Книга - The Marriage Campaign

The Marriage Campaign
Karen Templeton


He’s the Man with a Plan Maid of honour at her cousin’s wedding is as close as designer Blythe plans to get to tying the knot again. But widowed congressman Wes Phillips refuses to take “I won’t” for an answer. Getting re-elected isn’t as important as winning Blythe’s trust and convincing the guarded beauty to take a shot at love…even if her scandalous past threatens to derail his political future.Wes’s future with Blythe comes first – if they’re both willing to risk their hearts for a second chance that’s worth fighting for. Summer Sisters: Three women, bound by blood, back home where they belong!









Bear took off with the ball in his jowls, sending both Wes and Jack scrambling after him from opposite directions, colliding in a jumble of bare calves and black fur and laughter.


A moment later Wes sat up, grinning like a goon, the ball held aloft … but only until Jack snatched it from him a moment later.

Blythe laughed, the sound apparently reaching Wes on the same breeze that toyed with her already crazed hair, soothing skin she hadn’t realized was heated. Which heated more when a panting, grinning, messy-haired Wes glanced over. Oh, my.

“Come join us,” he yelled, raking a hand through that hair. Flashing those damn dimples. “You can be on the dog’s team.”

I can’t, she wanted to say. Needed to say.

I can’t, because I have to get back home, to my safe, solitary little life, the one where there’s no dimpled, sexy, stalwart man tugging at my heart and his young, needy son tugging even harder.


Dear Reader,

Although easygoing Blythe Broussard will already be familiar to readers of my first two Summer Sisters books (The Doctor’s Do-Over and a Gift for All Seasons), just like them I knew who she was only through her cousins’ eyes. Not until I started writing her story did she finally cough up her secrets … and the pain and insecurities brought about by those secrets. Thus Blythe and I—and Wes Phillips, the last man Blythe has any business falling in love with—began quite the journey of discovery, a journey that eventually frees this loving, generous character from an emotional bondage that shackled her for far too long … just as it does far too many people in the real world.

So to all my readers who may be struggling with a similar situation, or know someone who is, I dedicate this story, hoping it might serve as an inspiration—or a kick in the pants! Because we don’t conquer our fears by hiding from them, but by facing them down, by learning from them and moving forward. We all make mistakes, and we all deserve forgiveness … starting with forgiving ourselves.

Blessings,

Karen Templeton




About the Author


Since 1998, two-time RITA


Award winner and Walden-books bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETON has written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.




The Marriage

Campaign

Karen Templeton







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Chapter One


It wasn’t that Blythe Broussard hated Valentine’s Day as much as she had no real use for it. Like camping gear. Or a garlic press. Not that she was above glomming half-price chocolate the day after—if she happened to be out and there it was, languishing. Because if bargain chocolate was involved, what did she care what kind of box it came in?

Not that there hadn’t been a time when she’d wake up on Valentine’s Day, hope blooming in her heart that she’d maybe at least get a card from a boy in her class. However, those memories were as relegated to the past as the few cards she’d received, from the few boys not intimated by a girl who, by the fourth grade, towered over them—an imbalance Mother Nature hadn’t rectified until well into high school.

At which point Blythe latched on to the first boy whose eyes met hers without getting a crick in his neck. And he, her. With far more enthusiasm than expertise. Or staying power. Unfortunately, by the time Blythe realized her deflowering was going to be memorable, all right, but for all the wrong reasons, it was too late to ask for her virginity back.

And, naturally, said inauspicious event happened on Valentine’s Day. Fourteen years ago to the day, Blythe thought morosely, slumped in the faded blue velvet couch in the wannabe chichi bridal shoppe—yes, with the extra p and e—while her cousins Mel and April tried on bridal gowns in adjoining dressing rooms, for their double wedding four months hence. For which Blythe, God help her, had not only agreed to be their maid of honor, but to coordinate the event. Because decorating people’s houses somehow qualified her to be a wedding planner.

But as children, when they’d spent their summers together at their grandmother’s house in nearby St. Mary’s Cove on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, the three had been like sisters. Despite drifting apart as teens, when they’d reunited some six months before to settle their late grandmother’s estate, it was as though the intervening decade had never happened. So Blythe would do anything for them.

Even plan their weddings.

Beside her, Mel’s ten-year-old daughter, Quinn, squealed, then bounced off the love seat and over to the window, her bright red curls glimmering in the pearly light.

“Look, Blythe! It’s finally snowing!”

Sure enough, fat, lazy snowflakes floated from a flannelled sky, already clinging, Blythe realized when she joined Quinn, to the strip mall’s sidewalk. She frowned, not looking forward to driving across icy bay bridges to get back to her house in Alexandria, on the outskirts of Washington.

“So it is,” Blythe said, checking her cell phone for the time. Two hours, they’d already been here. Behind her, she heard April’s musical giggle from the nearest dressing room. Please, God, she thought as she returned to her seat, let this be The One …

Quinn tromped back to join her, her momentary excitement about the snow yielding to the agony that was waiting for not one, but two brides to decide on their gowns. On a huge yawn, she collapsed against Blythe’s side. Smiling, Blythe wrapped one arm around her younger cousin’s shoulders. “Remember, you wanted to come along.”

“Because I thought it would be fun. Jeez, how long can it take to pick out a stupid white dress?”

Blythe chuckled, even though she totally empathized. “It’s a process,” she said, cramming memories of her own wedding back inside her jam-packed brain. Although she hadn’t spent much longer picking her outfit—first white suit she saw, done—than she had her groom. Perhaps if she had, she’d still be married.

Or not. Although Giles hadn’t been … untalented, she thought with a quick twist to her mouth. Unfortunately, “talent” by itself hadn’t been a strong enough glue to keep them together. Which they both admitted, divvying out the blame for their marriage’s demise three years ago as equitably as they had the Williams-Sonoma cookware and Pottery Barn lamps.

At least April and Mel, now running their grandmother’s inn, had both picked good men, men who were crazy about them, but not crazy. And both cousins seemed so confident in their choices, their love bubbling from some perpetually flowing spring Blythe could never quite seem to find—

“Ohmigosh, Mom!” Quinn popped up straight when her radiant mother appeared in a draped, corseted satin gown. “You look amazing!”

Kid did not exaggerate. Not only did the gown hug Mel’s generous curves in all the right places, but it was … Mel. Simple but not plain, elegant but sexy as hell. Exactly like the brunette wearing it, her gray-green eyes glittering underneath dark brown bangs.

“Oh, God, Mel …” While the thought of getting married again made Blythe break out in hives, she was truly happy for her cousin. After ten years of single motherhood, the woman deserved the something wonderful that was Dr. Ryder Caldwell, whom Mel had loved even as a little girl. “You look so damn good in that dress I could choke. And don’t you dare repeat that,” she said to Quinn, who rolled her eyes before rushing to her mother and hugging her.

A moment later their youngest cousin, April, swished out from the dressing room in a beaded, strapless, tulle confection that oddly didn’t swallow the gingery blonde’s petite figure.

“April!” Mel said, planting her hands on her hips when April climbed up beside her on the platform. “Holy cannoli.”

“You got that right,” April said, her huge grin the only thing brighter than the blingified bodice, flashing like mad underneath the salon’s lights. Of course the alterations department would have to lop a good foot off the front of April’s hem and do some creative molding around Mel’s ample boobage but, other than that, the dresses were bang on. And, as different as they were, complemented rather than competed with each other.

“Well, come on—jack us up!” April said, waggling her hands at the two black-outfitted, smugly grinning consultants standing off to the side. A minute later, April sported a beaded, elbow-length veil that made her look like a fricking Madonna, while Mel opted for a clutch of silk camellias over her left ear. And it was all amazing and wonderful and too perfect for words.

As opposed to the weather, which, Blythe was horrified to note, was not.

Because by the time both brides were back in their regular clothes, the fluffy, lazy flakes had given way to a blizzard. A blizzard not even April’s hotsy-totsy Lexus, in which they’d all trooped up from St. Mary’s, was going to like a whole lot.

So much for getting back to D.C. Or anywhere, for that matter, a thought that made Blythe’s head hurt.

Or her cousins any too happy, either, apparently. The two cousins with Big Plans for the evening, what with it being Valentine’s Day and all.

“Can you drive in this?” Mel asked April as they pushed through the glass doors into the snow scene from The Nutcracker. But without the magic factor. Or the glorious music.

“I grew up in Richmond, what do you think?” April sighed out, then looked from Blythe to Mel. “I’m good with either of you driving, though—”

“No way,” Mel said, draping a protective arm around her daughter before spearing Blythe with her gaze. “And don’t even think about it. The way you drive in ideal conditions is scary enough.”

