“Thank you,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his in a light kiss before squaring my shoulders. “Stand here to start so I can test the framing and light.”
I dart over to where I’ve left my camera on the tripod, a heavy weight attached to the bottom to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere in the wind. Peering through the viewfinder, I let out a little squeal of excitement.
The very tip of the inflow band practically points its crooked finger at the spot where the road disappears over the horizon, while to the left a vibrant green field of winter wheat glows under the menacing clouds. Behind the low-hanging cloud, rain darkens the sky further, turquoise ominously filling the entire left side of the frame, while to the right, blue sky and a hint of sunlight bathe the scene.
“A little to the left,” I call to Wes, watching him move closer to the middle of the road to mark the spot for me. My goal is to use perspective to block the rest of the road from view with my shoulders, to create the illusion that I’m the only thing standing between the viewer and the storm. Wes is taller, so Imay need to adjust where I stand a little more, but having him as a placeholder is a good start.
I take a test shot of Wes with his legs planted wide, shoulders back. He’s in dark jeans today with his usual black T-shirt, and let’s just say the view from the back is almost as good as the one from the front.
I move to stand directly in front of him, making sure to center myself between his feet so I’m in the same spot I’ve tested. We have plenty of time—this part of the storm looks dramatic, but if a tornado drops, we’re miles away from the potential danger zone.
“Okay.” I breathe out and twist around to give Wes the all clear. “I’m going to take a test shot, and then can you stand here again while I go check it?”
This would be so much easier if I could mark the spot with tape like they do on film sets, but tape and a dirt road don’t exactly work together. Lucky for me, Wes makes a great assistant.
He moves out of the frame and waits for me to trigger the shot using the remote in my palm, and then slides right back into position while I jog back to the camera to review the image. My position is good, but the exposure is a little too bright for the pink. I make a few small adjustments, and we repeat the whole process until I’m satisfied.
I set up the interval timer, the shutter clicking away while I return to my spot, anticipation crackling in my veins. Wes presses a kiss to my cheek before he backs away, his own camera hanging loosely from one hand. “I’m going to take some shots too. Just for me,” he’s quick to add with a smoldering look.
Beneath the dress, I press my thighs together and hope he chalks up the flush in my cheeks to the heat of the day as I make a shooing motion. “Let’s get the shot.Thenyou can have your wicked way with me.”
A familiar playful gleam enters his eyes. “You wearing anything under that dress?” He brushes his hand over my hip and sucks in a sharp breath when he doesn’t feel anything but smooth silk. “Fuck, you’re not, are you?”
I shrug, enjoying myself far too much. “Didn’t want to ruin the lines.”
“And you call me a menace,” Wes grumbles, dropping his hand and moving back out of the frame. “Now turn around so you can make your masterpiece.”
Swallowing my laugh, I face the storm, take a deep breath, and relax my shoulders. As if on cue, the wind rises, tossing my hair back over my shoulder and ruffling the full skirt. I’m careful not to move, but when Wes lets out a low whistle, curiosity gets the better of me.
“Good?” I call over my shoulder, careful not to move my feet.
“From the preview that popped up, I think you’re going to be very happy.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, fiddles with it and the camera for a few seconds, and then jogs over to me. “Take a look. I can hold the spot for you again if you want to change anything, but I think you got it.”
My breath catches when I realize he’s used the camera’s Bluetooth to drop the raw image onto his phone so I can see it without disturbing the setup. And he’s right—the shot is perfect. Exactly what I envisioned when the idea first formedyesterday. A woman in a delicate pink dress, facing down some of the most powerful weather on the planet.
“This is going to get you that cover,” Wes says, affection and pride coating every word. “It’s a compelling image.”
I glance up, his confidence in me a warm glow deep in my chest. “Come here,” I murmur, and using the remote still tucked into my palm, I restart the intervals right before drawing Wes down into a kiss.
We spend another ten minutes in the same spot, hop back in the car, and repeat the process a couple more times. I’m not sure I like any of the other compositions more than the first setup, but it’s good to have options.
I shimmy into a pair of leggings and Houdini my way back into a bra and tank top on the side of another dirt road, the car and Wes acting as a privacy screen, before carefully replacing the dress in its garment bag. “That’s going to need a hell of a dry cleaning.” I wince at the dust and blades of grass clinging to the hem.
“Sloane, darlin’, the last thing I’m thinking about right now is your dry cleaning.” Wes backs me up against the car once the door falls shut, caging me in with his hands planted on either side of my shoulders just like the afternoon the migraine took me out. Except this time, his eyes burn with need. “And if it’s all right with you, I’d really like to post one of those shots of us together on my social media. Because not only do you look incredible, but I can’t think of a better way to make it clear that I’m all yours.”
I don’t think twice about grabbing a fistful of his T-shirt and yanking him into me.
The last weekof my chase season passes in a blur. We cover just over three thousand miles, the storms keeping us on our toes as we race first north, and then south before rushing east, just to hurtle west the following morning. My days are a frenzy of radar scans and forecast models, craning my neck toward the sky, and snarking at Wes—who snarks right back, mischief behind every playful twist of words.
As for our nights, well, those are a different kind of frenzy altogether.
It’s not a surprise when Tracy and Matt’s wedding photos make the rounds among the broader network of our chaser friends and acquaintances. What I don’t expect is that suddenly, it’s not only Wes who gets stopped for a chat. When we pop by an informal picnic being held in the back of a truck stop on Memorial Day, no fewer than ten different people want to talk to me. Not only about how much they love Tracy and Matt’s photos, but also could I do the same for them?
Not everyone wants to get married in a random farmer’s field, of course. But just like Wes predicted, there are a lot more couples looking for ceremonies in alpine meadows and on backcountry cliffs than I ever thought. What starts as a promise to draw up a quote for a wedding someone wants to have on the sand dunes of a nearby national park next year grows into a list of potential clients a dozen deep.
Wes, to his credit, refrains from sayingI told you so—but he does get a smug look about him every time someone else comes up to me for the rest of the trip.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
