Chase Me If You Can(35)

“Maybe,” he says. “If there’s something worth adding.”

It’s whisper soft with an undercurrent that turns the conversation intimate despite the wide-open space we’re in. With a hasty step back, I crumple the last wipe. “I think that’s as good as it’s getting. You’re probably going to need to wash whatever you’re putting on for the drive back too, but it’s better than it was. We can look for a place with laundry.”

“Sloane?” As I start to move around him, Wes curls his fingers around my wrist in a gentle hold I could easily break but don’t. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing across my skin with searing gentleness.

“Not like you were getting in my car covered in mud,” I say with a forced laugh. With my thoughts already so jumbled, he’s being far too serious for me to handle. “Besides, I’m hungry.”

Wes doesn’t let go. “I know I’m a pain in the ass. You could have left me in Colorado. You probably should have.”

“You aren’t a pain in the ass,” I grumble, surprised to find it’s not just people-pleaser-Sloane saying it. “Occasionally irritating, sure, but so am I.”

“You do love your rules,” he agrees, but it’s not a criticism. Not when he says it in that warm, affectionate voice, full of humor. “Don’t suppose you have a trash bag for all these wipes in your Girl Scout collection of supplies?”



* * *





When we get back to cell service, a voicemail pops up from my brother. Wes’s windows came in, but there’s glass stuck in the door mechanism so it’s going to be at least a couple more days.

“Not really in a rush at this point.” Wes shrugs in the passenger seat, his expression lit by the harsh glare of the parking lot lights as we pull into the hotel. “Unless of course you want to get rid of me. Totally cool if you do.”

I frown, something about the way he says it twisting uncomfortably. I’m not thrilled about how close my car—with us inside it—came to going for a swim, but that aside, I like having Wes around more than I expected.

“I don’t want to get rid of you,” I say firmly. And then, to prevent things from turning too serious, I add, “As long as you don’t try to make friends with another mud pit.”

He laughs and the moment passes. “Not looking to repeat that anytime soon. You mind telling your brother he can take his time? If you’re okay keeping me, that is.”

“We’ll end up back out that way eventually,” I say, ignoring the fact that it’s the second time in as many minutes Wes has slipped a self-deprecating comment into the conversation. I’m not sure he even realizes how frequently he implies he’s not worth keeping around.

I quickly text Eric that we’re not going to be back for at least another week. My brother replies with a string of question marks. I ignore him. It’s chase season. What else would we be doing out here?

“I obviously need a shower in the worst way.” Wes slings his camera bag over his shoulder and reaches for his duffel at the same time I go for mine, and there’s an awkward pause before he adds, “Give me half an hour and we can grab dinner.”

I nod my agreement. I may not have fallen into a ditch, but helping him clean up left me grimy too. I could use a quick shower—and a few minutes to myself.

I let out a long, slow breath once I’m in the quiet dark of my room. Leaning back against the cold of the metal door, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind of thoughts of Wes, anxiety about the contest, worry about what my brothers are or aren’t doing for my mom back home, and all the other stresses piling up in the dark corners of my thoughts.

If only counting to ten actually made any of those problems disappear.

At least the shower is hot and clean, with great water pressure. Once I start to relax, it doesn’t take long for my thoughts to drift back to all the little digs Wes has made over the last week at his own expense. I’ve always thought of him as a talented photographer too arrogant for his own good. What if I was wrong? What if it hasn’t been arrogance at all?

I emerge in a cloud of steam, scrubbed clean but without any answers. Impulsively, I grab my phone and text Tracy. Matt would probably be the better choice, but he’s also more likely to tell Wes.


How well do you actually know Wes?


What do you want to know? I can ask Matt.

I frown, suddenly unsure if I want to talk about my suspicions with her when she’s likely to tell Matt about our conversation. If Wes is masking his insecurities, he has his reasons. Just something he said.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and then pops up again before Tracy finally sends a reply. Seems like it’s going well. How long do you think you’ll be chasing together?

That’s the million-dollar question. I sigh, toying with my phone before I send an answer. Not sure. Just taking it one day at a time. And then, to push the conversation to a safer topic, I add, He fell in a ditch today. Always possible he finally takes himself out and solves the problem for me.


He fell in a ditch and you let him back in your car?! Also, where are the pictures?


Only after he stripped and used an entire package of wipes to clean off most of it.

Tracy’s typing bubble appears and disappears a few times before she sends back, Did you help or just enjoy the view?