With a sharp shake of her head, Blythe returned to the task at hand, which was to finish up the last few details in the room. It’d been years since she’d been this hands-on with a project that wasn’t in her own house, and she’d enjoyed it a lot more than she probably should have...despite the unexpected, and unwelcome, complication of all that electricity between her and Wes. Yes, even during the aforementioned conversation last night.
Okay, especially then.
And her thoughts would keep boomeranging back to that pesky business, wouldn’t they?
Sigh.
Wes had probably thought she was angry when she’d stormed off last night like some nose-out-of-joint adolescent. Not that she hadn’t been, but more at herself than him. Because her huffy exit had far less to do with his nailing her neurosis than it did with her breath-stealing, hoohah-quivering desire for him to nail her.
So sad.
And the sorriest thing in a giant tote bag of sorry was that, had this not been Wes—widowed, still grieving, Congressman Wes whose son happened to be her younger cousin’s BFF—Blythe might’ve relaxed the sex ban. Or at least been mightily tempted. If his gaze was that penetrating, just imagine...
And oh, she could.
However.
She was not so blinded by what even she had to admit was raging lust that she couldn’t see the more behind his heated gaze. That as much as she might want to fool herself that this was about neglected hormones—on both their parts—that wasn’t all that was going on here. Also on both their parts. Human connections were weird. They either happened or they didn’t, and logic rarely played much of a role. Emotional neediness, however—pushy, arrogant, willing to do whatever it took—was real good at taking center stage, even if it didn’t have anywhere near the stamina required for an extended run.
Which was why she’d split last night. For both their sakes. And now that she’d sorted it all out in her head—and completed Jack’s room—she was back in control and all was well—
Blythe felt the faint shift of air current as the front door opened, then heard the dog barking and Wes’s laughter, feet stomping up stairs, and her heart boinged into her throat. She checked her watch, truly startled to see how late it was, and her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in hard enough to make her head hurt.
Sunburned and scowling, Jack burst into the room, followed closely by his dad, all solid and whatnot underneath his pale blue polo and khakis. Wes gave a long, appreciative whistle—at the room—followed by the Dimples. “This is amazing,” he said, angling himself slightly to take it all in. “The room looks twice as big—how did you do that?”
A simple question, compounded exponentially by the look in Wes’s eyes, a cross between appreciation and invitation. Deadly, that. Especially since all her life, she’d wanted someone to look at her like that. Like she mattered. Except now that someone was, she didn’t dare believe it, let alone trust it. Or, God forbid, act on it—
“Raising the bed helped,” she said, wrenching herself from that way-too-trenchant gaze to focus on Jack, silently traversing the room. Too silently. Not the reaction she’d hoped for. “And the dark walls seem to recede. Time-honored design trick.” She plugged her hands into her capri pockets. “So what do you think, Jack?”
At the boy’s continued silence, his father prodded, “Jack?”
A furtive glance, a quick shrug preceded, “Can I go get something to eat? I’m starved—”
“You ate an hour ago,” Wes said. “I think you can hold off for a few more minutes. Don’t you have something to say to Blythe?”
“Yeah.” The boy’s gaze swung to hers. “C’n we paint it lighter?”
Oh, dear. Blythe thought Wes’s eyebrows were going to fly off his head. “For heaven’s sake, Jack—you chose the paint color! Not to mention helped put it on the walls—”
“I didn’t know it would look like this!” His sun-scorched cheeks went even redder. “It’s, it’s like a cave in here!”
“It’s okay, Wes,” Blythe said before the obviously mortified man blew a gasket, even as she reminded herself not to take it personally, that heaven knew she was no stranger to clients’ changing their minds. Even those not old enough to drive. Still, she’d thought she’d scored big with this one. The disappointment that she hadn’t was hitting her harder than she would’ve expected.
Except...as Wes had pointed out, the kid had seen the room when it was nearly finished and didn’t seem to have a problem with the paint color then. So why now? Her antenna went up, that something was going on here that had nothing to do with the color of the walls. And in any case...
“If you want to change the paint color,” she said, “that’s up to you. And your dad. It’s your room, after all, I want you to be happy with it. But I have work back in Washington the rest of the week, so I can’t do it myself. I can recommend a painter in the area, though, if you like—”
“Forget it,” Wes said, his arms folded over his chest. “This was your pick, Jack. And Blythe spent a lot of time designing the rest of the room around it. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with it. For a while, anyway.”
“That sucks!”
“Jack! Apologize. Right now.”
“Sorry,” the kid muttered, then ran from the room, the dog on his heels, leaving a thick, airless silence in his wake.
Wes pushed out a weighty sigh. “I’m sorry, he’s been like this since last night. In fact, we came home early before he said or did something that might cost me the next election.”
The way his mouth ticked up at the one corner told Blythe he was only kidding about that last part. But the droop to his shoulders when he palmed the ladder leading to the raised bed told another story entirely. And her heart twisted, at how hard it must be when you wanted to do the right thing but had no earthly idea what that was.