“Hey—!”

“And the pair of you,” April put in, shivering inside her jacket as she put her phone to her ear, “can hush up right now. There’s a Howard Johnson’s just across the street. And that big supermarket over there.” Both of which were barely visible through the wall of snow. “So if we’re stranded, at least they won’t find us dead of starvation in the car.”

Always the optimist, that April. “What about your guests?” Blythe asked.

“In February? Not to worry, we don’t have any bookings for the next two weeks—” She held up one finger as whoever she’d called answered. “Hey, sugar,” she said, in all likelihood to her fiancé Patrick. “It’s snowing real bad here, it looks like we’re stuck ….”

This in stereo with Mel’s having virtually the same conversation on Blythe’s other side with her honey. Blythe, of course, had no one to call, no one to worry about her. Or disappoint that she wouldn’t make it home tonight. No one who’d even know or care that she was marooned in some lame strip mall in a town so tiny it didn’t even show up on MapQuest unless you hit the magnify dealiebobber five times. Most of the time, she found it liberating, even exhilarating, not having to answer to anybody about her comings and goings. Tonight, though …

Probably something to do with the drop in the barometric pressure.

“Okay, I’m gonna go snag a couple of rooms,” April said, all sparkly-eyed and whatnot. God bless her. “So why don’t y’all go get some food? I’ll make sure there’s a fridge in one of the rooms …”

And off she went, trudging through the storm like the intrepid little pioneer woman she was clearly channeling. Nobody could accuse any of them of being wimps, that was for sure, Blythe thought as she scurried to catch up to Mel and Quinn, laughing like a pair of goons as they slipped and slid across the parking lot.

“Ohmigosh,” Quinn yelped as they got closer to the store, swarmed with people clearly convinced this was Armageddon. “Look … it’s Jack and his dad!”

Jack, being Quinn’s good buddy Jack Phillips, who lived a few houses down from the inn, and Jack’s dad being Blythe’s worst nightmare.

Or fantasy, depending on where her dreams decided to take her on any given night.

As if she needed this day, or her headache, to get any worse.

Oh, yes, Blythe was well acquainted with Wes Phillips, he of the dimpled, dashing politician’s grin that had, in all likelihood, gone a long way toward garnering the freshman congressman sixty-two percent of his district’s vote in the last election—despite Wes’s being that oddest of odd ducks, an independent candidate. Along with, Blythe had to reluctantly admit, policies that made him as easy on the nerves as he was on the eyes. Because the dimples came as part of a package that included honest, direct hazel eyes—complete with sexy crinkles, natch—and a jawline that would make Michelangelo weep. Also, he was tall. As in, tall enough that she could be standing in front of him in four-inch-heels—like, say, now—and those damn bedroom eyes were still level with hers.

But.

Since this was one of those never-gonna-happen things, for many, many reasons, Wes Phillips could darn well keep his eyes and his jaw and his dimples to himself, thank you, and Blythe would content herself with the occasional, random, toe-curling dream, and all would be well.

“Ladies! What on earth are you all doing out in this nasty weather?”

“Um … bridal gown shopping,” Mel said in a might-as-well-come-right-out-with-it voice. Sure enough, Wes’s smile faltered. Not a lot, but enough if you knew what you were looking at. In this case, what Mel’s upcoming wedding probably meant to a man who’d lost his wife in the same car crash two years before that had also killed Ryder’s fiancée Deanna. While Mel’s return to St. Mary’s had obviously been instrumental in binding Ryder’s wounds, Wes was clearly still grieving.

Reason Number One why Blythe had to ignore the dimples.

And Reason Number Two would be his son, who, even while talking to Quinn, shot a hurt-littered glance at her mother. As often as Blythe had hauled Quinn and Jack around over the past few months, she’d had plenty of opportunities to observe, and listen to, eleven-year-old Jack. Caught in that horrible limbo between childhood and adolescence, the boy bore all the earmarks of a good kid ready to erupt—earmarks Blythe knew all too well. Earmarks she wished she knew how to alert his father to without sounding like a buttinski. Or, worse, like she was looking for a way to make herself, you know. Available.

Because—and this would be Reason Number Three, aka the Biggee—making herself available had only ever led to heartbreak and confusion and wondering why she’d even bothered.

However, the good news was that she’d finally caught on, that she was a much saner, nicer person alone than when she was in a relationship. So, hallelujah, she’d never have to fight for the bedcovers again—

“And what brings you out?” Mel said to Wes, and the smile ratcheted up again.

“The usual,” he said, hunkering down farther into his olive-green down parka. “Meeting with constituents, getting an earful. Trying to reassure while not making promises I know I can’t keep.”

Oh, and there was the issue of Wes being a politician. Almost immaterial on top of everything else, but definitely a contributing factor to Blythe’s ignoring how he was looking at her right now. Because she knew all too well what life was like for politicians, having worked with plenty of clients in the trenches. Or close to those who were. Their work was their life, the hours often horrendously long when they were in Washington, their time at “home” still eaten up with travel and meetings and glad-handing the people who’d voted them into office. That is, if one was the conscientious sort, which, from everything she could tell, Wes was. For that, she had to give the man props—

Mel looked around. “No entourage?”

Wes chuckled. “Not today. Sometimes I just get in the car and drive, stopping where the mood strikes, see if anyone’s up for chatting.” Dimples flashed. “Someone usually is.” His expression softening, he smiled for his son. “Gives Jack and me a chance to hang out. Catch up.”

But it was that very conscientiousness that caused, she had no doubt, the look she’d seen all too often in his son’s eyes—the son still smarting over his mother’s loss. It sometimes made her want to smack Wes Phillips upside the head.

True, it was none of her business. Nor was the kid neglected—Wes’s parents lived with Wes and Jack, and seemed to be the most doting grandparents ever. But still. It was obvious how much the kid needed, wanted, his dad. And how much he resented having to share him with the entire Eastern Shore. And, having endured similar crap-page from her own parents while growing up, Blythe’s heart broke for the boy.

Meaning there was no way she’d ever let his father anywhere near it.

Dimples be damned.

Happened every damn time he saw her, that kick to the gut that made Wes wonder if he was losing it. Because it was insane, the way Blythe Broussard got his juices flowing. Insane, and inexplicable, and highly inconvenient, what with his barely having time to figure out the why behind the insane, inexplicable attraction, let alone pursue it. Even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. He didn’t think.

But there she stood, holding his gaze hostage even from several feet away. Man, she looked at him like she wanted to do a feng shui number on his brain, her eyes huge, somehow accusing, a weird shade of deep blue in a pale, sharp-boned face. Her hair was almost as short as his and nearly a white-blond, her mouth a dark red few women could pull off and not look macabre.

She wasn’t even pretty, not in a conventional sense. And so unlike Kym, who had been. Still. Juices. Flowing.

Like the flippin’ Potomac.

He deliberately turned to Mel, as short and curvy as Blythe was tall and … not. “So are you headed back to St. Mary’s?”

The brunette snorted. “In this?” She gestured toward the snow, now coming down as if intent on beating all previous records. “No way.”

Wes liked Mel, was more grateful than he could say that her daughter, Quinn, and Jack had become close friends. Losing his mom and then, ipso facto, Wes as well, had been rough on the kid. And he was glad, he really was, that Ryder had been able to move on after Deanna’s death. But then, he hadn’t known her—loved her—for twenty years, as Wes had Kym.

“We decided to camp out at HoJo for the night,” Mel said. “And you?”

“Now that you mention it … I’m not wild about driving in this, either. Hey, Jack!” He called over to the two kids, standing in the parking lot, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. “You okay with hanging out here tonight?”

The kid turned. “At the Food Lion?”

“No, goof—at the hotel over there.” Then his eyes grazed Blythe’s, and the punch to his chest knocked his breath sideways. Not that he’d doubted the attraction was largely sexual, but after all those months of feeling like he’d mainlined Lidocaine … holy hell.

Must be the weather. Or the buzz left over from the afternoon’s schmoozings, reminding him of the reason he tossed his hat in the ring to begin with. That he’d left it there even after …

Wes jerked his gaze, and his thoughts, back to Mel. “If there’s a room …?”

“I’ll see if April can book a third room,” she said, pulling out her phone as Blythe walked away, dodging a family coming out of the store, their three kids jumping around like snowsuited fleas. And he saw her smile, watching them, before their eyes met again and she flicked the smile off like a switch and turned away. Right. Because maybe all that gut-kicking and chest-punching had less to do with sex than it did aversion. On her part, that is.

