Chase Me If You Can(98)
I’m in love with Wes Talbot—and I’m almost positive he’s in love with me.
I scan the crowd again, but he’s no longer by the bar where I last saw him. Shifting my weight, I give the dwindling crowd one more quick look before glaring down at my own gorgeous but painful heels. I’m not brave enough to whip them off right here like Tracy.
Deciding I’ll text Wes after I change—the conversation we need to have is definitely a private one—I head for the elevator. These shoes have got to go.
Stabbing the button for the elevator harder than necessary, I stare at the unmoving floor numbers. “Come on,” I mutter impatiently. “I need out of this dress.”
“I’d be happy to help with that,” Wes drawls from behind me right as the elevator doors open with a ding. It’s such a Wes thing to say, so typically us that I let out a startled laugh. For a few seconds, it’s like the last six weeks never happened.
And then reality comes crashing back. The faint amusement on his face falls, tightening into the pained expression I’ve caught him trying to mask over and over again tonight.
“Sorry,” he says gruffly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “That was out of line.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and then immediately pulls one back out to rake his fingers through his already-disheveled hair. “I can grab the next one.”
The flirty comment was one sort of reminder. This is another.
Wes is still the man who sees what I need and gives it to me, who takes care of me when I need it, without expecting the same in return.
The man who made a mistake—and did everything in his power to fix it. Even when he knew there was no guarantee I would forgive him. Even when he was on a stage in front of the people who can make or break our careers, he put me first.
I step into the elevator, hold down the button to keep the doors open, and gesture with my free hand to the empty space. “We can share.”
Emotions dance across his expression too fast to follow, but there’s no mistaking the tentative hope. “You’re sure?”
I swallow past my nerves and ignore the growing impulse to step into his arms and just skip the part where we have the hard conversation—but not talking is how we got here. “Yeah, Wes. I’m sure.”
It’s only once the doors close that I realize he absolutely reeks of alcohol. I back away as much as I can in such a confined space and hold on to my clutch so hard my fingers ache. “We can talk tomorrow,” I say quickly, my gaze fixed on the steadily climbing numbers. I’m too emotionally drained to confront the stab of disappointment knifing through me. I thought this conversation was just as important to him as it is to me, that it was worth being sober for. “Maybe in the morning—”
“I’m not drunk.” Wes takes a step closer, his eyes clear when they meet mine. He moves slowly, giving me plenty of time to avoid the careful fingers that curl around my wrist and guide my hand to his chest. His very wet chest. “Server tripped. It’s white wine. I was going up to my room to change before I found you.”
“Oh.” I let my hand drop awkwardly and force my eyes back to his. “Well, don’t let me stop you. That can’t be comfortable.”
“You think I give a shit about that right now?” His throat bobs with the force of his swallow, his voice stripped bare. He lifts one hand as if to reach for me again, only to quickly shove it in his pocket. “All I want is to make things right between us.”
The charm act from our chase season is gone. What’s left behind is raw vulnerability and fragile hope. Aching need. And yet Wes isn’t pleading. He isn’t pressuring me. Even now, when it’s obvious by his rigid posture and tight expression that it’s taking everything in him to hold back, he’s going at my pace.
It’s terrifying to need someone the way I need Wes Talbot, terrifying to put my trust in him again, but we’re storm chasers. Our lives are all about calculated risks.
If we can put our lives on the line for tornadoes, surely it’s worth risking my heart for love.
I’m holding on to my clutch so hard the zipper bites into my skin. A ragged whisper is all I can manage as emotion threatens to choke me. “I miss you.”
“I’m so sorry, Sloane. I’m so fucking sorry,” Wes rasps. “I have been fucking miserable without you.”
“I forgive you.” I speak slowly, making sure he knows I mean it. “You have things you want to say, and there are things I should say too, but I want to start there. I forgive you. I…I want to try to figure the rest out.”
A tremor goes through him, his big body all but collapsing into mine. I let myself sink into him. Sink into the comfort and safety of being held so securely, the familiar scent of his skin, and the bone-deep certainty that beneath all the bullshit, this man sees me in a way no one ever has. Sees all my scars, all my baggage, and wants me just the way I am.
The elevator doors open with a loud ding. We barely manage to break apart and get out before they close again, the air charged with emotion.
“You wanted to change out of that,” Wes starts gruffly. He reaches into his pocket and extracts a room key. “I should rinse off too. Come to my room when you’re done. Ten-thirteen.”
I almost tell him that I don’t care, but what we’re doing here, it’s not something to be rushed. It’s like Wes said to me months ago—some things are worth being serious about.