Chase Me If You Can(38)

“You call that thunder?” he continues like I haven’t said a word, the low rumble echoing in my chest as it rolls across the open fields. “Weak! Do better!”

I have to bite my lip to suppress a smile and double check that my camera is level while Wes’s taunts turn more and more ridiculous as he goes. One minute he’s calling it a witty bitty baby storm and the next he’s telling it to be like Nike and just do it.

When I finally lose my composure and let out a laugh, he grins over his shoulder. “I knew fun Sloane had to be in there somewhere.”

I shake my head, refusing to participate in this madness. “Whether or not that storm spits out a tornado is a matter of science, not two unhinged storm chasers yelling nonsense at the sky.”

“So far I’m the only one doing any yelling.” He takes off his sunglasses to give me a pointed look. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“I don’t need to try it. You’ve got it covered.”

“Humor me.” Wes winks, then turns back to the storm and shouts, “Get your shit together or else Sloane is going to yell at you!”

“Get your shit together or a grown man is going to keep making an ass of himself,” I say half-heartedly without bothering to raise my voice. “Satisfied?”

“Not even remotely.” He folds his arms across his chest, tugging the thin T-shirt tight against his shoulders. “No one is out here but us. We already know you don’t care what I think.”

There’s that undercurrent to his words again that tightens my chest. I ignore it. Developing feelings for Wes is about as smart as driving a convertible into a hailstorm.

“It’s still ridiculous!”

“And?” Wes gestures toward the storm, where the cloud base is starting to ever so slightly lower. “What’s wrong with being ridiculous once in a while?”

“Some of us don’t have time for nonsense,” I snap, our good-natured bickering taking on a sharper edge that I don’t want but can’t seem to stop.

Feet planted and arms folded across his chest, Wes doesn’t back down. “No one is stopping you right now but yourself.”

I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out. I don’t have a good argument for that—because he’s right. I’m so used to being the responsible one, the one who at least appears to have it together, that the thought of intentionally doing something as silly as taunting a supercell goes against my wiring.

“Here.” Wes takes off his Longhorns hat and plunks it onto my head. He takes more time than he probably needs adjusting the fit so it doesn’t blow off my smaller head. He’s close enough that the scent of his soap surrounds me despite the wind whipping across the fields. When he tucks my hair carefully under the brim, I get the sense he’s lingering.

Just before he lets go, his eyes catch mine. Something hungry and dark stares back.

Wes looks away toward the storm, breaking the illusion and replacing his sunglasses. “Pretend you’re me,” he says simply. “Be an idiot for a few minutes.”

My chest tightens at the implied insult to himself. “You’re not an idiot.”

His playful smirk remains firmly fixed in place. “Have some fun, Sloane.”

Now I have to do this, if for no other reason than to prove that I can. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tip my head back and yell, “I could crawl across the interstate faster than you!”

Wes lets out a loud whoop. I pop my eyes open just in time for his sweaty arm to land on my shoulders before he squeezes me into his side. “Yeah, that’s the spirit!”

“I hope you’re happy,” I grumble. I should push him away, but despite the heat of the day, I don’t. Enjoying the temporary feeling of being with someone who wants to have silly, harmless fun with me doesn’t have to mean anything. Even if he has to bully me into it.

“I am.” Wes squeezes my shoulder and pulls me even closer. I glance up, caught off guard by the affectionate note in his words. We’re so close that if I tipped my head back just a little and he leaned in, we’d be kissing.

Which is not something I thought Wes was interested in—but the look on his face is far more than friendly.

At least until he shakes his head and lets go to bring his camera back up and point it at the storm. “It worked!”

The small funnel cloud wobbling out of the storm is a consequence of atmospheric conditions and updrafts, but I’m not about to argue. Not when I’m starting to wonder if that gas station kiss was more than the simple favor Wes claimed.

Especially when I try to give the Longhorns hat back. A hat I’ve seen him wearing for years. That suspicious softness back in his voice, Wes says, “Looks better on you. Brings out the amber in your eyes.”

He slides behind the wheel before I can do more than gape like a fish out of water. A brunette with brown eyes, I rarely get compliments like that. Lifting my hand to touch the brim of the hat, I allow myself a small, pleased smile before hurrying to the car.

The storm collapses without producing a tornado, and then we’re on to the next, back in the car and racing down the highway off a tip from one of Wes’s friends, who is on the other storm in the area. We also get a couple of texts from Matt, confirming that the reason we had this one all to ourselves is that we picked wrong. Frustrating, but it’s all part of the chase.