug wink.
While I can’tthink of a way to makeI will be traveling onpersonal business April 16th through May 30th. Email responses may take several weeks during this time. I am fully booked through the end of the yearany clearer, I’m sure someone is still going to miss the bright pink, bold lettering splashed across the top of my website. That’s future Sloane’s problem.
With the website updated, the last thing that stands between me and six weeks of storm chasing is to finish the edits from the Houston wedding and send the final photos off to the newlyweds.
Yawning and reaching for my long-cold coffee, I rub my tired eyes and bring up the next image, only to blink at the screen. Wes is in the background of a photo of the couple dancing, his head thrown back in laughter as he twirls the mother of the bride. I stare at it for longer than I should.
And yeah, okay, maybe I’m a little jealous. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. The last time there wasn’t so much going on in my life that I could just be in the moment. Not worried about my family. Not worried about maintaining my business. Not worried that it’s selfish of me—or career suicide—to take these six weeks every year to do the thing I love most.
But Wes isn’t my client, and he’s not the one I need to focus on.
I’m forced to take a break when the reminder goes off to dial into theNature Shotspre-contest call. The last thing I feel like doing right now is sitting on a video call, but I could probably use the break before I overwork myself into a migraine. It’s also mandatory that everyone invited to participate attend.
Wes included.
I quickly braid my hair, swipe some mascara over my lashes, and turn on my ring light before joining the call. Fifty photographers have been invited to take part in the contest, and as I skim over the names, it’s impossible to miss there are only five women.
One of them is my closest friend. I grab my phone and shoot off a quick text to Tracy when I don’t see her signed into the call. Not ten seconds later she pops up on the screen and winks at the camera, her wide grin definitely directed at me.