Hey, it happened. He was a politician, after all, even if the term still didn’t feel right, like a pair of new shoes he couldn’t seem to break in. Plenty of people disliked him, simply because their vision didn’t mesh with his. Just came with the territory. And God knew nothing to get his boxers in a bunch over, even if his time in office—not to mention his campaign manager and half his staff—would try to convince him he was too nice for his own good.

Well, tough, he thought, as Mel gave him a thumbs-up—about the room, he presumed, before ducking into the store with the kids—because while sacrifice also came with the territory, he wasn’t about to slap his integrity on the altar. For anyone. Or anything. He’d thrown his hat in the ring for his own reasons, reasons many might consider idealistic, even naive. But at the end of the day none of it meant diddly if he lost his self-respect. Not to mention his son’s.

“You’re not going in with them?” he called to Blythe.

She glanced over, then shrugged. “Nah, I’m good with whatever Mel gets.”

Wes nodded, feeling oddly out of his depth. Closing arguments, no problem. Ditto giving speeches, or discussing issues with constituents. Although he wasn’t an attention seeker for its own sake, neither was he an introvert. Words, ideas, usually came easily to him, and one of his “gifts” was his ability to work a crowd. And yet, he hadn’t felt this tongue-tied around a woman since those agonizing months in the ninth grade working up to asking Kym out.

Not that this was anything like that, of course.

He closed the space between them, wondering what she was looking at so hard out in the parking lot. Boldly, Wes regarded her profile, the harsh, storefront lighting emphasizing the almost grim set to her mouth.

“Flurries, the weatherman said,” she said.

Wes faced the lot, his hands in his pockets. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Do they ever get it right?”

“Not a whole lot, no.” He cleared his throat. “So did your cousins find their dresses?”

“What? Oh. Yes. They did.”

“Weddings,” he said, shaking his head, remembering.

After a long pause, she said, “Was yours large?”

He shoved out a breath through his nose. “Yeah.” He laughed. “I barely remember it, though.”

“Too drunk?”

Surprised at the tease—if that’s what it was—he laughed. “No. Too scared. Not that I didn’t want it—I would’ve married Kym at eighteen, if I could have—but when the day came, I panicked. You know—what am I doing? What if it doesn’t work out? That sort of thing. Then she started down the aisle, and all I saw was her smile …” He shook his head. “And for the rest of the night I blotted out everything but that smile. Only thing that got me through.”

A long pause preceded, “I’m sorry. Not about your wedding, about—”

“I know what you meant. Thanks.”

Blythe nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “So. Guess we’re all stuck with each other tonight.”

“I wouldn’t worry too hard about it,” Wes said, ridiculously irked. “After all, we probably won’t even be on the same floor. So we wouldn’t, you know, have to see each other.”

Beside him, he heard her mighty sigh. “So much for hoping that didn’t sound as bitchy as it did in my head—”

Mel and the children burst out of the store, all carting bulging plastic bags. “Let’s hear it for self-checkout lanes!” Mel said, then started across the lot, her yakking charges in tow.

“We should probably follow,” Wes said, moving to take Blythe’s elbow; not surprisingly, she avoided him. Whatever. Still hugging herself, she cautiously stepped into the rapidly accumulating slush, completely at the mercy of her high-heeled boots. Ahead of them, Mel—in far more sensible flats—was deliberately skidding in the snow as much as the kids. Laughing as much, too.

No wonder Blythe’s cousin been able to help Ryder move past his grief—even if they hadn’t already been childhood friends, Mel was exactly what Ryder had needed. With a pang, Wes realized he was envious, that Ryder was getting a second chance at something Wes doubted he ever would. Because despite everyone—his parents, his campaign manager, even his dentist, for God’s sake—pushing him to remarry, there’d never be anybody like Kym, ever.

The screech, not to mention the dramatic flailing, made him jerk his head around, then down, to see Blythe on her butt in the snow, swearing like a sergeant.

Grinning, he held out his hand. And prayed the woman wouldn’t bite it off.




Chapter Two


Her head now pounding, Blythe stared at Wes’s outstretched hand, momentarily considering refusing to let him help her up. Except grace had never been her strong suit in the best of circumstances; in four inches of slippery slop she’d probably look like a drunken giraffe.

“You okay?” Wes said, as he hauled her to her feet.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she grumbled, swatting her backside to dislodge the worst of the snow clumps. “Although my dignity will never live this down.”

“Hey. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my dignity in years. I’ve learned to live without it.”

Still swatting, Blythe slid her gaze to his, clearly amused behind the curtain of falling snow, and damn if her insides didn’t do a tiny ba-dump. Then she sighed. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” He lifted his elbow. And one eyebrow. Reluctantly—oh so reluctantly—she accepted. Despite the very likely possibility she’d go down again and take him with her. And, of course, the instant the thought zipped through, she slipped again. Man didn’t even falter. In fact, he easily gripped her waist, effectively bonding her to his ribs. Steady as a rock, this one.

“So I’m guessing you don’t hate me that much,” he said.

Not to mention perceptive.

She wobbled again. And swore again. And, yes, Wes chuckled again. As he caught her.

“Swear to God,” she gritted out, her head now feeling like the Riverdance people were practicing inside it, “I am not doing this on purpose.”

“Didn’t think you were. Since not even you could order this particular confluence of events.” When she frowned up at him, he shrugged. And gave off a very nice man-scent that might have rendered a lesser woman addle-brained. “The snow. Those boots. My being here to keep you from breaking your neck.”

“Or my ass,” she muttered, and he grinned.

“That, too.” As they came to a less snowy spot, he relaxed his hold. “Are you okay?”

Truth be told, her bum was smarting a bit. Not a whole lot of padding back there. Or anywhere else. At least that diverted her attention from her head. Sort of. “I’ll live,” she said as they reached the hotel’s portico-covered driveway, where she wriggled out of his grasp. “I don’t dislike you, Wes. Really. I just … I’m just tired and hungry and have a wicked headache. That’s all.”

The glass doors parted at their approach, but he touched her arm, holding her back. The dimples had taken a hike, praise be. But those eyes …

Oh, dear Lord, as April would say.

Ever since her divorce, Blythe had eschewed messing around. By choice. A choice she’d found, to both her surprise and immense relief, to be incredibly freeing to a woman who’d always thought of her libido as a pet to be cosseted and indulged. Within reason, anyway. But she’d come far closer than she’d realized to being a slave to that pet, resulting in some extremely poor choices along the way. So the “cleansing” period had finally allowed Blythe to begin to see who she really was, what she really needed.

And Wes Phillips’s intense green gaze was not on that list.

“I’m sorry your head hurts—” he said gently.

Or his mouth.

“—but something tells me that look on your face is about more than your aching head. Unless I’m the one making your head hurt?”

Now that you mention it …

Even though her skull wasn’t happy about it, Blythe laughed, ignoring the ping-ping-ping of neglected hormones perking up assorted places that hadn’t been perky in quite a while.

“Only partly,” she said, and he crossed his arms.

“Partly? Oh. Meaning you don’t like my policies, I take it.”

Blythe blew out a breath. “This isn’t my district. I have no idea what your policies are.” Liar, liar … “And I really don’t feel up to talking, if you don’t mind. At least not until I get some food in my stomach.”

“Of course, I … Never mind. Come on.”

Wes let her go through the automatic doors ahead of him, and the dry, warm air in the lobby enveloped her like a grandmother’s hug—not her grandmother, but somebody’s—as she joined Mel, April and the kids, clustered in front of the registration desk. Which was littered with every Valentine’s tchotchke ever invented. Great.

“See you later?” Wes said shortly afterward, key card in hand. “In the restaurant?” When she frowned, that eyebrow lifted again. As well as the corners of that mouth. “You said you needed to eat?”

Blythe’s eyes cut to the others, who were too busy yakking among themselves to witness the little exchange, thank God. “Depends on what Mel got at the store,” she said. “Truthfully, all I want is to stretch out in a dark, quiet room until this blasted headache goes away.”

His eyes twinkled. “Quiet? With that group?”

“If the gods are kind, they’ll all congregate in the other room and leave me in peace.”

“Well, if you change your mind—”

“Not likely,” Blythe said as an infant’s wail pierced her cousins’ chatter, and Wes gave her something like a little bow.

“Have a good night, then,” he and his dimples said. Then he ushered his son away, her gaze trailing after them like a confused, dumb puppy.

The puppy hauled back by the scruff of its neck, Blythe was about to break up the jabberfest when she noticed the bedraggled young father clutching the counter in front of the frowning clerk madly clicking her computer keys. Beside him, two young children clung like possums to his even more bedraggled wife, who was jiggling a wailing infant in her arms. Poor things.

