If we can put our lives on the line for tornadoes, surely it’s worth risking my heart for love.
I’m holding on to my clutch so hard the zipper bites into my skin. A ragged whisper is all I can manage as emotion threatens to choke me. “I miss you.”
“I’m so sorry, Sloane. I’m so fucking sorry,” Wes rasps. “I have been fucking miserable without you.”
“I forgive you.” I speak slowly, making sure he knows Imean it. “You have things you want to say, and there are things I should say too, but I want to start there. I forgive you. I…I want to try to figure the rest out.”
A tremor goes through him, his big body all but collapsing into mine. I let myself sink into him. Sink into the comfort and safety of being held so securely, the familiar scent of his skin, and the bone-deep certainty that beneath all the bullshit, this man sees me in a way no one ever has. Sees all my scars, all my baggage, and wants me just the way I am.
The elevator doors open with a loudding. We barely manage to break apart and get out before they close again, the air charged with emotion.
“You wanted to change out of that,” Wes starts gruffly. He reaches into his pocket and extracts a room key. “I should rinse off too. Come to my room when you’re done. Ten-thirteen.”
I almost tell him that I don’t care, but what we’re doing here, it’s not something to be rushed. It’s like Wes said to me months ago—some things are worth being serious about.
He might stop breathing when I wrap my fingers around his and press up onto my toes to brush a barely there kiss against his jaw. “I won’t be long.”
The weight of his stare follows me until the hallway curves out of sight. I quicken my pace, hurrying through stripping out of the dress and shoes. When I rush out of the room barely ten minutes later, I’m once again wearing Wes’s hoodie.
With my lips still tingling from the warmth of his skin, something about pulling the soft cotton over my head clicks the last pieces into place. It’s not just that I’ve forgiven Wes for the stunt he pulled with the photos—I’ve finally accepted that despite my fears, despite my knee-jerk instinct to lock him outthe second he screwed up, I don’t have to repeat my mom’s mistakes.
My pulse is thunder in my ears when I knock. Déjà vu hits hard when Wes opens the door, black sweatpants low on his hips and water droplets clinging to his bare chest while he rubs his hair with a towel. “Hi, darlin’,” he says with an almost shy smile as he starts to swing the door wider. “Come in—” His throat bobs with the force of his swallow, his eyes wide when they drop to my chest. “You kept it.”
Three simple words, and yet there’s so much hope packed into them that my knees nearly buckle. I should say something, tell himof courseI kept it, cozying up to some version of him even in my hurt. But I don’t have the capacity for words. Not when Wes is looking at me like I’m the answer to every wish he’s ever had.
I launch myself at him, clinging to his shoulders and choking on a gasp when his arms come around me in an instant to crush me closer. His skin is hot from the shower, heartbeat steady if a little fast under my cheek. It’s so damn good my eyes burn.
Neither one of us says a word. The door falls shut behind me, cocooning us in the quiet of the hotel room. It’s a long time before I finally straighten. “Sorry,” I mumble, scrubbing a hand over my face and probably smearing mascara everywhere. “I—”
“Don’t.” Wes cups my jaw and gives me one of his intense stares, his entire focus centered on me. “Don’t ever apologize for needing to be held. I needed that too.” He swallows, his eyes dropping to my mouth before he adds softly, “You ready for that talk?”
After putting this off for so long, the direct question should stir up my anxieties. Instead it reminds me of the last serious talk we had.When you know, you know.
“I’m ready,” I whisper. I’m not just talking about the conversation, and I think by the way his eyes warm, Wes knows it too.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Sloane. Especially with you.” He settles his palm on my cheek and then continues, “There’s something I should have told you a while ago. I need you to know that I wasn’t full of shit. That when I said you were worth taking seriously, I meant that more than I’ve meant anything in my life. It’s been killing me that I might have lost you. That I’d have no one to blame for that but myself.”
Tipping my face up to his, I shake my head. “That’s not entirely true,” I say softly.
“I’m not perfect. I don’t expect you to be either.” Wes leans his forehead into mine. “We’re a lot alike sometimes. I should have told you this earlier. I just didn’t want to admit that, despite having learned a long time ago who my dad really is, he can still get to me. So I didn’t tell you that the day Carter went over the rules, we were arguing when the call started. The same horseshit about photography not being a real career, but he didn’t hang up on me like he usually does when he gets tired of yelling.”
Wes lets out a bitter, pained laugh as he straightens. “He cut me off. I’ve avoided taking money from my parents for years, so that part isn’t a big deal. He can’t do anything about the trust my grandfather set up, but he said that if I ever wanted to set foot on his property again, I’d better be prepared to man up.”
The need to make sure Wes knows that his father’s narrow views are bullshit, that he’s loved just how he is, almost has the words spilling out—I love you I love you I love you—but he isn’t finished.
“Mom is planning her big sixtieth birthday party out at the ranch,” he continues, his fingers toying idly with my hair. “He knows exactly how much it would kill her for me to miss it. I told him I would be there no matter what. He said he’d report me for trespassing. Reminded me how close he is to the sheriff out that way.”
My heart aches at the realization that the entire time Wes was helping me work through my own problems with my mom, he was dealing with this. Alone. We really are awfully alike sometimes.
“I wish you’d told me it was that bad.” I reach up to gently run my fingers through his damp hair. “I get you were trying to help with the photo. I love”—my voice wobbles—“I love that you want to take care of me, but strength isn’t hiding your pain from me, Wes. I’m sorry that I didn’t see what you were going through, and I’m sorry it took me so long to give you the chance to explain.”
I press my palms to his chest, needing to feel the heat of him. Beneath my fingers, his heart is racing. “I’ve been so afraid that if I forgave you, I’d be no better than my mother. But I’m not her. And you’re not your father.”
The soft, tender expression on Wes’s face mirrors the gentle sweep of his thumb over my bottom lip. “Sloane, I—”
He’s cut off by the shrill sound of his phone. Pink stains his cheeks as he twists away to grab it off the dresser, quickly stabbing the screen. I drink in the familiar sight of his tattoos—only to realize there’s a new set of numbers running down his spine. I’ve spent enough time punching coordinates into photography planning apps to know that 37° north and 100° west mark a spot somewhere in Tornado Alley.
“Sorry, I wasn’t sure how long you would be, so I set an alarm in case I fell—”
