“Really?”
“Really.” Just to mess with him, I lift the camera again, firing off a couple more shots before lowering it to my side. “Might be my contest entry. Theydowant a story.”
A thicksplatof mud falls to the ground when Wes tightens his hand into a fist. “Yeah, real funny, Sloane. And I’m fine, by the way. Probably going to have a giant bruise, but thanks for asking.”
“Nowyou’re worried? You could have had glass in your eye less than a week ago and brushed it off like nothing happened. You’re fine.” I shake my head and gesture toward my car. “But you’re absolutely not sitting on my seats like that. I think there’s a roll of paper towels in the back.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t know exactly what you have in that ridiculous tub of supplies?” Wes runs a hand through his hair and then swears again when he smears more mud through it. “Paper towels aren’t fixing this. Fuck it.”
Between one blink and the next, he rips off his T-shirt, getting even more mud in his hair in the process. He mutters something in a low rumble I don’t catch, scrubbing at his face with what was the clean side of the shirt.
But he’s not done yet.
Tossing the shirt onto the roof of my car, Wes kicks off his mud-covered boots next, then shoves his jeans over his hips. My mouth goes dry at the sight of so much exposed skin. Shirtless in my kitchen and clean was bad enough. Naked butfor some snug boxer briefs, dirtied up, tattoos out? Vicious hunger snaps through me.
What would kissing Wes be like without an audience?
I shake my head to snap myself out of it and open the back hatch where our clean clothes are packed. I’ve let this dry spell go on for far too long. A few nice moments over the last two days can’t override a decade of watching Wes careen from one reckless choice to another. Given his friendship with Matt, and mine with Tracy, giving in to my inconvenient attraction would only lead to awkwardness.
“You take anything else off, and I might actually leave you on the side of the road,” I threaten. My own eyes call me a liar, dropping back down to the curve of his ass on such spectacular display. “I’ll grab you some wipes. Just…stay there.”
Wes tosses his arms up, flicking mud everywhere. “Where am I going like this?” He glances down his mud-streaked body, his lips flattening into a thin line. “I think I’ll take two showers when we get to the hotel tonight.”
“You’re going to need them,” I agree, fishing out the package of wipes with a grimace. I’m not sure we’re getting him clean even using the entire package.
I toss it to him and busy myself with tucking my camera back into its bag. We’re losing the light anyway. I assume Wes is done for the day too, and pack up his gear as well before zipping everything shut.
He’s barely made a dent in the mud by the time I’m done, a small pile of wipes at his feet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a hose stashed somewhere?”
“Even if I did, we’re short a water source.” I sigh and holdmy hand out. We’re never getting out of here if I leave him to his own devices. “You want help?”
His eyes flash up to mine, sparking with humor and mischief. “Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?”
“With the mud, Wes. Help with the mud.” I scowl at his smirk, grab a few wipes, and move behind him. “Hold still.”
Wes being Wes, he shimmies his hips and twists around to wink at me. “Aren’t you a storm chaser? You should be used to a moving target.”
I grab hold of his shoulders and turn him firmly away from me. His skin is hot, muscle flexing under my touch—and now my hands are also covered in mud. Grimacing, I use the first wipe to get the worst of it off and start scrubbing the second across his shoulder. “It’s like you rolled around in it for fun.”
“Definitely not. I do a lot of stupid shit, but this was far from intentional.”
We work in silence for a few minutes. It’s hard to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the ink running down his spine. What emerges from the mud isn’t the seemingly random collection of numbers and letters that I originally thought—they’re coordinates.
Unbearably curious which places mean enough to Wes to permanently ink them into his skin, I run the tip of my index finger over a swooping thirty-seven. He shivers and his hands still. I swear he’s holding his breath, waiting to see what I do next.
Whatever seemed like a good idea at the time, my ass. These aren’t random at all. How easily I believed Wes would permanently mark his body on a whim—and how easily he let me.
“Started with Mount Etna,” he says, just barely audible over the wind rustling the long grasses. “It was the first photo anyone paid me for.” He doesn’t volunteer any of the other locations. I don’t ask. It’s too personal. Too much like asking to see a part of Wes that I not only never thought existed, but have no right to.
And still, I brush my thumb over a starkNand can’t help asking, “Are you planning to add to it?”
“Maybe,” he says. “If there’s something worth adding.”
It’s whisper soft with an undercurrent that turns the conversation intimate despite the wide-open space we’re in. With a hasty step back, I crumple the last wipe. “I think that’s as good as it’s getting. You’re probably going to need to wash whatever you’re putting on for the drive back too, but it’s better than it was. We can look for a place with laundry.”
“Sloane?” As I start to move around him, Wes curls his fingers around my wrist in a gentle hold I could easily break but don’t. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing across my skin with searing gentleness.
“Not like you were getting in my car covered in mud,” I say with a forced laugh. With my thoughts already so jumbled, he’s being far too serious for me to handle. “Besides, I’m hungry.”