“You guys ready to go up to the rooms?” Blythe said. “Don’t know about you, but I’m about to crash.”

“We figured we may as well hit the restaurant first,” Mel said. “Since it’s not as if we have luggage or anything.”

“But …” Blythe frowned at the grocery bags, still in Mel’s hands. “Didn’t you buy food?”

“Munchies, mainly. Although there is a rotisserie chicken in there—”

“Close enough,” Blythe said, grabbing the bags. “Give me a card, I’ll see you guys later—”

“I’m so sorry,” the clerk said to the little family, her words carrying across the lobby like she was wearing a mike, “but we just booked our last available rooms …”

April and Mel exchanged a blink-and-you’d-miss-it glance—which Blythe didn’t—before April marched back to the clerk. “Give ’em one of our rooms. We gals can all bunk together. Right?”

So close. And yet, so far, Blythe thought, even as her hurting head threw a hissy fit. Then she looked again at the woman and her kids, and her heart kicked her throbbing head to the curb.

“Of course!” she said brightly. “Not like we all haven’t shared a room before.” If many, many years ago.

“Are you sure?” the wife said, shifting the bawling babe in her arms and managing to look miserable and grateful at the same time. “We wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“You’re not. At all.” Blythe smiled. “I swear.”

Tears in her eyes, the young mother shifted the baby to hug all three of them in turn, and her cousins trooped to the restaurant and Blythe up to their room, where, for the next hour, she consoled herself with rotisserie chicken, potato salad and the eye-roll-worthy shenanigans of a bunch of surgically enhanced TV housewives whose lives were far more drama-ridden than hers.

Now, in any case. And considering what she’d gone through to get to this point, her hormones could just go hang themselves.

The next morning, Blythe wrenched open her eyes to total darkness, save for the pale gray chink in the closed draperies. As the others slept, she cautiously eased out of bed, cracking open the drapes enough to see the snow already melting, even in the weak winter sun. Hallelujah.

Then she caught her reflection in the mirror over the dresser and grimaced. Fortunately her sweater and jeans were wear-again-worthy, even if she had to fend off the ickies of not being able to change her undies before facing the public again. But her hair … eesh. She could, however, wash up and brush her teeth—bless her hide, Mel had bought them all toothbrushes and a few essential toiletries—even if the only makeup she had in her purse was lipgloss.

Meaning, even cleaned up and redressed she looked like a vampire who hadn’t had a good feed in a while. Or access to any decent hair care products, she mused as she doused her head with water from the spigot, then yanked a comb through her cropped hair until it looked … not horrible. With any luck, though—she clicked the door shut behind her and headed down the carpeted hall—she’d be the first one in the restaurant, and nobody would see her. Because the way her stomach was growling, Pringles and grapes weren’t going to cut it. Especially when the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and the scents of bacon and coffee and pancakes hauled her toward the restaurant’s entrance like those little aliens did to Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters.

Blythe stood inside, breathing deeply for a moment until the hostess told her to sit anywhere she liked, and she rounded a huge potted plant to see that Wes and Jack had apparently beaten her by several minutes. Well, hell. She froze, watching, as the boy chattered away, his father leaning over his plate as he ate—bacon and eggs, Blythe saw—clearly intent on whatever Jack was saying. Occasionally, Wes would chuckle, pushing at those dimples, and the adoring expression on his son’s face twisted Blythe inside out.

Then some woman barged in on the scene, interrupting Jack in the middle of a sentence to introduce herself to his father, and Blythe watched the kid’s face collapse. True, apology flickered across Wes’s features as he glanced at his son before standing to graciously acknowledge the woman, briefly introduce her to Jack, then listen as intently to her as he had a moment earlier to his child. Also true was the conflict evident in Wes’s body language, that despite his graciousness he wasn’t happy about having his private time with his son interrupted. But far worse, from her perspective, was the hurt and annoyance bowing Jack’s slender shoulders as he frowned at his pancakes, shredding rather than eating them.

“Really, sit anywhere at all,” the hostess said as she breezed past, and Blythe realized with a rush of heat to her face that she’d been staring.

“Right,” she said, watching Wes hand the woman a card, along with a warm smile and a firm handshake before sending her on her way—

“Blythe!” Jack boomed. “Over here!”

So much for slipping into a booth out of their sight. But the way the child’s face lit up … how could she say no? Although naturally they were sitting right next to a window, through which streamed that particularly bright, revealing, après-snowfall light.

Then again, maybe her vampire aura would scare away other potential intruders so Jack and Wes could finish their breakfast in peace.

Gamely, Blythe trekked over, clutching her purse to her empty middle. Once again seated and buttering a piece of toast, Wes looked up, tried—unsuccessfully—not to start, then smiled. He, of course, looked fabulous, in that sexy, beard-hazed way of a gorgeous man right out of bed. So unfair.

“Hey, there,” he said, all gruff-voiced and such. “Join us?”

“I don’t want to interrupt.” When the merest suggestion of a frown marred that handsome brow, she added, “You seemed … involved.”

“She was a constituent,” Wes said. “You’re a friend. So sit,” he said, waving his toast toward the other side of the booth as Blythe thought, Friend? Really? Then he smiled, the picture of solicitude. “How’s your head?”

She sat beside Jack, who’d skootched over and was now grinning at her around an enormous bite of his pancakes, his too-long hair like corn silk in the silvery light. “Okay, actually.”

Actually, she hadn’t even noticed. The others, as worn out as Blythe from the events of the day, had all conked out fairly early, and Blythe had slept like a freaking rock. But Wes was frowning at her like she was trying to keep her game face on after being given a month to live.

“You sure?”

The waitress came, filled her coffee cup, handed her a menu. Blythe nearly smacked the poor kid with it in her eagerness to get coffee to her lips. Once she’d downed sufficient caffeine to hopefully put some color in her cheeks, she let her gaze flick to Wes. Which definitely put color in her cheeks. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m a little washed out without makeup. But thanks for asking.”

She waved the waitress back over, ordered a breakfast worthy of a lumberjack, then turned aside to grin at Jack, exercising every ounce of willpower she possessed not to take her coffee spoon to his pancakes. Almost as much willpower as it was taking not to make goo-goo eyes at his father. Old habits dying hard and all that. She bumped shoulders with Jack. “Those look pretty good.”

“They’re okay. Want a bite?”

“No, you go ahead,” she said, resting her chin in her hand. “I’ll wait for my own food.”

“Quinn awake yet?”

“She wasn’t when I left, but she could be now.” A light-bulb blinked on. “You want me to call her?” And tell them to get their booties down here before I lose what little sanity I have left?

“Oh, don’t do that,” Wes said with a pointed look at his son. “You can see Quinn later. At home.” Then to Blythe, obligating her to look at him. “State Trooper was here earlier, said the roads are clear. We can leave any time.”

“Thank goodness for that. I need to get back to D.C. to work on a presentation for tomorrow morning.”

“Although the trooper did say it was a good thing we didn’t try driving last night. Visibility was horrendous. And road conditions …” He shook his head. “Accidents all over the place.”

“No one was hurt, I hope.”

“No. But not for lack of trying.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Blythe saw the young family file in, looking a lot more mellow than they had the night before. And right behind them, her cousins, none of whom looked like something the cat had dragged in. Mel had this whole mussed-bangs thing going on, and April was pink and pretty as usual with her peachy blond hair pulled back in a headband. And Quinn was ten, so there you were.

And before Blythe realized what was happening—or could have done anything about it—Jack asked if he could go sit with the others, and Wes said, “Sure,” right as the waitress brought her food.

Well, hell.

Catching the momentary Oh, crap look in Blythe’s eyes when Jack left, Wes was half tempted to let her off the hook, tell her to go join her cousins. Except fascination trumped logic, apparently, as he found himself unwilling to forgo more one-on-one time with her. Especially since he’d been mulling over something for a while now, anyway. So maybe this was fate tossing opportunity into his lap.

For the next few seconds, however, Wes contented himself with watching Blythe tuck into her huge breakfast, her pale lashes and brows gleaming in the harsh white light. Her skin was luminous, flawless, her prickly attitude so much at odds with what he now saw as her almost ethereal beauty—one she habitually obliterated with more makeup than she needed, in his opinion. A mask, he suspected, in more ways than one.

But there was an honesty and forthrightness to the prickliness he found refreshing. Nor did he miss her easy relationship with Jack—witnessing their short exchange earlier had made warmth curl inside his chest. It was also a nice change to be around someone who didn’t want anything from him. Or so Wes assumed. He lifted his coffee cup to his lips, watching Blythe attack her breakfast.

