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 lightbulb 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 whe
n 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 th
at 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?”
The Marriage Campaign Page 3