“If everyone could just look into the camera, we’ll get you folks off to the party as quickly as we can,” the photographer interrupts in a familiar pleasant-but-about-to-not-be tone.
“After we’re done here, can we talk?” Wes says in a low voice, his lips barely moving to appease the photographer. “Alone, without interruptions.”
The camera clicks as the shutter releases in a staccato burst. I hold my smile fixed in place, but when the photographer finally declares we’re done, I meet Wes’s eyes. Beneath his mask of affability, there’s a wild edge, as though he’s terrified that I’ll vanish if he so much as looks away.
“We can’t just disappear, but later,” I say quietly. “I promise.”
His fingers tighten at my hip. “I’m holding you to that.”
My smile is tiny but it’s genuine. “Good.”
Professional obligations keepus networking for another hour. Wes’s stare is heavy on me the entire time, and the few moments I stare back, I’m always the first to look away. By the time the gala is winding down, my feet hurt, and there’s the start of a headache forming behind my eyes. I’m beyond ready to change out of this dress—and I’m as ready as I’m going to be for my conversation with Wes.
Tracy glances at her watch, tips back the last of her champagne, and gestures toward the door with her empty glass. “You going to be okay if I head out?” Her attention drifts toward the bar where Wes is laughing with Carter. “Matt’s out front, but I can tell him to come back.”
I wiggle my toes with a wince. “Go home to Matt. I’m going to head up to change, I think.”
Tracy kicks off her shoes and stoops to grab them before leaning in for a hug. With a kiss on my cheek, she wiggles herfingers and darts for the exit, heels dangling from one hand. “It’s okay to forgive him. Love is a good thing, Sloane,” she tosses back over her shoulder before disappearing into the night.
Love. I’ve been afraid to call it that, afraid that saying it aloud would make everything that’s happened hurt so much more, but now that we’re here, now that repairing things between us doesn’t seem so impossible after all, I can’t call it anything else.
I’m in love with Wes Talbot—and I’m almost positive he’s in love with me.
I scan the crowd again, but he’s no longer by the bar where I last saw him. Shifting my weight, I give the dwindling crowd one more quick look before glaring down at my own gorgeous but painful heels. I’m not brave enough to whip them off right here like Tracy.
Deciding I’ll text Wes after I change—the conversation we need to have is definitely a private one—I head for the elevator. These shoes have got to go.
Stabbing the button for the elevator harder than necessary, I stare at the unmoving floor numbers. “Come on,” I mutter impatiently. “I need out of this dress.”
“I’d be happy to help with that,” Wes drawls from behind me right as the elevator doors open with ading. It’s such aWesthing to say, so typicallyusthat I let out a startled laugh. For a few seconds, it’s like the last six weeks never happened.
And then reality comes crashing back. The faint amusement on his face falls, tightening into the pained expression I’ve caught him trying to mask over and over again tonight.
“Sorry,” he says gruffly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “That was out of line.” He shoves his hands in his pockets,and then immediately pulls one back out to rake his fingers through his already-disheveled hair. “I can grab the next one.”
The flirty comment was one sort of reminder. This is another.
Wes is still the man who sees what I need and gives it to me, who takes care of me when I need it, without expecting the same in return.
The man who made a mistake—and did everything in his power to fix it. Even when he knew there was no guarantee I would forgive him. Even when he was on a stage in front of the people who can make or break our careers, he put me first.
I step into the elevator, hold down the button to keep the doors open, and gesture with my free hand to the empty space. “We can share.”
Emotions dance across his expression too fast to follow, but there’s no mistaking the tentative hope. “You’re sure?”
I swallow past my nerves and ignore the growing impulse to step into his arms and just skip the part where we have the hard conversation—butnottalking is how we got here. “Yeah, Wes. I’m sure.”
It’s only once the doors close that I realize he absolutelyreeksof alcohol. I back away as much as I can in such a confined space and hold on to my clutch so hard my fingers ache. “We can talk tomorrow,” I say quickly, my gaze fixed on the steadily climbing numbers. I’m too emotionally drained to confront the stab of disappointment knifing through me. I thought this conversation was just as important to him as it is to me, that it was worth being sober for. “Maybe in the morning—”
“I’m not drunk.” Wes takes a step closer, his eyes clearwhen they meet mine. He moves slowly, giving me plenty of time to avoid the careful fingers that curl around my wrist and guide my hand to his chest. His very wet chest. “Server tripped. It’s white wine. I was going up to my room to change before I found you.”
“Oh.” I let my hand drop awkwardly and force my eyes back to his. “Well, don’t let me stop you. That can’t be comfortable.”
“You think I give a shit about that right now?” His throat bobs with the force of his swallow, his voice stripped bare. He lifts one hand as if to reach for me again, only to quickly shove it in his pocket. “All I want is to make things right between us.”
The charm act from our chase season is gone. What’s left behind is raw vulnerability and fragile hope. Aching need. And yet Wes isn’t pleading. He isn’t pressuring me. Even now, when it’s obvious by his rigid posture and tight expression that it’s taking everything in him to hold back, he’s going at my pace.
It’s terrifying to need someone the way I need Wes Talbot, terrifying to put my trust in him again, but we’re storm chasers. Our lives are all about calculated risks.
