Chase Me If You Can(2)
At least he has the decency to leave me be while I’m shooting the wedding ceremony and portraits, but when everyone sits down to eat, he can’t help himself.
“You know, if you swapped that hot garbage lens out like I’ve been telling you to for years, you wouldn’t have to worry about cropping out fuzzy corners,” he says as he leans over my shoulder to peer at the image I’m hastily editing.
“Only you would call something that cost a couple grand hot garbage,” I say without looking up, one hand on my mouse and one attempting to fill a fork with pasta. The only thing wrong with the lens is that Wes prefers a competitor—and never shuts up about it. Especially after shooting a campaign for the brand last year.
“A couple grand can still be a was—”
“Nope.” I don’t bother to turn around. “We’re not doing this. I’m working. Your reign of terror doesn’t start for another week. Shoo.”
Of course that doesn’t get rid of him. Unfazed by my dismissal, Wes slides into the chair across from me. He’s already ditched his jacket, pale-blue dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and exposing ink on his muscled forearms I’ve never gotten a close look at. His hair has reverted to its more natural state of artful chaos, though for all I know that’s courtesy of a quickie with the bridesmaid who’s been eye-fucking him all evening.
She’s welcome to him. Wes might be beautiful, but he’s beautiful the way tornadoes are beautiful—something to be admired from afar or risk getting caught in the storm. I have no interest in becoming collateral damage.
“You’re far from home,” he drawls, his slight Texas accent creeping in. Probably thanks to the glass of amber liquid dangling from his fingertips.
I look up momentarily from my screen to squint at him in the semidarkness of my tucked-away corner. Every time I take in his appearance tonight, there’s a jarring moment where it doesn’t fit. Like running into an old elementary school teacher at the grocery store, Wes doesn’t belong in this part of my life.
Storm season is a bit like adult summer camp. Week after week seeing the same faces over and over again, that time on the road exists in a liminal space outside of our real lives. The version of Wes I know best is the one pushing my buttons on the side of the road with raindrops splattering his tanned skin, not this walking and talking spread from a men’s luxury magazine.
I’ve stayed quiet too long. His eyes catch mine and hold, expression too intense for my liking. “I’m a wedding photographer. This is a wedding. Cora was the maid of honor for a wedding I shot in Estes Park a few years ago,” I say, getting us back on familiar footing.
The fact that the bride is a friend of a prior client is the only reason I agreed to squeeze this in. I’m going to be editing around the clock for the next week to finish all my client work waiting at home before I put up my proverbial gone fishing sign—fishing for tornadoes.
“Oh, Aidan’s wedding.” Wes takes a sip of his drink and relaxes more into his chair. “I was chasing in Argentina.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter under my breath. Argentina can produce incredible storms, but chasing there is an expensive and logistical nightmare. Of course, money solves a lot of problems, and Wes comes from an old Texas oil family. It’s why he’s here in the first place as a guest at a six-figure wedding while I’m the hired help. If I ever get married, it definitely won’t be at a place like this. My budget is more backyard and barefoot than champagne and caviar.
“Chasing definitely has more comfortable clothes.” Tugging at the collar of his shirt, his hand slides down to unknot his tie, silk sliding against silk. “At least for me. You ever deviate from that all-black wardrobe? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you in a dress.”
I’m wearing the same thing I always wear to photograph weddings: black dress pants with enough stretch to maneuver and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. The look is completed with a pair of black sneakers and my dark hair in a once-tidy French braid falling halfway down my back. It’s not the most flattering outfit—I may be just shy of six feet tall, but my hourglass shape makes it a challenge to find pants without an elastic waist that fit well. With my concealer wearing off and dark circles on display, it’s not like I’m winning any fashion awards, anyway.
Exasperated, I don’t bother to look up. “Yeah, okay, let me just go throw on a dress so when I bend over to get a close-up, I can give grandma a close-up of my ass at the same time.”
Wes’s laughter turns choked. He sets his glass down with a thunk and coughs a few more times. When I glance up, his face has gone red. With one finger pointing accusingly at his unfinished drink, he rasps, “That really burns going down the wrong way.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” I wave my hand vaguely toward the rest of the guests. “Go terrorize a bridesmaid.” I narrow my eyes and smile sweetly. “Those stilettos look…pointy.”
Wes doesn’t move. He stares long enough that I have to fight the urge to fidget before he asks, “You hear about the Nature Shots contest?”
“Yep.” I curse under my breath when my hand slips, slashing a line across the bride’s face. Nothing a little undo won’t fix, but I need to get rid of Wes if I’m going to have the preview gallery ready tonight. I have no idea why he’s decided to chat me up, but then again, this is the same man who regularly attends the Sweetwater rattlesnake roundup each spring. I stopped trying to figure out why he does half the crazy stuff he does years ago.