Ignoring the notification from Tracy that looks like nothing more than a string of laughing emojis, I carefully avoid looking at the shower selfie again and text Wes that I’m good whenever he is.
Bring your camera. I want to see those photos you took of me, he texts back.I’ll be down in five.
More like he probably wants to delete them, but I already transferred copies to my portable hard drive while I was showering. Grinning to myself, I grab the camera and memory card, and take the stairs down to the lobby.
Wes strolls in a minute later, roadside mud monster replaced by snug dark-wash jeans and a fitted T-shirt that bringsout the blue flecks in his eyes. His hair is still damp, and when he sinks down next to me, I’m suddenly surrounded by soap and spice and a hint of citrus. It’s far more appealing than it should be.
“Feel better?” I can only hope he doesn’t hear the strain in my voice as much as I do.
“You have no idea.” He turns toward me with a grimace. “That mud was in places it had no business being.”
“Guess you’ll have to be more careful next time,” I tell him while resisting the mental image of all that bare skin. “You good with just walking to the place across the parking lot? Not like there’s many choices.”
Wes pushes to his feet and holds a hand out to help me off the small couch. It’s not like I need help standing, but I let him tug me up anyway.
The temporary coolness left behind in the wake of the storm has given way to a sultry night. Hot, sticky air presses in around us as we cross to the local steakhouse, which is delightfully air-conditioned.
Inside, it’s no surprise that Wes’s entrance attracts attention, not only from the female hostess and servers, but also the dozen or so chasers. The more surprising part is that he doesn’t seem interested in holding court, offering little more than smiles and a few generically friendly words to anyone who calls out to him as we’re led to our table.
It’s only when he eases into the booth across from me that I notice how stiffly he’s moving. “Hey, you all right?”
His grimace quickly transforms into an easygoing grin I’m beginning to think is his go-to expression to hide behind. “Nothing a margarita won’t fix.”
“Wes.”
There’s a long pause where he stares at me, expression unreadable, before the smile slips. “I came down hard when I fell. Nasty bruise, but nothing to be done about it. I’ll ice it when I get back to my room.” He laughs, though this time I think it’s genuine when he raises a brow at me. “Hopefully that’s the end of my injuries this season,” he says, gesturing to the barely formed scabs on his face.
“It better be.”
Wes studies me, his head tipping slightly to the side before the grin is back. “I’m so touched that you care.”
“Losing a day of chasing to find an urgent care is not on the agenda.” I’m pretty sure he knows I’m lying.
The server interrupts long enough to take our order. When Wes opts for a watermelon margarita, I shrug and order one too. It’s not the drink I’d have picked for him, but there’s something weirdly attractive about a guy who looks like he could bench press me getting a fruity drink and not giving a shit.
To distract myself, I grab my camera and scroll back to the beginning of the day’s shots. “You wanted to see those photos?” I ask with a faux-innocent flutter of my eyelashes.
He snorts out a laugh and curls his long fingers around the camera one-handed. We fall silent, him scrolling through my photos, me checking my email and sending another round of out-of-office reminders.
I look up at his muttered curse. “I knew it was bad,” he muses, shaking his head at himself, “but damn. You mind sending me these? My mom will get a kick out of them.”
My mom would use a photo like that as a launchpad for atirade. It must be nice that he has a good relationship with his, though I can’t help noticing that the only times Wes has said anything positive about his family, it’s been about his mom. The only mention he made of his father was laced with hurt and anger.
Not that this is the time or place to get into family skeletons.
“Oh, I was going to send them to the group chat later.” I widen my eyes with false innocence. “You can download them from there.”
I expect him to be annoyed. Wes just laughs before he agrees, “Yeah, that works.” Then he turns the camera around, and though I’m expecting it to still be on the mud shots, he’s got one of the daisy photos pulled up. It’s framed to give the illusion of the flowers sitting at the base of the rainbow where a pot of gold should be. “You have a great eye. This is really beautiful.”
I shrug, shutting my camera off and carefully putting it down on the seat next to me before reaching for my drink. “It’s not bad, but it’s not good enough for the contest.”
“Give yourself more credit. I know we talk shit, but you’re talented, Sloane.”
The dangerously soft tone of his voice has me fidgeting in my seat. “I’m not the one with my stuff already published byNature Shots,” I say, hoping to deflect the conversation away from me.
“Not yet,” Wes says firmly. His eyes lock on mine and hold me in place with an intense stare. “You could win this cover contest just as easily as I could.”
It’s nothing I haven’t told myself, but coming from him,the praise sits awkwardly in my stomach. “Or they just invited me, Tracy, and a couple other female photographers so the optics weren’t overtly sexist.”
