Chase Me If You Can(88)
Wes thinks I look like a mythical creature in that dress. With the storm raging in front of me, complete with a distant though distinct lightning bolt, I can’t say I disagree. It’s a modern take, sure, without the armor or sword or shield—or mythical wings—but the image does invoke a sense of power and defiance. It’s telling a story, but I’m still not convinced it’s the right story for Nature Shots to choose me.
Maybe things would be different if I had the option to send both shots, if I could take the chance while still having a “safe” photo in the running, but the rules are clear. Only one photo per photographer. Only one chance to get it right. And whether I wish it were different or not, the less overtly feminine option is the obvious choice.
Decision reaffirmed, I click submit, finish my wine, and put myself to bed after sending Wes a Can’t wait to see you text.
Humming to myself two endless days later, mood buoyed by the promise of Wes waiting on the other end of the short flight to Houston, I throw on the same maxi dress I wore the first time he stayed with me. I can chalk up the flush in my cheeks to the heat of the hair dryer, but the sparkle in my eyes is all anticipation. Especially when I remember our text exchange last night.
I have a surprise for you when you get here.
I hate surprises.
I think you’re going to like this one…
Shivering at the promise, I grab my phone to order an Uber to the airport. Habit has me tapping on my email for a last-minute check for anything urgent from clients. Thankfully, there’s nothing I need to deal with, but there is an email from Nature Shots.
Curious what they would be emailing about so soon, I open the email—only for my stomach to drop through the floor.
Dear Ms. Michaels…regret to inform you…violation of contest rules…previously submitted…disqualified.
Convinced there must be some mistake, I blink a few times and try to read the message again. I’ve been disqualified for violating the rules against submitting more than one image per photographer, except that’s impossible. I triple-checked my submission. There was only one file with one image attached.
Which is when I notice the file attachments at the very bottom of the email. One is the file I submitted. The other is labeled Valkyrie.jpeg.
“No,” I whisper, my thumb shaking as I tap to download the attachment. “Wes wouldn’t…”
Except he must have, because there I am, pink dress billowing in the wind, lightning in the distance.
Wes is the only one I sent a copy of the finished photo to. For his personal collection. How did they even get it when we can only submit one photo each?
Except as soon as the thought passes, I remember how basic the submission form was. There were only a handful of fields: name of photographer, email address of the photographer, name of image, and date the image was taken. Nowhere did it ask for the name of the person submitting the file. Anyone with the link could, theoretically, upload whatever they wanted.
Uber forgotten, I dial with shaking fingers. Betrayal burns hot as I listen to the phone ring once, twice, and then there’s Wes and his oh-so-casual “Hey, darlin’, everything all right with your flight?” like he hasn’t been sneaking around behind my back.
“How could you?” Tears I don’t bother trying to wipe away spill down my cheeks. “I told you when you were here that I was going with the other shot. I told you it wasn’t your decision to make!”
There’s a long beat of silence followed by his sigh. “I know that. And I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you. All of your photos are stunning, Sloane, but I wanted to give the judges the chance to pick between them. I thought it would be a nice surprise if it was chosen, and if not, well, it wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“Wouldn’t hurt anything?” The bitter noise that comes out of my throat isn’t precisely a laugh. “You deliberately violated the contest rules.”
“I didn’t—” Wes cuts himself off. There’s a rustle of fabric, the sound of footsteps cutting through the sudden silence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally says, his accent thickening in an emotional tell I wish I didn’t recognize.
There’s only one reason he would say those words in that tone of voice. It’s so typically Wes that it all makes a horrible kind of sense.
“I know you sure as shit weren’t listening on the call when Carter went over them, but I—quite foolishly it seems—assumed that for something this important, you would, I don’t know, go back and read the fucking rules,” I seethe.
Wes sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry. I obviously missed—”
“Did you read the fucking rules, Wes?” I cut in. I don’t need to hear excuses while my heart slowly fractures piece by piece. “Or did you just go off half-cocked and do what you wanted to do without any thought to how it might impact me?” I don’t give him a chance to reply before spitting out, “I’ve been disqualified. For duplicate entries. Because the rules very clearly stated one entry per photographer.”
“Shit. I…I’m so sorry, Sloane. There’s never been a limit before and I…well, that doesn’t matter. This is obviously my fuckup. Let me call them. I’ll explain, and by the time you get here, it will all be straightened out.”