Chase Me If You Can(97)
I stand automatically and move toward the stage in a daze while applause fills the ballroom. Wes waits for me by the short flight of stairs, his hand extended like the perfect gentleman. There’s no way he doesn’t notice how sweaty my palm is when he helps me onto the stage. Especially when he holds on a few seconds longer than strictly necessary.
My hammering heart drowns out whatever nice things Carter says about my photograph before he pulls the velvet off the print. “Nice dress,” he deadpans into the microphone, offering the audience a wink before stepping back to make room for me.
Far too aware of Wes only feet away, I glance down at my notes. They’re a little smudged from my sweaty palms. Good thing I practiced this speech so much that once I start, muscle memory should take over.
“When I came up with this concept, I was interested in the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction. That’s one of the things that drew me to storm chasing early on. These storms are as stunning as they are deadly. The best image of my career”—I gesture to the blown-up photograph behind me—“could also be the worst day of someone else’s life.”
I swallow hard, unprepared for the memory of Wes, sweaty and exhausted and hefting a chainsaw to help tornado victims. The audience is silent, all those eyes staring up at me. This isn’t the moment to fall into my own head, and yet I can’t help glancing back at him for just a second. Eyes shining with emotion, he dips his chin in the tiniest acknowledgment.
“I wanted to capture that dichotomy,” I continue, “and I wanted to do it in a way that evoked both the wildness of the storm and the careful box of femininity. So many women hide their ferocity behind gowns and smiles, but storm chasing is meant to be a little wild. When we’re out there, we’re all part of that storm.” My eyes flick back to Wes. “The beauty and the destruction.”
I take another breath and turn my attention to the audience before the desperate ache in my chest steals my voice. I thank Carter and the magazine for the opportunity before posing for photos with one of those enormous cardboard checks and the various judges and sponsors.
When it’s time for a shot with all the winners, Wes stands awkwardly at my side. He shifts his weight when his arm brushes mine and mutters an apology before looking away—but not before I catch the flash of pain in his eyes.
It’s not the first time either. I’ve seen it every time he’s stopped himself from reaching for me almost half a dozen times tonight.
On my other side, Tracy slings an arm around my shoulders and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek. “You okay?” she whispers with a tiny, barely perceivable nod toward Wes.
“I think so.” I slide one arm around her waist, and without letting myself think about it too much, rest my other lightly on Wes’s back. His whole body shudders with the contact, and then his arm settles low behind me, the expensive fabric of his jacket soft on my bare skin and warm with the heat of him. Something tentative and full of hope blooms in his eyes when I glance up.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, momentarily forgetting there’s a photographer waiting who isn’t interested in watching us stare at each other. “For what you said up there.”
“Every word was the truth.”
“I know, but—”
“If everyone could just look into the camera, we’ll get you folks off to the party as quickly as we can,” the photographer interrupts in a familiar pleasant-but-about-to-not-be tone.
“After we’re done here, can we talk?” Wes says in a low voice, his lips barely moving to appease the photographer. “Alone, without interruptions.”
The camera clicks as the shutter releases in a staccato burst. I hold my smile fixed in place, but when the photographer finally declares we’re done, I meet Wes’s eyes. Beneath his mask of affability, there’s a wild edge, as though he’s terrified that I’ll vanish if he so much as looks away.
“We can’t just disappear, but later,” I say quietly. “I promise.”
His fingers tighten at my hip. “I’m holding you to that.”
My smile is tiny but it’s genuine. “Good.”
* * *
Professional obligations keep us networking for another hour. Wes’s stare is heavy on me the entire time, and the few moments I stare back, I’m always the first to look away. By the time the gala is winding down, my feet hurt, and there’s the start of a headache forming behind my eyes. I’m beyond ready to change out of this dress—and I’m as ready as I’m going to be for my conversation with Wes.
Tracy glances at her watch, tips back the last of her champagne, and gestures toward the door with her empty glass. “You going to be okay if I head out?” Her attention drifts toward the bar where Wes is laughing with Carter. “Matt’s out front, but I can tell him to come back.”
I wiggle my toes with a wince. “Go home to Matt. I’m going to head up to change, I think.”
Tracy kicks off her shoes and stoops to grab them before leaning in for a hug. With a kiss on my cheek, she wiggles her fingers and darts for the exit, heels dangling from one hand. “It’s okay to forgive him. Love is a good thing, Sloane,” she tosses back over her shoulder before disappearing into the night.
Love. I’ve been afraid to call it that, afraid that saying it aloud would make everything that’s happened hurt so much more, but now that we’re here, now that repairing things between us doesn’t seem so impossible after all, I can’t call it anything else.