“Well, whatever it was, whatever you said, you got through.”
She laughed. “I sincerely doubt it was some kind of miracle cure. That kind of pain...one conversation isn’t going to heal it.”
Tell me about it, Wes thought, then said, “Where are you?”
A couple of seconds passed before she said, “Here.”
“Here? As in, close enough to take pity on a lonely congressman and have dinner with him?”
“That is the sorriest excuse for a pickup line I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard a lot of sorry lines, believe me.”
“So I’m a little rusty,” he said, smiling. “Considering my last date was in...” He counted back, then groaned. “God, I’m old. But unless I’m more out of the loop than I thought, I don’t think asking you to dinner is picking you up.” He frowned. “Is it?”
“It is from most guys.”
“One, that’s beyond sad. And two, I’m not most guys.”
Another pause. “No, you certainly aren’t. And if it really is just dinner...”
“I’m not speaking in code, Blythe. Not that I’m aware of, anyway. But I am starving and all I have here is...” he poked at the sandwich, as though making sure it was dead “...something I don’t think Bear would even eat. Besides, buying you dinner is the least I can do. Considering everything you did for Jack today.” At her silence, he said, very softly, “You didn’t have to tell me you were in town, you know. Or you could have said you were busy. Or to go to hell. That you didn’t do any of those things...”
“I don’t suppose I could tell you to go to hell now.”
“You could. But I probably wouldn’t take you seriously.”
Another of those warm chuckles, then, “If you’re up for trekking out to Alexandria, there’s a Chinese joint on Henry Street, near Queen. The Golden something-or-other, I’ve been going there so long I don’t remember the name anymore.”
Wes plugged the info into his phone. “The Golden Wok?”
“That’s it. You know it?”
“No, but my phone does.”
She laughed. “Meet you there in, say, forty-five minutes?”
“Done,” Wes said, on his feet before the word was out of his mouth.
And grinning like a damn fool.
* * *
Wes wasn’t there yet when Blythe got to the no-frills restaurant, the comforting scent of a thousand stir-frys welcoming her even more than the diminutive hostess’s bright smile.
“One?”
“Two. I’m waiting for someone.”
“You sit over there? I tell...her? Him...?”
“Him.”
“I direct him to table when he arrive, okay?”
Blythe slid into the tan vinyl booth, reluctant to relax into its embrace for fear she’d pass out. She’d told herself she’d only agreed to have dinner with Wes because (a) she wanted to make sure Jack had gotten his story straight, and (b) she was starving. She really needed to do a serious grocery run one of these days. But by the time she’d dragged her weary butt through the front door, she’d done well to spread peanut butter on crackers, peel the foil lid off a container of yogurt. Even the thought of picking up the phone and ordering in had made her head hurt.
In fact, she’d already been in her jammies when Wes had called, sprawled on her sofa and half watching yet another talent show while awaiting a visit from the sleep fairy. Wes should only know what it had taken for her to actually get dressed—although she used the term loosely, she mused as she glanced down at the first unwrinkled top she laid her hands on—and haul her tushie back out her door. She hadn’t even reapplied her makeup.
Lest, you know, he think she’d made an effort or anything.
Then Wes appeared, and damn if her breath didn’t jam up at the back of her throat at how gosh darn good-looking he was. And that was before he spotted her and flashed those gosh darn adorable dimples, and gosh darn if her entire system didn’t jolt awake. Like she’d mainlined a six-pack of Red Bull.
He started toward her, all loose-boned amble in his dark gray suit and blue dress shirt, his loosened tie.
“Is the food as good as it smells?”
“Better,” Blythe said, and his grin widened. Dropping into the opposite seat, he tugged off the tie, then folded it to slip into his jacket pocket. And in the unflattering overhead light Blythe noticed the lines webbing the corners of his eyes, the shadows underneath them. Didn’t make him less handsome—alas—but it did make him look more...real. And—alas, again—stirred up a whole slew of let-Mama-make-it-better feelings inside her. Except the last thing she was feeling right now was maternal.
“Tired?” she said.
“Long day, yeah. Although on the taxi ride here—” he grinned again “—I must’ve gotten a second wind.”
“Taxi?”
He shrugged. “Not sure what parking would be like, not in the mood to deal with the Metro.”
The perky waitress came, took their soup orders. Hot and sour for both. “Was it really only hours ago that we had lunch together?” Blythe asked.
“We had lunch at the same time, in the same place. Together?” Wes shook his head before his mouth tilted. “This is much nicer.”
And scarier.
Oh, so much scarier. Especially when Wes’s eyes barely left hers while they ate their soup and she filled in the blanks Jack had left out from their earlier conversation. But, of course, he’d pay close attention, they were talking about his son, and Wes was nothing if not a devoted father.
Then he shared his “theory” about her having accomplished a breakthrough or something and a bit of hot red pepper exploded in the back of her throat.
“Me?” she said, grabbing for her ice water, sucking a piece of ice into her mouth and chomping down on it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” he said, locking her gaze with his. More explosions ensued. And not in her throat. “The kid had wrapped his grief around him like a blanket in the middle of summer. And you—” his spoon jabbed in her direction “—got him to take it off.”
There wasn’t enough ice in the world. Especially since Wes was focusing on her like a student in a particularly hard class determined to understand the material. A realization that discomfited her even as it made her feel, well, as if he gave a damn. About what she thought. What she felt.
“If I did, I’m glad,” she said, thinking she should have gotten egg drop soup instead. “Because I remember what it’s like, when your anger feels like a twenty-foot-long snake thrashing around inside you.”
“And are we the metaphor champions of the world, or what?”
