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
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Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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.

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