“So it’s a down day?” I pull up a quick mental map of anything nearby we may want to check out, but there’s not much besides ranch land between us and tomorrow’s target.
“Looks like. Carlsbad isn’t too far from Hobbs. If we get down there early enough we might be able to catch the bats. It’s been so warm this year I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re out.”
“You want to spend your Easter driving seven hours to photograph a swarm of bats?” I grin, thankful to be on more familiar footing, and take a small sip of coffee. It’s gas station brew—local shops are likely closed for the holiday—but it’s useful for prying my eyes fully open. I’ll think about Wes paying attention to how I take my coffee, never mind presenting it to me without being asked, later. “Sounds fun. I’m just going to need pants,” I add with a sheepish grin at my bare legs.
Wes is still staring at my legs when I look up. He takes ahasty sip of his coffee, swallows in a gulp, and then tosses me a package of Peeps. “Breakfast,” he says by way of explanation.
“Radioactive marshmallow is not breakfast!”
“You don’t want any part of the sandwiches they’ve got next door, trust me.” He shakes with an exaggerated shudder, though he still won’t look directly at me. His free hand fiddles with the brim of another of his hats, this one from an outdoor brand he did some work for a few years ago. “I’ll just…meet you downstairs in a little bit, yeah?”
“I only need ten minutes.”
Wes leaves with another awkward wave. I can’t help staring at the door after it’s fallen shut, wondering how after so many years of seeing him nothing but cool, calm, and collected, I’ve now managed to fluster him twice in the span of a couple of days.
Yet when I flip the light on in the bathroom and grab my toothbrush, there’s no denying the color in my cheeks, or that my unbrushed and rumpled hair makes me look like I did something far more exciting than wrestle insomnia all night. Even my brown eyes have a little bit of an extra sparkle to them.
“Hormones are stupid,” I tell my reflection. Because that’s all this is. Some sort of weird chemical leftover from that kiss yesterday. A kiss that Wes already told me was nothing more than a favor. It’s not his fault that my hormones have hopped aboard an express train to Bad Ideas Land.
I quickly brush my teeth, twist my hair into a tight braid, and yank on clothes. With a firm vow to get it together, I grab my bags—and the Peeps I may or may not attempt to eat—and head for the lobby.
Begrudgingly, I let Wes take over driving about halfway toHobbs. It’s weird to sit in my own passenger seat, but it turns out I don’t need to hold on to the door with a death grip. Maybe he’s just on his best behavior driving my car, but he doesn’t do anything crazier than ignore the speed limit signs like everyone else going south.
Chapter Seven
Monday dawns blistering, baking theroad and us along with it. Wes and I are both up early, buzzing with energy ahead of what looks to be a big day. Multiple storms. Likely multiple tornadoes.
The long hours in the car yesterday after our detour to Carlsbad—the batswerekind enough to put on a show for us—pay off. We’re in a good position, maybe an hour or two away from our target area, once things get going in the afternoon.
To kill time, we find a tiny local coffee shop that makes the most incredible iced cherry mocha I’ve ever gotten my hands on. I pair it with one of the largest cinnamon buns I’ve ever seen.
Wes shakes his head as we settle in at one of the café tables. “If I knew all it took to make you stop scowling was some decent coffee, I’d have thrown a French press at you ages ago.”
I laugh the comment off and shove a bite of cinnamon roll into my mouth. It’s nothing different from what he’s said to me before. I’m too serious. I need to relax. Try to have more fun.
Except Wes isn’t actually poking at me this time, is he? I frown into my coffee, wondering when he started to care about my mood—or if I’m just sleep-deprived and reading more into it because of that stupid kiss I need to stop thinking about. Especially when Wes licks away a trace of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
Thankfully, once we sink into our work, I mostly forget about him. I’ve been ignoring my business email since my break started, but I try to still go in every week or two to clear it out. I groan when I open my inbox and see one bride has sent no less than twenty messages over the last week. The latest one is an all-capsANSWER ME!!!!!that makes me want to throw my laptop into traffic.
“Everything okay?”
Not realizing my groan was loud enough to get Wes’s attention, I wave off his concern. I’m not unloading my tale of burnt-out wedding photographer woe on him. “Just a cranky client who can’t read.”
“You get a lot of those?”
I shrug. “Weddings stress people out. Most women are told from the time they’re toddlers that it’sthesingle most important day of their life. I get why they freak out the way they do sometimes. Comes with the territory.”
“Maybe you need new territory.”
“Some of us don’t have a trust fund, and I’m fresh out of magic wands.” I take a long sip of my coffee before I say something I’ll regret. Wes and I are going to be spending too much time together for me to fire back at him full tilt. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
He scowls at me across the table. “You say that like I don’thave clients of my own.” I must do a poor job of hiding my surprise because his frown deepens. “You really think I just sit on my ass all year, don’t you?”
I shift uncomfortably. I’m aware of Wes’s commercial work, but I’ve always assumed he got those jobs trading on his daddy’s connections, not the usual grind most professional photographers go through to work their way up to high-profile clients.
Wes laughs under his breath, a humorless puff of air. “That campaign I shot last year is getting national placement. A trust fund didn’t do that. I earned it. I know how to work for the things I want, Sloane.”
“I’m sure your family name helps.”