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not okay, dammit!” Wes slammed his hand against the ladder rung. “This blowing hot and cold thing, it’s making me nuts. Especially since I have no idea what to do about it.”
She wasn’t sure which touched her more, that he’d confirmed her suspicions, or his trusting her enough to admit it. “There’s nothing you can do, Wes. Between his rising hormones and the grief—”
“It’s been nearly two y-years, for godssake.”
She gave him a moment to look away, compose himself. To keep herself from wrapping her arms around him and drawing his head to her paltry little bosom. “And it feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”
His head whipped around, his eyes dark. Close enough to crack her heart a little more. Then he walked over to the photographs, black-and-white prints in white frames. At the one of the three of them—it had nearly killed Blythe to frame it, but she knew it only made things worse to pretend nothing had happened, to deprive it of air—Wes stopped, staring. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “And I hate it.”
Again, she ached to touch him. To comfort in that most basic of ways. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you and Jack.” She forced herself to look at one of the photographs of the three of them, at the pretty brunette with the laughing eyes, her arms looping Jack’s shoulders from behind. “Kym obviously loved you both very much.”
“Yeah. She did.” His gaze lingered on the photo for a moment before he turned again, the longing in his gaze spurring her to gather her things and start toward the door. Wes smiled, then sighed. “Even so,” he said, following her onto the landing. “There was no cause for Jack to be rude.”
She hesitated, making sure they were still alone before saying, “That was the fear talking. Not him.” When Wes frowned, she added, “You do realize he sees me as a threat?”
They were standing close. Too close. Close enough to smell him, to see the brown flecks in the green eyes now grazing hers. “And you’re sure he has nothing to wor
ry about, right?” he said, his voice gravelly, and she thought, Stop that, dammit!
“Nothing at all,” she pushed out, even as she heard liarliarliar pinging around in her brain.
“Just checking.” Then, flashing those damn dimples, he gestured for her to start down the stairs. “And no matter what my kid says—or doesn’t say—you did a terrific job. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome—”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to stay for dinner?”
For the love of Mike...was the man deaf? Her hand on the banister, Blythe turned, refusing to buckle at the hope in his eyes. And the kindness. Oh, Lord, save her from the kindness. “Thanks. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No,” Wes said on a breath. “I suppose not.”
And hand her a bleeping medal for sticking to her guns, for not caving to the many, many little voices whispering in her ear to give the man what he so obviously wanted. Except what he really wanted, she couldn’t give him.
Which they both knew.
So they continued down the stairs, Wes scooting in front of her when they reached the bottom to open the front door. A rain-scented breeze swept in, stippling her cheeks with moisture. Heightening his scent. Man had the friskiest pheromones on the Eastern Seaboard. Damn him.
“Send me your bill?” he said.
“Of course.” Even though she had no intention of doing any such thing, since he’d paid for all the materials and, in this case, she considered her time a gift—
She nearly fell over backward when Wes cupped her shoulder, then leaned over to kiss her cheek. Although by the time it registered, it was over, and he was standing there smiling at her. For her, she realized, a smile unlike the ones he bestowed on his son, or his constituents, or his parents. Not that she could describe it, but she sure as shootin’ could feel it. All the way to her toes and beyond.
“Have a good night,” he said, and she nodded and mumbled something inane before scurrying down the brick path to the driveway and her car. Not until she was behind the wheel with her seat belt fastened did she dare to look back at the house, where, hands in pockets, Wes watched her from his doorway, gilded in the setting sun like some frickin’ angel.
The car yanked into Reverse, Blythe backed out of the driveway more speedily than was prudent. But she had to get away, from those eyes, that smile...from temptation. Because this man...he was doing seriously bad things to her head.
Not to mention—big sigh here—her heart.
* * *
Wes stood in his doorway for several minutes after Blythe drove off, wishing he could take a firehose to his unruly thoughts, all screaming like a bunch of crazed Wall Street traders. Because wanting to make everybody happy was a bitch.
Although that was nothing compared with how badly he’d wanted to gather Blythe in his arms and simply...hold her. Let her know he cared. Give back even a little of what she so easily gave to others.
And in another life, another time, he might have done exactly that. Thrown caution—not to mention reason—to the four winds and pursued her, full-out. Unfortunately, this life, this time, was all he had to work with. And this life, this time, was already chock-full to overflowing with problems as it was.
His son’s attitude currently snagging the top of that very long list.
Wes went back inside, shutting the door behind him and following the beeps and boops to the family room. Finding the kid wasn’t difficult. Knowing what to say, however, he thought as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching him, was something else again. That had been Kym’s purview, Wes more than content to be his wife’s yes-man. Not that they didn’t decide as a team how to handle whatever issues arose, but she had always been better at finding the words than Wes. Just as she was better at decorating—their talents had been complementary, not competing.
Funny how Blythe, too, seemed to share so many of Kym’s attributes—her eye for what looked good, her intuitive understanding of how kids’ minds worked. And yet could there be two more radically different women?
And could his thoughts be any further off track?
