The Marriage Campaign

“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.