My eyes might be open, but I’m not nearly awake enough to remember my phone has a nasty habit of auto-playing whatever I listened to last when I plug it into the car. Since Wes and I have been together it hasn’t been a problem. I’ve been too tired to do much beyond shower and go directly to sleep once we get to the hotel every night.
Except last night. When I listened to an audiobook.
“When he moans against my pussy, his tongue—”
I whip the power cord out so fast I nearly catch myself in the eye with it. At some point, I’m going to have to look at Wes, but maybe my face will just light the car on fire and take care of that problem.
“Sorry, that was, I was…audiobook.” I quickly open my playlist and stab the screen before I plug the phone back in. Thankfully all that comes out of the speakers this time is Florence + the Machine.
Wes shifts in his seat. I wait for him to make a joke, but when I finally find my courage somewhere under the floor mats, he’s staring at me with curiosity and a gleam of something far more dangerous.
His eyes drop down to my lap, heat boiling in their gray depths. “Don’t turn it off on my account.” I swear his voice is a full octave lower.
“All good,” I squeak before hastily turning over the ignition and throwing the car into reverse. “I’m really hungry. Are you hungry? I’d kill for some coffee. Maybe some waffles. Or pancakes. I never really can choose between the two, but I know how much you like waffles.”
Wes’s rumbly laugh sounds like sex in the tight confines of my car after my phone’s little stunt. “Breathe, Sloane,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry about it. There’s far worse in my browser history.”
Great, now I’m too busy wondering what turns Wes on to form a coherent reply. I don’t do much better at breakfast, and when I make an excuse about being too tired to function, there’s a glint of humor in his eyes when he says, “Me too.”
By that afternoon,I’ve almost convinced myself that anything I thought I heard in Wes’s voice following what will forever be thought of asthe audiobook incidentwas purely a product of an overactive imagination, too little sleep, and embarrassment.
So when I ask him to get my sweatshirt from my bag while I’m driving, and he produces a bright pink bra in place of my well-worn Rocky Mountain National Park hoodie, I tell myself it’s just typical Wes nonsense. I need to stop imagining zebras where there are only horses.
“Put that back!” I all but shout, pointing sharply over my shoulder. “You really are five sometimes, you know that?”
Wes doesn’t listen. With my bra dangling off his finger, he waggles his eyebrows and doesn’t bother hiding his interest. “Ididn’t take you for the hot-pink type,” he says, completely ignoring my protest. “What other surprises are you hiding?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I take advantage of a stretch of straight road to snatch my bra back and stuff it into the driver’s door with a scowl.
When Wes reaches into the back seat again, I swear he muttersYou have no ideaunder his breath. But that must not be right, because in the next breath he says, “Uh, so, bad news. I think your shampoo or something is leaking.” He holds up my sweatshirt, now featuring a giant wet spot in the middle and the overwhelming scent of artificial coconut.
“Shit.” I groan, sneaking a glance into the back seat, but I can’t take my eyes off the road long enough to figure it out. “Has anything started to fire up or do we have time to stop?”
Wes taps the iPad resting in his lap and shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing. Looking more and more like a bust.”
It’s not what I want to hear two weeks into my far-too-short chasing window. I’ve grabbed some good photos, but nothing impressive enough to land me on the cover ofNature Shots. If I’m going to pull off what I have in mind, I need big, towering supercells and the right foreground. So far the only storm that gave me that is the one that took out Wes’s windows, but I don’t love my shots.
At least the less-than-ideal forecast means there’s plenty of time to pull over. Sure enough, my shampoo cap came loose, leaving a goopy mess at the bottom of my bag and damp spots on most of my clothes. It should all wash out without staining, which is good, but I don’t have another sweatshirt and I’m cold.
I’m also aware that Ishouldn’tbe in this heat.
Wes frowns when I shiver. “You’re that cold?”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. Hopefully he doesn’t notice the goosebumps on my skin. The inability to regulate my body temperature is a sure sign that a migraine, likely triggered by lack of sleep, is on the way.
But I’m not giving up even a mediocre chase day to hide away in a hotel room. Sometimes the meteorologists get it right. Sometimes a day with an unimpressive forecast spits out picture-perfect storms. For all I know, today is the day I get my contest shot.
If I’m lucky, I’ll get it before the slight ache behind my eyes develops into a thousand little daggers stabbing my skull.
“You want me to drive for a bit?” Wes asks a little too casually, still watching me with unwavering focus. “You’ve driven most of the last couple of days.”
Closing my eyes against the bright sunlight might help stave off the worst of the migraine a little longer, so I agree and start to move to the passenger seat. I’m not expecting Wes to drop an enormous sweatshirt on my lap when he slides behind the wheel.
His spiced-citrus scent on the fabric in my lap is almost too strong with my brain going haywire, but I try not to overthink it and pull the hoodie over my head. I’m tall, but he’s both taller and broader than me, leaving me swimming in soft cotton. Not that I’m complaining. It’s far cozier than mine, even without the shampoo.
I let out a happy little sigh, warmth enveloping me while Wes pulls back onto the road.
“Better?”
