Chase Me If You Can

Chapter One

I chase lightning.

A fact, but also a phrase that used to be inscribed on church bells. A couple hundred years ago, someone got it in their head that ringing said bell could prevent lightning strikes. No one seemed to consider that a tall tower with a giant hunk of metal is a terrible place to be during a storm.

Then again, maybe an open field-my preference-isn't much better than a church steeple.

Today's church bells have nothing to do with the weather. I sneak a quick peek into the nave on my way back to the bridal suite and hope no one notices. White roses and pale pink peonies decorate the aisle, lush and fragrant, as their delicate scents mingle with the pillar candles set at the end of each pew. The aisle itself has been covered with a thick cream carpet shot through with gold thread that I can't wait to see in the ceremony photos. My excitement only grows when I glance up to find soft light streaming through the church's enormous stained glass windows. With a final sigh of relief that most of the guests are already settled-no last-minute wrangling of relatives required-I hurry back to finish the last of the pre-ceremony preparations.

Twenty minutes later, when the music swells into the bridal march and two hundred people get to their feet, a particular set of amused gray eyes grabs my attention over all the others. He winks while I'm still trying to digest the perfectly tailored suit in place of his usual baseball hat, T-shirt, and shorts, his dark hair carefully styled instead of windblown and dusty, tattoos tidily hidden by formalwear, and face cleanly shaven. My mind blanks, no longer ruminating on church bells or lightning or much of anything except the sight of him.

At least until he has the nerve to jerk his chin up the aisle and mouth That way with a pointed finger and an unfortunately familiar know-it-all grin.

"Sloane!" Amy, my assistant photographer for the ceremony, hisses into my earpiece. "You're going to miss the bride!"

I jerk out of my stupor and quickly lift my camera until a froth of white fills the viewfinder, the bride's smile radiant with her arm looped through her father's. Shoving aside my own personal drama that I will not let unfold in front of my client, I focus on capturing the bride's joy.

This is my favorite part of photographing weddings. It's why I keep doing it, despite the bridezillas and the neurotic family members and all the other insanity that comes with a couple's big day. The reception and the staged photos are always a little awkward, sure, but the bride walking down the aisle, the groom's expression when he sees her? This is the stuff of fairy tales.

At least it would be if perpetual pain in my ass Wes Talbot-Wild Wes to those who have the misfortune of knowing him-wasn't smirking at me from his pew. His height ensures he doesn't disappear into the crowd. Lucky me.

I'd love to demand an explanation for what he's doing here, disturbing my peace a full week ahead of our annual battle of wills, but it's a wedding and he's in a suit. Judging by the side of the aisle he's on, he's a friend of the groom. We're in Houston. I vaguely remember that Wes lives here, when he's not tormenting me in gas station parking lots or providing less-than-helpful tips on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere every spring.

Despite being only a couple years older than me at thirty-three, he's something of a legend among storm chasers. One of the first out at the start of the season in April, he usually stays on the road through summer monsoon season in the Southwest, transitioning seamlessly from tornadoes and supercells to lightning and dust storms. Unlike the rest of us who have to squeak our chase season in around jobs that pay the bills.

Wes is impossible to avoid during storm season-even without him being close to my best friend's fiancé, we share too many of the same friends to not end up on the same roads all too often. Not that I would exactly call us friends. There's no denying all six foot four of him is nice to look at, and he's always flirty bordering on friendly. But Wes has a reckless streak a mile wide that's racked up more close calls than I want to think about. When everyone else backs off, he's the first to charge directly into the bear's cage if he thinks it will get him a shot.

At least he has the decency to leave me be while I'm shooting the wedding ceremony and portraits, but when everyone sits down to eat, he can't help himself.

"You know, if you swapped that hot garbage lens out like I've been telling you to for years, you wouldn't have to worry about cropping out fuzzy corners," he says as he leans over my shoulder to peer at the image I'm hastily editing.

"Only you would call something that cost a couple grand hot garbage," I say without looking up, one hand on my mouse and one attempting to fill a fork with pasta. The only thing wrong with the lens is that Wes prefers a competitor-and never shuts up about it. Especially after shooting a campaign for the brand last year.

"A couple grand can still be a was-"

"Nope." I don't bother to turn around. "We're not doing this. I'm working. Your reign of terror doesn't start for another week. Shoo."

Of course that doesn't get rid of him. Unfazed by my dismissal, Wes slides into the chair across from me. He's already ditched his jacket, pale-blue dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and exposing ink on his muscled forearms I've never gotten a close look at. His hair has reverted to its more natural state of artful chaos, though for all I know that's courtesy of a quickie with the bridesmaid who's been eye-fucking him all evening.

She's welcome to him. Wes might be beautiful, but he's beautiful the way tornadoes are beautiful-something to be admired from afar or risk getting caught in the storm. I have no interest in becoming collateral damage.

"You're far from home," he drawls, his slight Texas accent creeping in. Probably thanks to the glass of amber liquid dangling from his fingertips.

I look up momentarily from my screen to squint at him in the semidarkness of my tucked-away corner. Every time I take in his appearance tonight, there's a jarring moment where it doesn't fit. Like running into an old elementary school teacher at the grocery store, Wes doesn't belong in this part of my life.

Storm season is a bit like adult summer camp. Week after week seeing the same faces over and over again, that time on the road exists in a liminal space outside of our real lives. The version of Wes I know best is the one pushing my buttons on the side of the road with raindrops splattering his tanned skin, not this walking and talking spread from a men's luxury magazine.

I've stayed quiet too long. His eyes catch mine and hold, expression too intense for my liking. "I'm a wedding photographer. This is a wedding. Cora was the maid of honor for a wedding I shot in Estes Park a few years ago," I say, getting us back on familiar footing.