“You’re really going to eat all that?”

“I really am,” she said, dumping an ocean’s worth of syrup over her pancakes before forking in a huge bite. “As you may have noticed, I’m not exactly petite. Yogurt and juice is not going to cut it.”

And maybe food was the antidote to the prickliness. Feeling a tug at his mouth, he said, “I have a favor to ask you.”

Questioning eyes briefly met his. “Oh?”

“Not so much a favor, I suppose, as a job.”

A grin bloomed and his heart knocked. “A job? Keep talking.”

“It’s not a huge project, but … Jack’s room needs some serious updating. And I’ve seen your work on your website. So—”

“Really? You checked me out?”

Wes felt his cheeks warm. “My mother did, actually. At my suggestion, though. Since Mom’s idea of redecorating is changing the drapes and carpeting for a fresh version of what’s already there.” Blythe laughed and his heart knocked again. “So would you be interested?”

“Absolutely. I love doing kids’ rooms.”

“Good,” Wes said on a relieved sigh. “Decorating was Kym’s thing, not mine. Even if I had the time. But I think the kid’s probably ready to ditch the race car theme his mom did for him when he was six.”

“Let me guess—complete with race car bed?”

“You got it. I have no idea what he wants, though.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s between Jack and me.” Another, slyer grin slid across her face. Sly, and teasing, and sexy, even if Wes doubted that the sexy part was intentional. And sexy wasn’t quite the right word. Intense? That was closer. He guessed she was the kind of person who fully lived in the moment, relishing it for its own sake. “I assume I have carte blanche to do anything he wants?”

“Short of papering his room with pics of naked women, yes.”

This time her laugh was loud enough to make people turn their heads. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Then her brow knotted. “I’m pretty booked up through March, though—will that be a problem?”

“The kid’s already waited a year, I’m sure he can hang on for another six weeks.”

She nodded, then pushed her eggs around her plate for a moment before asking, “Does that happen a lot? People coming up to you out of the blue?”

Wondering what brought on the subject switch, Wes said, “Not everyone recognizes me, of course. But yeah. Being accosted is part of the job description. I don’t mind,” he said to her slight frown. “That’s why I did this, after all. To listen. And help, when I can. Although my staff handles most of the actual problem-solving. I sure as hell couldn’t do it all myself.”

Laughter from her cousins’ table momentarily snagged her attention; she slugged back half her orange juice, then met his gaze again. “And Jack … is he okay with sharing you so much?”

Over the years, first with his law practice and then on the campaign trail, Wes had gotten pretty good at hearing what people weren’t fully saying. Meaning he immediately sensed more layers to Blythe’s question than a simple answer could address … even if he hadn’t asked himself the same question a hundred times since taking office. And in those layers he sensed both irritation and genuine concern.

Even so, annoyance spurted through him as well, that she’d ripped the bandage off a festering sore. And by rights, he should have changed the subject, re-covered the sore, not poked at it by saying, “You think I’m neglecting him.”

Color bloomed in her cheeks as she picked up her fruit cup, forking through it to spear a honeydew wedge. “Forget it, it’s really none of my business—”

“Don’t you dare backtrack,” Wes said, and her startled gaze shot to his. “Or think you have to spare my feelings. Believe me, I have the hide of a rhinoceros.” He snorted. “Makes it harder for people to take a chunk of it. Worse than that, though, are the kiss-ups, people more intent on telling me what they think I want to hear than what I need to hear.” He leaned forward, seeing something deep, deep inside those deep blue eyes that plunged right inside him and latched on tight. “So out with it.”

Blythe froze, the fruit cup suspended over her plate. Granted, she’d never been one to shy away from a challenge, but did she dare say what she was really thinking? And how could she do that without backing the man into a corner? And yet, for the child’s sake …

Carefully she set down the small glass dish, then lifted her eyes to his. “Fair warning, Wes—saying ‘out with it’ to me is like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”

“Somehow, I figured as much. So?”

She pushed out a sigh. “Neglect isn’t the right word. Trust me, I know from neglect. That would imply you’re deliberately ignoring him, which I know isn’t true—”

“But you think Jack sees it that way.”

After a moment, she nodded. “From what I’ve observed, and heard, when I’m around the kids …” The space between her brows puckered. “I think he sometimes feels like he has to fight for your attention. And that could …” She felt her pulse hammering. “It could lead to places you don’t want him to go.”

His own breakfast long since finished, Wes leaned back in the booth, his arms tightly crossed, as though to keep his annoyance from escaping.

“You asked,” she said gently.

On a released sigh, he unfolded his arms to prop his wrists on the table’s edge, looking out the window for a moment before meeting her gaze again.

“You know this for a fact.”

The ache in his voice, the fear … her heart cracked. “That it will happen? No, of course not. That it could? Absolutely.”

Their gazes tangled for a long moment. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“Partly,” she said after a moment. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that. I also have no intention of giving you advice, but from what I’ve seen … I thought you should know.”

“And you think I don’t?” Wes lobbed back, his voice low but his eyes screaming with guilt, with ambivalence. “That I’m so engrossed in this job I’m oblivious to my son’s pain?”

“No, Wes, of course not. But—”

“But, what?”

Her hand covered his before she even realized she was doing it. “Redoing his room won’t make up for your not being there.”

“And maybe that’s all I have.” He pushed out a rough breath, then seemed to realize they were touching. Slipping his hand out from under hers, he said, “I know this is far from ideal. Especially since this wasn’t how things were supposed to pan out. The plan was, if I won, that Jack’s mother would be there for him when I couldn’t be. The plan did not include some texting teenager slamming into her and Deanna on a wet road three weeks before an election I didn’t actually think I’d win.”

Then he schooled his features in that way men did when they didn’t want you to see the torture behind them. Too late, Blythe thought as Wes continued. “But I did win. And I’d made promises to those people who put me in office. Not to mention to my wife, who’d been my staunchest supporter through that campaign from hell. Promises I feel very strongly about, that …”

Breathing hard, he shook his head. “I’m between a rock and a hard place, Blythe. And I’m trying my damnedest to find a balance. Jack’s hardly fending for himself, with my parents living in the house. And when I’m in Washington I call him every morning to wake him up, Skype every evening before he goes to bed, if I can—”

Wes signaled to the waitress for the check, waving off Blythe’s noises about paying for her own breakfast. Check in hand, he stood and called to Jack, who was clearly reluctant to leave Quinn, then faced Blythe again.

“I’m making the best of an impossible situation, even though I know … I know it’s not enough.” He dug his wallet out of an inside pocket in his coat, tossed some bills on the table before punching his arms through the sleeves. “But what else can I do—?”

“Dad?” Jack came up behind him, his forehead crunched. “You okay?”

Wes turned to smile for his son. “I’m fine. But we need to get going, I’ve got a ton of reading to get through before I go back tonight.”

After they left, Blythe dumped her wadded up napkin on her plate and lowered her head to her hands, feeling her cousins’ puzzled gazes boring into her skull.

Yeah. The ride back to St. Mary’s should be really interesting.




Chapter Three


Between her other work and the wedding plans, it was indeed nearly the end of March before Blythe could slot an appointment to see Jack’s room. Six weeks during which she hadn’t spoken to Wes except to ascertain whether the project was still a go, since, after that tense little confab in the HoJo restaurant, it seemed prudent to check. She’d also be a big fat liar if she said she hadn’t thought of Wes during those six weeks.

A lot. More to the point, a lot more than she should have, considering her who-needs-men? stance of late.

Especially stressed-out, still grieving men, already juggling way too many rings without trying to add a little somethin’-somethin’ into the mix. Not that he would, but if he did …

Oh, never mind. Pointless musings were, well, pointless.

As much as possible, she’d steered clear of her nosy cousins as well, having taken her skinny little tush back to Washington immediately after their return to St. Mary’s. Because the newly engaged were even worse than the newly converted, shoving their happiness down your throat in the hopes that you, too, could be saved if only you’d repent. Especially if they sensed you were thisclose to seeing the light.

Except having the hots for someone—no point in denying it—was way different than wanting to plight your troth with them. Or to them. Whatever. That she’d done, it didn’t take, let’s move on. Troth-plighting clearly wasn’t her thing.

And it clearly was Wes’s. Or had been at one point. And Blythe had no doubt it would be again, some day. Just not with her, she reminded herself as she pulled up that late Thursday afternoon in front of the quasi-colonial five houses down from the inn.

