Chase Me If You Can
Heather Frances
for the ones with lightning in their veins and storms in their hearts
Author’s Note
I was the kid who’d sit on the porch or plaster myself against the side of the house to watch the summer storms until thunder rattled my teeth—or someone made me go inside. It was usually the latter, if I’m honest. When I got the opportunity to learn to chase storms on the plains for the first time in 2019, I was instantly hooked.
Being able to write a romance set in the world of storm chasing has meant so much to me, and I’m so excited to share that with all of you! I want to note that this is a work of fiction, and though my own experiences at times provided inspiration, liberties have been taken and embellishments made in service of the story. Storm chasing can be relatively safe with the right knowledge and preparation, but incredibly dangerous without. If you ever decide you want to try it out, don’t be like Wes. Learn from someone with the experience to keep you safe. Girls Who Chase, an organization founded with a mission of getting more women involved in storm chasing and meteorology, is a great place to start!
For a full list of content warnings, please visit heatherfrances.com.
Chapter One
I chase lightning.
A fact, but also a phrase that used to be inscribed on church bells. A couple hundred years ago, someone got it in their head that ringing said bell could prevent lightning strikes. No one seemed to consider that a tall tower with a giant hunk of metal is a terrible place to be during a storm.
Then again, maybe an open field—my preference—isn’t much better than a church steeple.
Today’s church bells have nothing to do with the weather. I sneak a quick peek into the nave on my way back to the bridal suite and hope no one notices. White roses and pale pink peonies decorate the aisle, lush and fragrant, as their delicate scents mingle with the pillar candles set at the end of each pew. The aisle itself has been covered with a thick cream carpet shot through with gold thread that I can’t wait to see in the ceremony photos. My excitement only grows when I glance up to find soft light streaming through the church’s enormous stained glass windows. With a final sigh of relief that most of the guests are already settled—no last-minute wrangling of relatives required—I hurry back to finish the last of the pre-ceremony preparations.
Twenty minutes later, when the music swells into the bridal march and two hundred people get to their feet, a particular set of amused gray eyes grabs my attention over all the others. He winks while I’m still trying to digest the perfectly tailored suit in place of his usual baseball hat, T-shirt, and shorts, his dark hair carefully styled instead of windblown and dusty, tattoos tidily hidden by formalwear, and face cleanly shaven. My mind blanks, no longer ruminating on church bells or lightning or much of anything except the sight of him.
At least until he has the nerve to jerk his chin up the aisle and mouth That way with a pointed finger and an unfortunately familiar know-it-all grin.
“Sloane!” Amy, my assistant photographer for the ceremony, hisses into my earpiece. “You’re going to miss the bride!”
I jerk out of my stupor and quickly lift my camera until a froth of white fills the viewfinder, the bride’s smile radiant with her arm looped through her father’s. Shoving aside my own personal drama that I will not let unfold in front of my client, I focus on capturing the bride’s joy.
This is my favorite part of photographing weddings. It’s why I keep doing it, despite the bridezillas and the neurotic family members and all the other insanity that comes with a couple’s big day. The reception and the staged photos are always a little awkward, sure, but the bride walking down the aisle, the groom’s expression when he sees her? This is the stuff of fairy tales.
At least it would be if perpetual pain in my ass Wes Talbot—Wild Wes to those who have the misfortune of knowing him—wasn’t smirking at me from his pew. His height ensures he doesn’t disappear into the crowd. Lucky me.
I’d love to demand an explanation for what he’s doing here, disturbing my peace a full week ahead of our annual battle of wills, but it’s a wedding and he’s in a suit. Judging by the side of the aisle he’s on, he’s a friend of the groom. We’re in Houston. I vaguely remember that Wes lives here, when he’s not tormenting me in gas station parking lots or providing less-than-helpful tips on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere every spring.
Despite being only a couple years older than me at thirty-three, he’s something of a legend among storm chasers. One of the first out at the start of the season in April, he usually stays on the road through summer monsoon season in the Southwest, transitioning seamlessly from tornadoes and supercells to lightning and dust storms. Unlike the rest of us who have to squeak our chase season in around jobs that pay the bills.
Wes is impossible to avoid during storm season—even without him being close to my best friend’s fiancé, we share too many of the same friends to not end up on the same roads all too often. Not that I would exactly call us friends. There’s no denying all six foot four of him is nice to look at, and he’s always flirty bordering on friendly. But Wes has a reckless streak a mile wide that’s racked up more close calls than I want to think about. When everyone else backs off, he’s the first to charge directly into the bear’s cage if he thinks it will get him a shot.