“I have so many things I need to say to you,” Wes murmurs as we wind our way toward our assigned table, too soft for Tracy to hear over the hum of voices filling the room. The way his accent weaves in and out reminds me far too much of late nights on long stretches of open road and whispers in the dark. “Right now, I’m just glad you’re here, Sloane. Really fucking glad.”
He pulls out my chair, his warm palm ghosting over my bare back. I lean in just before I sit, my lips close to his ear to make sure he hears me. “Me too.”
Carter Walsh chooses that moment to appear. There’s a flurry of introductions, and though I’m half holding my breath when he turns to Wes with a wry expression, I don’t miss the way his eyes dart toward me just before he says, “Wes, always good to see you. At least when you’re not interrupting dinner with my wife.”
“Won’t happen again.” Wes lets his arm rest on the back of my chair as he relaxes into his own. The very tips of his fingers graze between my shoulder blades as he drops his arm, the contact so brief I’m not sure it was intentional. “I promise,” he adds without taking his eyes off mine.
Carter’s low chuckle reminds me that we’re far from alone. I reach for my water and take a long sip while Tracy smirks across the table.Unhelpful, I mouth. Her smirk only grows wider.
The lights dim when Carter moves toward the stage to begin the opening remarks. I barely hear a word he says, not when I’m hyperaware of Wes next to me.
Despite the lingering tension lurking under the surface, it’s no small thing to find that, even with our edges a bit jagged, the part of me that’s always been drawn to Wes is still there. That when he tugs at his collar and catches my eye, a small, private smile passes easily between us at the shared memory of that Houston wedding months ago. The night that, looking back, marked the first subtle shift in our atmosphere.
Tracy takes the stage first. Her short speech flies by, and then she’s sinking back into her chair and reaching for her champagne while shooting me aThank god that’s overlook across the table. I mouth backProud of youwith a beaming grin.
Her eyes light up. She points at Wes and then tips herchampagne flute toward me with a raised brow I choose to ignore.
And then Wes gets to his feet with one last lingering look in my direction.
“Thank you,” he says, all charm when he grips the edge of the podium and faces the audience. He gestures to his photo, blown up and resting on an easel beside Tracy’s. Mine is there too, covered with champagne velvet in preparation for the upcoming grand reveal. “I know I’m supposed to get up here and tell you about my image, but tonight isn’t about me. It’s about Sloane Michaels.”
The silence that fills the room is more curious than anything, everyone holding their breath right along with me as Wes scans the crowd. He’s not known for his modesty.
“Sloane is as talented as she is driven, with a singular ability to turn images into an allegory for human emotion. You’ll see for yourself in a minute when I shut up.”
He pauses, laughter rippling through the crowd.
This time, when his eyes catch mine, the mask is gone, replaced by the naked vulnerability of regret. Then he turns back to the audience and flashes one of those charming Wild Wes grins. I might be the only one in the room who notices it’s a shadow of the real thing.
“Don’t let the pink dress fool you into thinking she’s anything other than a force of nature. Sloane, get up here and take your well-deserved victory lap.”
I stand automatically and move toward the stage in a daze while applause fills the ballroom. Wes waits for me by the short flight of stairs, his hand extended like the perfect gentleman. There’s no way he doesn’t notice how sweaty my palm iswhen he helps me onto the stage. Especially when he holds on a few seconds longer than strictly necessary.
My hammering heart drowns out whatever nice things Carter says about my photograph before he pulls the velvet off the print. “Nice dress,” he deadpans into the microphone, offering the audience a wink before stepping back to make room for me.
Far too aware of Wes only feet away, I glance down at my notes. They’re a little smudged from my sweaty palms. Good thing I practiced this speech so much that once I start, muscle memory should take over.
“When I came up with this concept, I was interested in the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction. That’s one of the things that drew me to storm chasing early on. These storms are as stunning as they are deadly. The best image of my career”—I gesture to the blown-up photograph behind me—“could also be the worst day of someone else’s life.”
I swallow hard, unprepared for the memory of Wes, sweaty and exhausted and hefting a chainsaw to help tornado victims. The audience is silent, all those eyes staring up at me. This isn’t the moment to fall into my own head, and yet I can’t help glancing back at him for just a second. Eyes shining with emotion, he dips his chin in the tiniest acknowledgment.
“I wanted to capture that dichotomy,” I continue, “and I wanted to do it in a way that evoked both the wildness of the storm and the careful box of femininity. So many women hide their ferocity behind gowns and smiles, but storm chasing is meant to be a little wild. When we’re out there, we’reallpart of that storm.” My eyes flick back to Wes. “The beautyandthe destruction.”
I take another breath and turn my attention to the audience before the desperate ache in my chest steals my voice. I thank Carter and the magazine for the opportunity before posing for photos with one of those enormous cardboard checks and the various judges and sponsors.
When it’s time for a shot with all the winners, Wes stands awkwardly at my side. He shifts his weight when his arm brushes mine and mutters an apology before looking away—but not before I catch the flash of pain in his eyes.
It’s not the first time either. I’ve seen it every time he’s stopped himself from reaching for me almost half a dozen times tonight.
On my other side, Tracy slings an arm around my shoulders and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek. “You okay?” she whispers with a tiny, barely perceivable nod toward Wes.
“I think so.” I slide one arm around her waist, and without letting myself think about it too much, rest my other lightly on Wes’s back. His whole body shudders with the contact, and then his arm settles low behind me, the expensive fabric of his jacket soft on my bare skin and warm with the heat of him. Something tentative and full of hope blooms in his eyes when I glance up.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, momentarily forgetting there’s a photographer waiting who isn’t interested in watching us stare at each other. “For what you said up there.”
“Every word was the truth.”
“I know, but—”