Not huge, but stately all the same. Brick front. White columns. Black shutters. A fitting congressman’s abode, she mused, punching the doorbell, clasping her gray mohair wrap to her neck against the biting spring breeze off the water. Bear, Jack’s black Lab, started barking; Blythe heard shushing, then the white paneled door swung open, revealing a short, trim older woman in jeans and a floral-appliquéd sweatshirt, her bright red smile welcoming underneath a froth of gray hair that treaded that delicate line between curls and frizz.

“After all the times we’ve talked on the phone,” Candace Phillips said, ushering her inside a black-and-white-tiled entryway with pale blue walls, “it’s so nice to finally meet you. The children are in the family room, playing one of those video games. Can I get you something to drink? Should I call Jack?”

“No to both,” Blythe said, squatting to pet the exuberant dog, dodging his kisses as she surreptitiously took in the entryway, what she could see of the living and dining rooms. It was weird, considering how often she’d schlepped the kids around, that she’d never actually been inside the house. Which, while reeking of tradition, was warm and tasteful and timeless, the colors and furnishings in perfect balance. She stood and turned to Candace, and the dog bounded back to his young master, skidding on the tile before regaining his footing on the Oriental carpet anchoring the formal dining room table. “At least, not yet for Jack. I want to see his room before I get his take on what he’d like in it.”

“Good idea. I’m sure Kym would have seen to the redo long before now, if …”

Candace paused, her lips pressed tight as she scanned the living room, the Wedgwood-green walls a soothing backdrop to the marble fireplace, the pair of white sofas facing each other on another Oriental rug. And yet, pops of a soft purple and a deep coral perfectly complemented the dusty green, keeping the room from being too staid. A room that hadn’t been used in a while, Blythe suspected.

“She had a very good eye,” Candace said. “Well, I think so. But then, I’m no designer.” She blushed. “As I’m sure Wes told you.”

Blythe smiled. “Good design is about surrounding yourself with whatever makes you happy. There are far fewer rules than you might think. As long as the home reflects the owners’ personalities, it’s good. And this is …” Her gaze swept the living room once more. “It’s lovely. Really.”

Candace beamed, clearly pleased that her obviously much-loved daughter-in-law had passed muster. “It is, isn’t it? And that was Kym—warm and embracing, but understated and conservative.” She paused. “She and Wes married so young, his father and I … well, we worried. That they didn’t know what they were getting into. Silly us,” she said with a little laugh, then gave her head a firm shake. “And listen to me, rambling on …” She headed toward the stairs, beckoning Blythe to follow.

“I understand Kym was a huge support to Wes when he ran for office,” Blythe said as they started up.

“Oh, my, yes,” Jack’s grandmother said, half pivoting as she trudged. “In fact, Kym gave Wes the push he needed to throw his hat in the ring.”

“Really? It wasn’t his idea?”

They reached the landing; Candace bustled to the second door on their right, holding it open for Blythe to pass through. “Yes, of course it was Weston’s idea—he’d been thinking about running for Congress for a long time. After all, he’d been on the town council for five years—” which Blythe hadn’t known “—but he kept putting off taking that next step. Said the timing wasn’t right, that Jack needed to be older. Kym, of course, bless her heart …”

As if realizing where her musings were leading her, Candace turned, tears shimmering in her eyes. “We do what we can,” she whispered, “and I know Wes does, but Jack …” She shook her head, as if realizing she’d crossed some boundary she shouldn’t have. Instead, she stood aside so Blythe could see the kid’s room in all its messy, outgrown glory. “And maybe this will help him find his footing again. Discover who he is now. Am I making any sense?”

“Absolutely,” Blythe said, wondering if her own grandmother—hell, her own mother—had been half as intuitive as this woman, then maybe things would have turned out differently for her. “Jack is very lucky to have you around.”

Candace’s brown eyes popped wide. “Well, aren’t you sweet?” Then she sighed. “Bill and I do our best, but we’re still poor substitutes for what he lost. Well. I’ll let you get to it. I’m in the kitchen if you need me.”

After Candace left, Blythe stood in the middle of the jumbled room, trying to get a feel for it. See what it said to her. A large space, she noticed approvingly. And light-filled. Or would be light-filled once the heavy curtains were axed. Honeycomb shades, she thought, to let in the light and yet give him privacy. The beige wall-to-wall carpeting looked in decent condition, but a couple of fun throw rugs would definitely liven things up. Ditch the little boy race car motifs, replace them with lots of high-tech accents. Something that wouldn’t embarrass him when he came home from college, she thought with a smile. An inviting study area in the far corner. Track lighting, maybe, to replace the sucky overhead—

“Bear!” she yelped, laughing, when the dog poked his nose in her bum. “What are you doing, you goofy mutt—?”

“How come you’re in here?”

Blythe whipped around, taken aback by Jack’s rigid stance, the glower on his face. What would soon be a handsome, swoon-worthy face, she had no doubt, his features already morphing into a facsimile of his father’s underneath the surfer-blond hair.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” Then it hit her, that the radical attitude shift probably had nothing to do with her. “Your dad didn’t tell you he’d hired me to help you redecorate your room, did he?” The dog knocked his huge, gleaming head against her palm. Jack glared at the beast as though he’d betrayed him, then turned agitated green eyes to Blythe.

“So that’s what you two were talking about? That morning at breakfast? After I left?”

Blythe smiled. “Hatching our sinister plot—yes, we were.” Then she remembered. “Your grandmother said ‘the children.’ Is Quinn here, too?”

“Yeah. She thinks I went to the bathroom.” Jack looked around the room, then threw his school-uniformed self on the rumpled little-boy bed, an incongruous image if ever there was one. Then again, incongruity pretty much summed up kids that age, didn’t it? Too big to be coddled, not nearly old enough to handle the very grown-up issues that life far too often flung in their faces.

Sure, many kids had it far worse—something she’d told herself over and over at that age, when faced with all the crap she didn’t know how to handle, either. But she’d decided a long time ago that nobody got to decide whether somebody’s hurt was more or less valid than anyone else’s. Or that, given her own experience, there was a kid alive who could do or say anything that would shock her. Or keep her from being his or her champion, if necessary.

“What if I don’t want to change anything? I mean—” Jack grabbed a pillow and wadded it under his head “—what if I like it the way it is?”

Blythe’s brows lifted. “This wasn’t your idea?”

The boy was quiet for a moment, then suddenly sat up, slamming his sneakered feet onto the floor. “I mentioned it once, yeah. Like, a year ago. When I thought …” He shook his head, hard, then looked around. “I don’t want somebody coming in and changing it around just because. It’s my room, dammit.”

Blythe carefully shifted the pile of clothes on a nearby chair to sit on the edge. “Yes, it is,” she said, knowing how it felt to desperately want to hang on to what you knew, even if it hurt. “Which is why I wouldn’t dream of getting rid of anything you want to keep. That’s not my job—”

“You’re right, it’s not,” the boy shot back, more pain than anger sparking in his green eyes. “Because I thought—”

He slammed his arms across his chest, clamping his jaw shut in an obvious effort to keep a lid on his emotions. Again, Blythe reminded herself that this wasn’t about her.

“Because you wanted your father to help?”

After a moment, Jack nodded, and Blythe considered what to say next. “I’m not sure your dad knew where to begin,” she finally said. “So since this is what I do for a living, he asked me to get things going. That doesn’t mean he can’t still be part of it.”

Jack’s eyes shunted to hers. “He’ll probably be too busy.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Blythe said, smiling, then pushed through with, “And I promise, you can keep anything you want. Although you might want to think about updating a thing or two—” she pointed to the bed, which got a grunt “—maybe change the wall color?” She glanced up. “Ditch the wallpaper border?”

The boy’s eyes followed hers. “I remember when Mom put that up there.”

“Yeah? How old were you?”

His mouth twisted. “Six.” Then he sighed. “I guess it is kinda little kid-ish.”

“Yeah. And judging from what a great job your mom did with the rest of the house, I’ll bet she would’ve changed things here by now, anyway.”

Silence bumped between them for a moment or two before he said, “She told me I could paint the walls brown, if I wanted. Before … before she died, I mean.”

“We can still do that,” Blythe said, aching for his sadness. “We can go to Home Depot, you can pick the color you see in your head—”

“Except I don’t want brown anymore.”

“Then you can choose something else,” Blythe said, feeling like she was playing table tennis. “This is your project. I’m only here to make it happen. We can even go shopping together, so you can pick out your new bed and bedding, new accessories, whatever you want. Here,” she said, digging in her bag for her tablet and a tape measure. “Let’s take some measurements.”

Another glare. “Now?”

