I feel the heat of Wes at my back just before he murmurs too close to my ear, “Looks like I’m buying you dinner.” And then, louder so the others will hear, “Sloane got it! Perfect CG!”
His excitement is contagious, and for a few seconds, everyone crowds around me to see the shot of crisp cloud-to-ground lightning. There’s a flurry of introductions to the new faces, though Tracy manages to slip in a murmured “Looks like you’re getting along?” that I pointedly ignore.
I’m so used to flying under the radar that suddenly finding myself the center of attention is a little overwhelming, in the best way possible. It’s also not something I’d ever expect of Wes, the way he thrusts me into the spotlight and steps back to let me enjoy it without saying another word.
There isn’t much time to linger. With the storm powered by an outflow boundary—the atmospheric line in the sandbetween storm-cooled air and the typical heat of the region—we travel steadily east until twilight sets in. The storm is still producing so much lightning we don’t need to be that close to it in the dark, so we decide to grab some night shots while it lasts.
The storm has faded to little more than flickering flashes of lightning on the horizon by the time we pull off I-40 somewhere east of Amarillo. Wes points at the diner attached to the truck stop we pass on the way to our hotel. “Might not be gourmet, but I’m a man of my word. That place has killer waffles.”
It doesn’t look like much, the parking lot flooded with bright lights and the neonDinersign half burnt-out. Tired and hungry, I shrug and turn around. Even waffles won’t be enough to lure me out of my hotel room once I’m within falling-down distance of a bed and strong air-conditioning.
“Yep,” Wes declares fifteen minutes later when the server drops a massive pile of whipped cream and banana slices in front of him. “Just like I remember.”
He gleefully pours syrup over the whole mess, the waffles themselves barely visible under a mountain of toppings. My own selection is probably boring by his standards, a little powdered sugar, butter, and sliced strawberries sprinkled across a singular waffle.
“Where on earth is that all going?” I ask with a laugh, too tired to remember to have a filter. “You can’t possibly eat that whole plate.”
Wes shoves his fork into the pile and emerges with a chunk of waffle dripping with syrup and whipped cream. “Challenge accepted.” He laughs at my scowl, swallowing down a bitebefore sawing off another. “I’ve got my own waffle iron at home. I could eat these things every day.”
With a skeptical lift of my brow, I jab my empty fork toward his plate. “You’re telling me you know how to make waffles from scratch?”
He grins. “Invite me over again. I’ll prove it.”
“No thanks,” I say quickly, hoping my face doesn’t give away just how much a part of me would enjoy having a shirtless Wes back in my kitchen. “I don’t need food poisoning.”
“My mom would murder me on the spot if I gave anyone food poisoning.” He shakes his head, though behind his good-natured laugh, there’s a flash of something deeper. “She’s the one who taught me to make them. Her mom was from Belgium. Old family recipe.” He leans closer, mischief dancing in his gray eyes. “Ask me very nicely, and I might be willing to tell you the secret.”
Scoffing, I dive back into my waffle and try not to think about how nice it must have been to have a mom like that—or how much I’ve laughed over the last couple of days.
Or that Wes might not be as spoiled as I’ve always thought.
Later, when I’m in my room and brushing my teeth, I nearly spit toothpaste all over the bathroom mirror when I open a text to find a photo of Wes with the captionToo tall for life again.He’s in the shower, the showerhead hitting just below his collarbones. The look on his face of exaggerated dismay only has me laughing harder.
With the camera off to his side, I can’t see anything but a faint sprinkling of dark hair on his chest, but the water is on. Which means Wes is naked.
Sounds like a you problem but thanks for the laugh, I quickly text back before locking my phone. I don’t look at the photo again. And I definitely don’t feel any kind of way about Wes quoting my own words back to me.
I swear I’mhalfway to a coma when the knock on my door jerks me out of sleep. Not awake enough to think too hard about who the hell would be knocking this early in the morning, I stumble out of bed and yank the door open.
Grinning like a madman, Wes is barely managing to balance two cups of coffee and two packages of violently pink Peeps. Where the hell did he find those in the middle of nowhere at whatever terrible time it is?
His expression falters slightly when I grunt incoherently, and that’s before his eyes dip down to my thin tank top. My hair is long, but not quite long enough to cover up the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.
Wes jerks his attention up to my face, color crawling into his cheeks. “Uh, sorry. It’s ten. I figured you were up by now.”
“Ten?” I twist my wrist to stare at my watch, where the tiny numbers read 10:06 a.m. “Shit! I forgot to set an alarm.”
He shuffles his feet, suddenly very intent on looking anywhere but at me. “I can leave this with you while you get dressed.”
My sleep-fogged brain is determined to give Wes a show. I bend over to grab a sweatshirt out of my bag, onlyremembering at the sound of his sharp inhale just how short my shorts actually are. He just got an eyeful of my ass.
Face burning, I yank the sweatshirt over my head and tug on the hem as though embarrassment has magical powers to summon up a few extra inches of fabric.
At least I’m not the only one blushing like a teenager.
“You might as well come in,” I mumble, taking the coffee gratefully as I give myself a firm internal lecture. “You already checked the models?”
Wes takes a few tentative steps into the room and hovers by the door as it slides shut behind him. “Yeah. I don’t think it’s going to do anything exciting. Nothing to make it worth driving three hours in the opposite direction of where we want to be tomorrow.”
