A muscle twitches in his jaw, but before Wes can say whatever is about to come out of his mouth, I flash a tight smile. “I’m going to run to the bathroom. Watch my camera?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, the frustration lingering in his voice at odds with the easy words.
A splash of cold water on my face helps. The three guys standing in my way when I head back toward the table, not so much.
“Hey, can I get by?”
They’re somewhere around my age, maybe a year or two older. One gives me a not-at-all subtle up and down. “You’re the chick with Talbot this season?”
“Wes is chasing with me for now.” I’m sure the distinction is lost on him, but it makes me feel a little better. I start to slide around them, but then another one steps into my path.
“I wouldn’t let my girl out of the house in leggings like that. Surprised Talbot is okay with it.”
I don’t bother explaining that Wes has absolutely no say over my wardrobe or that we’re not even together in the way this asshole is implying. It won’t do any good. There’s only one language a guy like this understands.
“Your wife must not like leggings,” I say with a shrug.
He scoffs. “I’m not married.”
I turn my voice syrupy sweet. “I can’t imagine why that is.”
He starts to sputter, anger darkening his expression. I’ve surprised him enough that I manage to dart around the threeof them and slide back into the booth. Wes raises one brow and nods toward the group. They look away as soon as they realize he’s staring.
“What did they say to you?”
“Nothing important.” I take a long sip of my margarita to stall for time. More collected, I manage a smile that must look genuine enough for him to back off. “They’re fans of yours. I told them you were in a bad mood tonight so they’d leave us alone.”
Doubt etched into the line between his brows, Wes looks at me for a long time without saying a word.
Chapter Nine
The active weather pattern blursone day into the next over the following two weeks. Wake up in Kansas, go to bed in Texas, drive north to Oklahoma, snatch a few hours of sleep, and then a mad dash back south into New Mexico before a long race to Nebraska. Aside from my mother’s extremely passive-aggressive texts—You can call me sometime so I know you’re not dead in a ditch—I don’t hear from my family, which I’m counting as a win.
I’m also much too busy obsessing over the weird shift between me and Wes to linger long on anything else.
Some things are exactly the same as every other year. I’m not exactly surprised when he changes the name of my playlist to “Sloane Michaels and the Horrible, Awful, No-Good Playlist” while I’m inside a gas station—he’s complained more than once about the sheer chaos of multiple genres all randomly shoved together without any order—nor is it a shock that hemocks my bad aim when we’re killing an hour tossing pebbles at a fence post.
The nightly report on each hotel’s shower height, complete with photographic evidence, is decidedly new. And there are the little moments where he keeps surprising me with unexpected kindness. Both toward me—I have been well supplied with coffee—but also to complete strangers.
Yesterday’s lunch was yet another foray into the gas station / convenience store / taqueria that has a stranglehold on this part of the country. It’s always a gamble ordering tacos from a gas station, but most of the time we luck out. What Ididn’texpect was that when the cashier struggled with her English, Wes effortlessly dropped into Spanish with a kind smile.
As surprised as I am to discover he speaks Spanish, the fact that he likes to mock Mother Nature like a kid slinging playground taunts isn’t much of a shock at all.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, certain I must not have heard him right.
Wes ignores me and shouts at the sky, “Get it together! My grandma is more impressive!”
“Are you seriouslytauntingthe weather?” I glance around, checking for an audience. Some chase days, it’s us and our fifty closest friends in a conga line from hell crowding country roads. Today is one of the rare days we’ve claimed a spot without another soul in sight.
“You call that thunder?” he continues like I haven’t said a word, the low rumble echoing in my chest as it rolls across the open fields. “Weak! Do better!”
I have to bite my lip to suppress a smile and double checkthat my camera is level while Wes’s taunts turn more and more ridiculous as he goes. One minute he’s calling it awitty bitty baby stormand the next he’s telling it to be like Nike andjust do it.
When I finally lose my composure and let out a laugh, he grins over his shoulder. “I knew fun Sloane had to be in there somewhere.”
I shake my head, refusing to participate in this madness. “Whether or not that storm spits out a tornado is a matter of science, not two unhinged storm chasers yelling nonsense at the sky.”
“So far I’m the only one doing any yelling.” He takes off his sunglasses to give me a pointed look. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