Casually, Wes pushed himself away from the door and into the room, taking a few deep breaths to center himself. Confronting his political opponents—no problem. Treading that fine line between valuing his kid’s feelings and not taking any crap, however...
“Hey,” Wes said, dropping onto the sofa next to him. But not too close.
Jack’s eyes cut to his, then back to the screen as he jerked his head to get his hair out of his eyes. “Hey.”
“You get your snack?”
“Yeah. Grandma made brownies. She and Grandpa went to the store, she said to tell you.” Another glance, another head jerk. A haircut was definitely in order. “Did Blythe leave?”
“Mmm-hmm.” His arms over his chest, Wes pretended to watch the game. “You should write her a thank-you note. For the room.”
“Um...didn’t you already tell her thanks?”
“Of course. But it’s not my room.” Wes shifted enough to see Jack’s face. “It’s called being courteous. And I know you’re acquainted with the concept, since I also know your mother made you write thank-you notes. And while you’re at it—” He faced the screen again. “You can apologize for your behavior.”
At that, Jack’s head swung around, his expression priceless. “I told her I was sorry!”
“Did you mean it?”
Blond brows crashed over his nose. “You told me to say it. So I did. But you can’t control how I feel.”
Testing, Wes thought this was called. Common side effect of the hormones, even without the leftover grief tainting his mood. Wes’s mother made no bones about how much Wes drove her and his dad crazy during this period, even though she could laugh about it now. Then, however, he didn’t remember a whole lot of laughter. In fact, as he recalled he was pretty much a huge pain in the butt.
Still, if Jack didn’t learn how to rein in his feelings—and his mouth—now, heaven help them all later.
“You’re right, I can’t,” Wes said mildly. His father had never been a yeller, which as a kid Wes had found weirdly unsettling. Hard to argue against reasonableness. An example he had no qualms whatsoever about using to his advantage with his own son. “And if something’s bugging you, you come and talk about it with me, and we’ll figure it out together. But no matter what else is going on, or has happened—” still holding on to his calm, he turned to Jack “—I won’t tolerate your being disrespectful. To anyone. For any reason. And considering how Blythe bent over backward to make sure you had a say in everything she did—”
“It just didn’t turn out the way I thought it would, okay?” Jack said, sagging into the corner of the couch, the cushions swallowing up the little boy who still peeked out from time to time from underneath the shaggy hair.
“That’s not Blythe’s fault,” Wes said, which got a muttered reply he didn’t quite get. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Jack. Don’t do this—”
“I said—” The kid jumped up, his eyes glistening as he slammed the controller against the cushion so hard it bounced. “It figures you’d take her side instead of mine!”
Then he rocketed from the room, stumbling over the poor dog, who scrambled to his feet with a “What just happened?” look on his face. Wes held out his hand and the dog plodded over to plop his head on Wes’s leg, his tail slowly wagging.
“Not something you’ll ever have to worry about, boy,” Wes sighed out as he scratched behind the beast’s ear. Then he sagged against the sofa back, his gaze landing on the family portrait mounted over the stone fireplace, from when Jack had been a chubby, grinning toddler, sitting on his proud mama’s lap, and the future was bright and endless and full of promise.
And his throat tightened.
* * *
“So, two things,” Quinn announced to the room at large as, in a bizarre combination of mismatched tops and leggings that only an eleven-year-old could pull off, she flounced into the inn’s kitchen on that bright and sunny May morning. “One—” She swung open the gargantuan fridge door and pulled out a personal-sized bottle of grape juice, then heaved herself onto the stool next to Blythe and twisted off the cap. “Is it okay if I invite Jack as my ‘date’ to the wedding?”
Seated shoulder to shoulder beside April and poring over their cousin’s vast collection of floral arrangement photos, Mel frowned at her daughter. “Excuse me? Date?”
“Whatever. Can I?”
“Oh, I suppose. Especially since we already invited his dad and grandparents, anyway.”
Blythe’s stomach did a little jump. “You did?”
“Kids are already joined at the hip, so it seemed expedient,” Mel said with a shrug. And a sly little grin that made Blythe want to smack something. Like, say, her cousins. Since April’s grin matched Mel’s.
“And two—” Totally unaware of the imminent smackdown, Quinn turned to Blythe, her hands clasped under her chin. “Could you please, please, please help chaperone our field trip to Washington two weeks from Wednesday?”
“Me? What about the person who gave birth to you? Or April?”
“I already asked them. Turns out the inn’s booked solid that week. So you’re my last shot. And anyway, you’re actually cool.”
Blythe frowned at Mel. “This doesn’t offend you?”
“That my daughter would rather see me in the Smithsonian than be seen with me there? Nope. Besides which the idea of herding a bunch of teenyboppers around D.C. makes my eyes cross.” She held up a picture. “And I still like daisies—”
“Forget it,” Blythe and April said in unison before April peered around Mel to say to Quinn, “And I’m with Mel on that one. Not that I don’t think the world of you and Jack, sugar, but I’ve seen your class. Half of those kids are taller’n I am. No, Blythe’s definitely the right one for the job.”
The Marriage Campaign Page 11