It’s a littleweird to be in Wes’s car, and not just because it’s loaded with features I can’t afford. The interior has a lingering new car scent, but mostly it smells like him, spice with a hint of citrus.
Wes is driving, one hand on top of the steering wheel, the rest of his large frame relaxed into the leather seat. His other hand rests on the gear shift. I impulsively lay mine on top of his, relaxing even further when he spreads his fingers. After a few minutes, he lifts our hands to his mouth and presses light kisses to the back of my hand without ever taking his eyes off the road.
He wears a faint smile when he lowers our hands to rest on the center console, utterly at ease but for his attention to the road. Like he’s just as content as I am in this moment, not talking, not really doing much of anything except breathing the same air.
The long hours in the car turn into some of my favorite moments as we fall back into the rhythm of racing after storms from one end of the plains to the other. Sometimes we singalong to my ridiculous playlist. Sometimes we let the music play and sink into comfortable silence, content to exist together. And sometimes, often late at night when the darkness presses in around us, we talk, our conversations taking on a new intimacy that no longer scares me quite so much.
Wes entertains me with stories of his travels, everything from the stunning beauty of the midnight sun in Norway, the frigid cold of an Antarctic polar plunge, and the blazing heat of a Namibia desert. But in between the glory days, he slips in the quieter moments. He talks a lot about his mom, who bought him his first camera and spent childhood summers with him on a ranch somewhere south of Amarillo while his dad often traveled for work.
“I think that’s what got me into storms,” he says late one night as we head for our hotel, the wind farm surrounding us blinking red and eerie in the darkness, like we’ve been dropped into the middle of an alien world. “Mom used to yell for me from the porch when I’d be out there trying to take photos of lightning long before I had any idea how to actually get it in focus or exposed correctly.”
“It was lightning on the mountains for me,” I reply in the same hushed voice. “There was this park close enough to ride my bike to that had a killer view of the mountains. I used to watch the sky in the summer, waiting for thunderheads to billow up. Then I’d just sit there for hours.”
Wes doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to—the exquisitely gentle brush of his lips against my knuckles communicates plenty. Some people have churches. Wes and I have storms.
Chapter Twenty
Tracy’s text comes a fullweek after we leave my house, confirming they’re ready whenever the weather wants to cooperate. Her parents refuse to attend on the grounds the wedding won’t be in a church, but Matt’s parents love the idea. His dad even got ordained to serve as justice of the peace.
Ten days before my chase season comes to a close, fifteen of us gather at the edge of a field halfway down a dirt road. Getting everyone here was a feat of coordination, and we need to keep an eye on the storm spinning to our northwest, but we’re intentionally farther away than any of us would usually be.
Neither Matt nor Tracy opts for formal wear. He’s in a pair of dark-wash jeans with a tailored vest over a deep green button-down rolled to his elbows. Tracy’s sundress is blush pink, the full skirt whipping around her legs in the wind. She’s curled her hair, leaving it wild and free, with only the barest amount of makeup on her face.
Not wanting to upstage her, I leave my dress in my bag, much to Wes’s disappointment. His eyes light up with interest when I promise to put it on for him some other time when we’re alone.
Joy and excitement swirl on the wind currents. Despite the absolute mayhem it took to pull this off, now that everyone is here, the only tension is anticipatory—with the exception of Matt’s parents, who keep eyeing the dark clouds and frequent lightning erupting behind the group with concern.
“Ready?” I murmur to Wes when he moves beside me, his arm resting easily around my hips.
He holds up his camera with his free hand. “Been looking forward to you bossing me around.” Leaning closer, his lips brush my ear as he adds, “You can boss me around anytime you like.” His hand slides down to squeeze my ass, not even the slightest bit repentant when I elbow him in the ribs.
“Stop that,” I chide, though it’s not very effective when I’m grinning like a fool. I’ve grown to crave the affectionate way he touches me every chance he gets, even when we have an audience. “I’m working. You wait your turn.”
“I remember when you said that at Cora and Shawn’s wedding.” Wes straightens with a chuckle. “Highlight of my night.”
I roll my eyes and bump my hip into his. “Please. The ten minutes you spent with me was hardly the highlight of that night.”
“Darlin’, the only reason I showed up to that wedding was you.”
“What?” My whole body whips toward his. “How didyou even know I’d be there? You asked me what I was doing there!”
“No, I said you were far from home. Which was true.” Wes laughs at my glare. “I grew up with Shawn. Cora knows I’m a photographer and sent me a message asking if you were as good as her friend claimed. I said she wouldn’t find better.” He shrugs, his eyes straying to the storm and darkening. “My dad told me I had better be at the wedding. I was planning to skip it just to spite him, but you were going to be there. It was worth giving up the chase days to have you play with me for those ten minutes.”
“I scowled at you the entire time.”
“Mostly,” Wes says, good-natured humor returning to his voice and his shoulders relaxing. “But, for the record, the only one I wanted to spend any time in a corner with that night was you.”
I tip my head back and stroke my fingertip down the line of his jaw. “You do an awfully good job of hiding how sweet you are.”
“Our secret.” Wes gives me a quick, hard kiss and then holds up the camera. “Where do you want me?”
With one final check of the various radar scans and someone assigned to keep an eye on the storm, the wedding gets underway.
It’s the least-formal and lowest-budget wedding that I’ve shot since I got my start doing backyard weddings for some friends from high school—but infinitely more fun.
Matt’s dad conducts the ceremony like he’s at an open-mic night, keeping everyone laughing while Wes and I dart around taking photos. Tracy’s pink dress pops against the green of thegrass and the deep blackish-gray of the sky, and the way that Matt beams at her is as perfect as a wedding that took two years to plan.
And when they kiss after reciting their vows, I decide not to tell them that there’s a lucky lightning bolt in the background. That can be a happy surprise when I give them the final edits.