“No pressure,” Blythe said, still digging. Not looking at the boy. “But I’m here, so I might as well.” She held out the tape measure. “So we’re all ready to go when you are.”

Several beats passed before Jack pushed himself off the bed and took the heavy silver measure, weighing it in his hand for a moment like he was half considering chucking it through the window. “What if I want to make the walls four different colors?” he asked, challenging, holding one end of the measure as Blythe stretched out the tape.

“Why not?” she said evenly, glancing over in time to see a smile—complete with baby dimples, God help the women in his future—creep across his cheeks.

They were nearly finished when Candace reappeared, Quinn tagging behind her, the child’s wild red hair an absolute affront to her own white polo and khakis, like Jack’s. The dog, who’d been dozing in the puddle of light on the carpet, jumped to his feet and wriggle-bounded over to Quinn, as though he hadn’t seen her in years.

“We thought the earth had swallowed you up, jeez,” Quinn said, then realized Blythe was there. “Blythe! What are you—? Holy cannoli—are you going to do Jack’s room?”

Blythe smiled. “We’re talking about it.”

“Well, talk harder, because—” her expression mildly horrified, she checked out the space “—it is way past time this place got a face-lift. I’ve never said anything before, but dude. Seriously—that bed?”

Blythe held her breath. And squelched a laugh. Honestly, except for the red hair, the kid was her mother’s clone. Except then Blythe saw the indulgent smile stretch across Jack’s face and realized she had nothing to worry about.

Although Mel might. Down what could be far too short a road.

As if reading Blythe’s mind, Candace sighed. “Quinn’s been so good for Jack,” she said in a low voice. “We absolutely love her. But we do not let them come up here by themselves. I know how young kids start … experimenting these days. Can’t be too careful.”

Although, come to think of it, Quinn had vehemently informed them all not long ago that she’d slug any boy who dared tried to pull any of “that funny business.” Probably something to do with now knowing that her mother had gotten pregnant at sixteen, an event that had complicated Mel’s life no end. Granted, Blythe imagined that Quinn’s attitude toward “funny business” would change sooner rather than later, but maybe the road wouldn’t be so short, after all.

“With Bear as a chaperone?” she said as the dog wedged between the two of them with a sappy doggy grin on his face. “I think you’re good.”

To her credit, Candace chuckled. “You may have a point. Listen, would you like to stay for dinner? Quinn’s here quite often, anyway, when her mom’s on duty at the inn and Ryder’s on call. Makes it feel more like a family,” she whispered. “Instead of the poor boy being stuck with his grandparents night after night.”

“Oh. I’d planned on driving back to the city tonight. And I wouldn’t want to put you out—”

“Don’t be silly, it’s just pot roast, there’s plenty. Unless—” Horror streaked across her laugh-lined face. “You’re one of those vegetarians or vegans or something?”

Blythe laughed. “Not me. I love pot roast.”

“Then it’s settled. And this way you wouldn’t have to worry about finding dinner so late when you got back, right?”

“Please, Blythe?” Quinn said from the other side of the room. Winsome grin and all. Yes, it irked Blythe that she and April hadn’t even known the child existed until a few months ago, that she’d missed all those years when she could have played the doting “auntie,” but since she was more comfortable with older kids, anyway, she supposed it was for the best. “Then you could drive me back to Mom’s and Ryder’s afterward so the Phillipses wouldn’t have to.”

“Now, honey,” Candace said, “you know that’s no bother—”

“I’d be delighted to stay,” Blythe said. “Thank you.” Because as long as Wes wasn’t part of the picture, what could it hurt? “What can I do to help?”

“Not a blessed thing. Dinner’s all done, and the kids set the table. Come on, children—chore time!”

Blythe and the dog followed the intoxicating pot roast scent—and Candace—downstairs and into the kitchen, an open-concept marvel in off-whites and light pine cabinets opening up to the family room that, like the rest of the house, managed to be classy and unpretentious at the same time. Wes’s father, Bill, was watching the news on the big-screen TV, but he stood when the women trooped through, heartily shaking Blythe’s hand, his grin as infectious as his wife’s.

Not to mention his son’s.

And despite the sadness still tingeing everyone’s eyes, the trying-too-hard-to-make-everything-normal-for-the-kid’s-sake vibes, envy still zinged through her. Because at least they were here for each other, they were trying. In fact, she guessed Wes’s parents had put their own lives on hold to take care of their grandson, a sacrifice she sure as heck hadn’t witnessed firsthand. So she briefly mourned this family dynamic she’d never had—and doubted she ever would—even as she decided to content herself with stealing a sliver of a life that wasn’t hers. Living vicariously was better than not living at all, she supposed.

However, they’d no sooner settled at the round pine table in the kitchen’s bay window when the dog lurched to his feet and took off, followed by Jack yelling, “Dad! You said you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow,” as he streaked from the room.

Good thing she’d donned her big girl panties this morning, that’s all she had to say.

“… and Blythe’s here, she came to talk about redoing my room, and it’s going to be awesome, I get to pick out all the new stuff and she said I can keep whatever I don’t want to get rid of! Cool, huh?”

Whoa. Dumping his briefcase on his office desk, Wes couldn’t decide which was messing with his head more, his son’s sounding like an excited six-year-old, or—

“Blythe’s here?”

“Yeah.” Jack frowned. “She said you arranged it.”

The appointment, yes. Her staying for dinner, no. Although, knowing his mother, why was he surprised?

What he definitely was, was dead on his feet. And for sure he didn’t know how he felt about seeing, in his kitchen, the woman whose honesty and craziness and soul-searing gaze had haunted his thoughts and dreams for the past six weeks.

And there she was, stuck at the one seat at the table without easy egress, the only woman in the world who could look radiant in gray. She also looked a bit deer-in-headlighty, which in another life he might have found amusing.

Then his mother—glowing, as usual—popped up from the table and bustled toward the cooktop. “Isn’t this a nice surprise!” she said, ladling pot roast and veggies onto a plate and bustling back. And a surprise it was, an impetuous decision made two hours ago when he realized the thought of spending the night in his office, which he usually did without complaint, made him want to blow his brains out. He wanted to see his family. His son. Now.

Blythe, however—

She lifted one hand and did a finger wiggle. She might have been blushing. Hard to tell in the candlelight. “Hi.”

Loosening his tie, Wes took his seat across the table from her, leaning back slightly when his mother set a plate of food in front of him. Bravely, he met Blythe’s gaze. Felt the zing. “Hi,” he said, thinking, Damn.

Nope, six weeks of not seeing her hadn’t done a blessed thing to dampen his … ardor. This was so not good. Because he was so not ready for … ardor. Or anything else. Although he was grateful to see that some of the terror had abated in those blue eyes that, yep, were still doing the same number on his … head that they’d done that morning in the restaurant.

He was attracted to the woman. Very attracted. Attracted in that way that makes men do dumb things. Especially men dumb enough to think staying busy was a good way to avoid, you know. Living.

“Your mother invited me to stay for dinner,” she said as Wes dug into his food, praying the nourishment would revive him enough to plow through the lengthy bill being discussed on the floor the next day.

“So I see,” he said, except he could barely hear himself because Jack was yakking away a mile a minute in his ear.

Wait. Jack yakking a mile a minute?

Forking in a bite of moist, tender beef—his mother did make a mean pot roast—he looked over at his son. Who seemed, if not happy, at least captivated by something that wasn’t a video game. Huh.

Just go with it, he thought, returning his gaze to Blythe.

Who was watching his son with an I got your back, kid expression Wes found both gratifying and annoying as hell.

As if dinner itself hadn’t been bizarre enough, between watching Wes do the whole Who is this kid? thing with Jack and trying to ignore the zzzzap! to her girl parts every time the man looked at her, afterward ventured dangerously close to Twilight Zone territory.

Blythe would have imagined, given Jack’s obvious resentment over his father’s frequent absences, and his equally obvious excitement that Wes had come home, that the kid would have commandeered Wes’s attention for the rest of the evening. Not so. Instead, the moment he’d dispatched the last molecule of caramel sauce from his sundae glass, he pointedly dragged Quinn off to finish up their game. Which, in turn, had produced another flash of that lost look in Wes’s eyes before, after thanking his mother for dinner and giving her a kiss on the cheek, he also vanished. Leaving Blythe feeling equally at sea, especially when Candace refused her offer to help tidy up.

“That’s my job,” Wes’s dad said with a wink as he carted over stacked plates from the table. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to put an old man out of work now, would you?”