The fact that the bride is a friend of a prior client is the only reason I agreed to squeeze this in. I'm going to be editing around the clock for the next week to finish all my client work waiting at home before I put up my proverbial gone fishing sign-fishing for tornadoes.

"Oh, Aidan's wedding." Wes takes a sip of his drink and relaxes more into his chair. "I was chasing in Argentina."

"Of course you were," I mutter under my breath. Argentina can produce incredible storms, but chasing there is an expensive and logistical nightmare. Of course, money solves a lot of problems, and Wes comes from an old Texas oil family. It's why he's here in the first place as a guest at a six-figure wedding while I'm the hired help. If I ever get married, it definitely won't be at a place like this. My budget is more backyard and barefoot than champagne and caviar.

"Chasing definitely has more comfortable clothes." Tugging at the collar of his shirt, his hand slides down to unknot his tie, silk sliding against silk. "At least for me. You ever deviate from that all-black wardrobe? I don't think I've ever even seen you in a dress."

I'm wearing the same thing I always wear to photograph weddings: black dress pants with enough stretch to maneuver and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. The look is completed with a pair of black sneakers and my dark hair in a once-tidy French braid falling halfway down my back. It's not the most flattering outfit-I may be just shy of six feet tall, but my hourglass shape makes it a challenge to find pants without an elastic waist that fit well. With my concealer wearing off and dark circles on display, it's not like I'm winning any fashion awards, anyway.

Exasperated, I don't bother to look up. "Yeah, okay, let me just go throw on a dress so when I bend over to get a close-up, I can give grandma a close-up of my ass at the same time."

Wes's laughter turns choked. He sets his glass down with a thunk and coughs a few more times. When I glance up, his face has gone red. With one finger pointing accusingly at his unfinished drink, he rasps, "That really burns going down the wrong way."

"Sounds like a you problem." I wave my hand vaguely toward the rest of the guests. "Go terrorize a bridesmaid." I narrow my eyes and smile sweetly. "Those stilettos look . . . pointy."

Wes doesn't move. He stares long enough that I have to fight the urge to fidget before he asks, "You hear about the Nature Shots contest?"

"Yep." I curse under my breath when my hand slips, slashing a line across the bride's face. Nothing a little undo won't fix, but I need to get rid of Wes if I'm going to have the preview gallery ready tonight. I have no idea why he's decided to chat me up, but then again, this is the same man who regularly attends the Sweetwater rattlesnake roundup each spring. I stopped trying to figure out why he does half the crazy stuff he does years ago.

"Are you entering? They must have invited you."

Leaving the bride momentarily disfigured, I level a glare across the table. There's no must have about it. In the twenty years that Nature Shots has been in publication, not once has a female photographer been featured on the cover.

"Yes, I'm going to enter." I don't bother asking if he was invited. Of course he was. He may not have graced the cover, but his work has appeared in the pages of the magazine a half dozen times. Despite knowing he's likely to win, I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to beat him.

"That mean you're not bailing early this year? I told you if you left last year, you'd regret it. That High Plains magic gets better every season."

Shoving a sharp breath out of my nose, I try not to otherwise react. The worst part is that he isn't wrong-I did regret leaving, but I also didn't have a choice. It's bad enough that as a wedding photographer I close my books for the month of May. In June, when the storms tend to shift north into the High Plains, with their lush rolling hills, I have weddings booked every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night. There are even a few Thursday ceremonies, not to mention several dozen engagement shoots crammed in around everything else. I work practically nonstop, and the cover contest isn't going to change the fact that weddings pay my bills.

"Just because you need three months doesn't mean I can't make it work in six weeks," I tell Wes with a syrupy smile.

The muscles in his throat flex as he swallows more alcohol, but to my surprise, he ignores the barb. "You think it's going to be an active season? Last year was kind of quiet." He flashes me a goading grin. "Except that June system."

There it is.

Momentarily forgetting that my clients paying me many thousands of dollars may walk up at any second, I finally give Wes what he wants: my full attention in the form of a murderous glare.

"I'm trying to work," I manage through gritted teeth. "I know it's very hard for you to comprehend that there are things in life that don't revolve around you, but someone else's wedding day is their day. I'm here to capture their memories to the very best of my ability. You might think weddings are beneath you, but I'm good at what I do."

Wes's usual smile full of practiced charm slips a notch. "I never said that."

"Right. I totally made up your I'd get so bored shooting nothing but flowers and cakes and people pretending they like each other in fancy clothes all year comment? Or maybe it was the time you told me that the nice thing about tornadoes is they don't argue about discounts?"

"Well, they don't," Wes says with a chuckle, polishing off the rest of his drink. He shrugs, the movement pulling his shirt snug against his broad chest. "I guess I'll see you on the road next week. Try to remember weddings are supposed to be fun, yeah?"

"For guests. Weddings are fun for guests." I give him a long look over the top of my laptop. "You're the one who's supposed to be having fun, not hanging out with the help."

Wes shakes his head as he pours himself onto his feet in a motion that shouldn't be so smooth for a man of his size. "Sloane, you are a great many things, but you are not the help. I'll see you next week."

The fact that I can't tell if he's being sincere or screwing with me like usual is absolutely the reason I watch him walk away. It definitely has nothing to do with the snug fit of his tailored pants or the weirdly warm sensation in my chest-one that quickly cools when he looks back over his shoulder, catches me watching, and throws back a smug wink.




While I can’t think of a way to make I will be traveling on personal business April 16th through May 30th. Email responses may take several weeks during this time. I am fully booked through the end of the year any clearer, I’m sure someone is still going to miss the bright pink, bold lettering splashed across the top of my website. That’s future Sloane’s problem.