And the odd thing was, Blythe thought as she gathered her things, it was clear she would have usurped the older man’s position. Because, listening to the couple’s easy chatter as they scraped and rinsed the dishes and filled the dishwasher, it was obvious this was one of those little rituals that kept the couple’s love alive and kicking. It wasn’t what they did, but that they did it together, the act of sharing the moment turning the mundane into the sweet.

Jeez. What had the woman put in that pot roast, anyway?

Because this whole cozy-family thing wasn’t her thing. Seriously. Sure, she loved hanging with her cousins and all. But they were more like gal pals than relatives, you know? Yeah, yeah, April and Mel kept going on about how they were more like sisters, and Blythe had to admit there’d been the occasional moment during the past several months when she could see where they were coming from. But that didn’t mean she was coming from the same place. Or any place, really. Family … that’s what other people had.

Some other people, anyway. Hey, from what she could tell, this was one of those things that looked a lot better on paper than it did in practice. Because in her experience, people were far more likely to screw it up than make it work.

At least, people who didn’t have decent examples to follow. Say what you will about no man being an island, making connections with other human beings wasn’t nearly as innate as “they” would have you believe.

“Why don’t you go take a tour of the rest of the house while you wait?” Candace shouted over the grinding of the garbage disposal.

Blythe nodded, even as she wondered, Wait for what? A question soon answered when she found the kids in the family room, intent on conquering aliens. Or something.

“Oh. I thought you’d be ready to go,” Blythe said to Quinn’s back as she slipped on her sweater.

“Mom doesn’t get home for another hour,” Quinn said, not even missing a beat as her blurred hands commanded the remote. She spared Blythe the sparest of glances, her hair electrified around her shoulders. “When Ryder’s not there, Jack’s grandpa takes me home around nine.”

“What about homework?”

“Did it,” she said with a distracted shrug. “So it’s cool. Really …” She bit her lip as the green critter on the screen did something apparently awesome, given Quinn’s “Take that, suckah!” in response.

Talk about feeling old.

Figuring that self-guided tour was as good a way to waste time as any, Blythe poked around downstairs for a few minutes, even as she realized the house was larger than it appeared. Not ostentatiously so, but definitely not a shack, the formal living room leading into a lovely, large sunroom facing the water. And off to one side, a doublepaneled door stood half open to what she assumed was an office or library.

Office, she realized, peeking into the very manly room, all dark wood and striking mid-century art against burgundy walls, a massive wooden desk adjacent to the bay window, a twin to the one in the living room. An add-on, she thought, destroying the colonial’s original symmetry but well enough done, from what she could tell. She pushed the door farther open to smile at the ubiquitous leather furniture … her smile fading when she realized Wes was slouched in a corner of the tufted sofa, watching her, amusement dancing in his tired eyes.

“Oops, didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, stepping back, exactly as he’d expected her to. Even though Wes sensed that her reticence had more to do with her being caught off guard than having breached his privacy.

“You’re not,” he assured her, even though he definitely felt intruded upon. Had, from the moment he’d seen her sitting at his table. Yes, despite his having initiated the intrusion to begin with by asking her to do Jack’s room. Logic had nothing to do with whatever was going on in his brain.

Jack’s brush-off after dinner, however, did.

Despite his exhaustion, Wes forced himself to sit forward. To stifle what had to have been his hundredth yawn since he’d arrived home. Not to mention some strange, unsettling impulse to use Blythe’s obvious discomfiture to his advantage. Play the power card, in other words.

As if he had clue one how to do that. No, change that: he was as well-versed in charm and manipulation as the next politician. He could even be cunning, if push came to shove. But that wasn’t what he was about. Never had been. And if that made him a wuss, too bad.

“I thought you’d gone.”

“Can’t leave until Quinn and Jack have saved the universe,” she said, and Wes chuckled.

“You’re returning to D.C. tonight?”

“Actually, since it’s so late I might crash at Mel’s. Haven’t decided yet. And you look like a man who can’t believe he’s still awake.” When he gave her a thumbs-up, she smiled. “So why don’t you go to bed?”

“Before my son? That would be beyond pathetic. And why are you standing in the doorway?” He waved her inside. “Come keep me company.” The yawn finally escaped. “Or at least awake.”

“I—”

“You got anything better to do?”

“Here? No.”

“Well then?”

Sighing, she entered the library-slash-office to dump her bag and computer on a side table before wriggling out of her sweater, plopping it on top of everything else. “Impressive,” she said, taking in the room before bestowing a careful smile in his direction. “You should be nursing a lowball. In cut glass.”

“Don’t drink,” Wes said on a tired smile. “Never did much, but after Jack was born …” He shrugged, then felt one side of his mouth lift. “Makes me hugely unpopular at social events. Although it is reassuring to know the kid isn’t going to get into my liquor cabinet while I’m gone. And you’re not sitting.”

Finally she did, in a wing chair across from him, leaning back with her hands draped loosely over the arms, her legs crossed. But the set to her jaw gave the lie to her relaxed pose. Not that she felt trapped, he didn’t think. But she looked obligated to play along when she didn’t want to. Part of him wanted to release her from the obligation. Or at least give lip service to it, since he didn’t doubt for a moment that if she wanted to leave, she would. And yet, perversely, he wanted her to stay. Just to have someone to talk to who didn’t have an agenda.

Then again, maybe she did.

“I take it Jack has some ideas for his room?”

Her lips stretched. Slightly. “We’re getting there. At first he didn’t want to change anything. Which is understandable,” she said gently. “Given the circumstances. Then he said he might want to paint all four walls different colors, but he has no idea what those colors might be. It was a bit like nailing Jell-O to a tree.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So you’re okay with four different wall colors?”

“If that’s what he wants, go for it.”

“Has he always been this quixotic?”

Wes shook his head, thinking of his son’s reaction to him that night. The rejection stung, no doubt about it. “I don’t think so. I mean …” He leaned back, his eyes closed, realizing she was once more sucking him into a conversation he wasn’t sure he should be having with a virtual stranger. And yet, wanted to.

He opened his eyes, faced Blythe’s. Wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Did know, however, that it was weird, seeing her sitting where Kym always had, at the end of a long day, her legs tucked up under her as she laughed, regaling him with stories about their son’s antics. There’d always be a cup of tea in her hands, her slender fingers curved around the ceramic, her long, dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, exactly the way it had when she’d been a teenager. As though she’d been caught in time, like a beautiful, delicate insect in amber. As the memory was now, in his head.

“I don’t remember Jack’s being so moody before. When he was younger, I mean. But then, Kym was around him more than I was. She was the go-to parent. I was …” he sighed “… the auxiliary. I didn’t mean it to work out that way,” he said to Blythe’s slight frown. “It just did.”

After a pause, she said, “He wants you to help him with his room, you know.”

“Me? I don’t know a damn thing about design.”

“That’s not the point.”

No, it wasn’t. And he knew it. Knew, too, that whatever problems he and Jack were having were his fault, not the kid’s. That, being the grown-up, he was supposed to be able to fix this. That he couldn’t—

Frustration trumping exhaustion, Wes heaved himself off the couch, almost wishing he did have that drink. Instead he crossed to the French doors leading to the side yard, shoving them open to let in the damp breeze, soothing against his heated face. “This parenthood gig ain’t for wusses,” he said, his back to her.

“Precisely why I don’t think I’d make a very good mother.”

Frowning, Wes turned. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve finally reached the point where I’m happy with my life. I love what I do. Who I’ve finally become. What can I say?” She smiled. “Autonomy is the bomb.”

“And yet you get along so well with Quinn. Jack, too, for that matter.”

Something dimmed in her eyes. The truth, Wes suspected. Especially when she said, “Relating to kids doesn’t automatically translate into wanting my own. For one thing, I’m not sure I have the courage to be a parent. And for another, shoehorning a child into my life … it wouldn’t be fair.”

Wes pushed aside the tailored drapery flapping alongside the open window before focusing on Blythe again. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Shoehorning Jack into my life?”

He saw her suck in a tiny breath. “I’m talking about myself. Not you.”

“You sure about that?”

She returned his gaze for several seconds, then sighed. “I’m not questioning your skills, I swear. Or how much you love your kid, because that’s obvious. But …” Frowning, she briefly rubbed the heels of her hands against the chair arms before clutching the ends. “In some respects, I see myself in Jack. At that age, I mean. So I empathize with him. What he’s feeling.”

Curiosity overrode his reaction to her first comment—that she had every right to question his skills, since God knows he did. “You lost your mother, too?”

One side of her mouth hitched up. “The question is if I ever really had her. But my father … yeah. He removed himself from my life when I was a little older than Jack.” Sympathy flooded her eyes. But for whom? “I know





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