She smiled. “One of my instructors once said imagery is one way humans make sense of their feelings. That we unconsciously translate...how did she put that? The ephemeral into the concrete. Sorry,” she said to his frown. “Didn’t mean to go all Psych 101 on you—”
“No, it’s not that.” Wes finished off his soup, setting the bowl to one side before crossing his arms. “I was just thinking I’m sorry Quinn got sucked into all of this.”
“Don’t kid yourself—she didn’t get sucked into anything. She put herself right in the middle of it. And stayed there, if you noticed. She’ll be fine. Not only is she one tough cookie, but she’s got a very strong support system.”
“I’ll bet she does.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you guys rent out?”
Blythe assumed he meant for his son. Then again, judging from the heat in his eyes, maybe not.
Maybe she should dump the ice water over her head.
“Jack said he called Quinn,” Wes said as Blythe’s gaze shifted to the plate of egg rolls between them. Nice, safe noncombustible egg rolls. She grabbed one, ripping off the end to pour soy sauce inside, as the waitress removed their soup bowls and laid o
ut way more food than they could possibly eat in one sitting. “To make it up to her.”
“I know. She called me, too, very relieved. Tough cookies get hurt, too,” she said, blushing again when Wes stopped in the midst of spooning moo shu pork onto his plate to meet her gaze. “But I gather their ‘date’ for the wedding is back on.”
“Date?” Wes’s brow knotted. “I know they’re only eleven, but—”
“Have you actually talked to Quinn? Kid was born old. So I wouldn’t go off the deep end. Not yet, anyway.”
“That’s what worries me. The ‘not yet’ part. Especially if Quinn...” Color flooded his cheeks, which was so cute Blythe couldn’t stand it.
“Especially if Quinn, what?”
“Takes, uh, after her mom.” He gestured in the general area of his chest. “You know. Physically.”
Blythe burst out laughing. “Our last summer together, when Mel was sixteen and we all put on our bathing suits for the first time that season...let’s just say Mel had blossomed. Our grandmother was horrified. Especially when we’d go strut our stuff—even though Mel was the only one with stuff to strut—on the boardwalk and boys were tripping over themselves right and left. And that’s when Mel was wearing a cover-up. Man, I had boob envy like you wouldn’t believe.” She chuckled. “Still do.”
“And how old was Mel when she had Quinn?”
“Um...seventeen.”
Wes jabbed his chopsticks at her. “Exactly.”
Blythe jabbed hers right back. “First off, you’re going to make yourself nuts speculating about things that won’t even be an issue until years from now. If they even stay friends. And what happened to Mel...” She shoveled fried rice onto her plate. “That fall she was hurting and angry about a lot of things, including her father’s death. And Ryder’s breaking off their friendship. Which Ryder’s punk younger brother—who had sleazeball tendencies even as a kid—took advantage of.” Shaking her head, she dug into her beef and broccoli. “Two entirely different situations. And relationships. And Jack is nothing like Jeremy.”
“Even though he hasn’t exactly been a model kid these past months.”
Wes’s expression cracked her heart. “But that’s not him, Wes, that’s his pain. As opposed to Jeremy, who, unless he’s had a come-to-Jesus moment I don’t know about, simply isn’t a very nice person. At heart Jack’s a good kid. And Quinn’s his best friend. If he’s already apologized for today...” She shook her head. “I sincerely doubt he’d ever hurt her. Not deliberately. And knowing Quinn,” she said with a smile, “I sincerely doubt she’d give him the chance.”
Although one side of his mouth hiked up, he still sighed. “But hormones—”
“Are the devil’s handiwork. Believe me, nobody knows that better than I do. I’m not saying turn a blind eye. But I do think it’s a little early to get your boxers in a bunch. Mel’s keeping an eagle eye out—trust me.”
There went that crooked smile again. “In other words, one wrong move and Jack’s—”
“Dead meat. You got it.”
And he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the sound warming her in places that had been cold and lonely for far too long. And dammit, it felt good.
She was exhausted, she knew. Certainly way too tired to keep her battered guard propped up, to fight against the soporific effects of good food and, as dinner progressed, a conversation that effortlessly shifted to topics not at all related to their original reason for getting together that evening. Because she and Wes talked as she’d never talked with another man before, about family and life and things metaphysical and philosophical, topics not usually covered during a first date, let alone a nondate. Topics usually reserved for “later,” after the realization that this was something worth getting serious about, and someone to get serious with.
Or maybe just someone to take the edge off that chronic emptiness Blythe wasn’t nearly as good at ignoring as she wanted to believe, that no amount of busyness ever completely assuaged.
And that month apart? Might as well have never happened.
So, a good two hours later, after Wes paid the bill, then linked their fingers as they started down the nearly deserted side street back to her place, she didn’t fight that, either. Although he did lift their hands as they walked, giving her a questioning look.
“You okay with this?”
“Holding hands? Sure.”
Then he turned her around, gently clasping her shoulders. A warm breeze sifted through a lush-leafed maple overhead, dappling them in shuddering shadows. “How about this?” he said, before kissing her so sweetly tears pricked at her eyes.
She backed up. A little. “Aren’t you afraid someone might recognize you?”
Wes laughed. “Save for the random, obsessed C-Span fan, that’s highly unlikely. And I’m in a risk-taking kind of mood tonight.”
Well, then. Figuring if it didn’t worry him, it didn’t worry her, either, Blythe kissed him back, her attempt not to act like a woman who hadn’t locked lips with a man in nearly two years not altogether successful. Smiling against her mouth, Wes cupped her jaw and kissed her more deeply—oh, dear merciful heavens, could the man kiss!—and everything inside Blythe got all warm and gooey and achy-needy.
Especially when his hands slipped to her waist, his touch so careful, so gentle, when he tugged her closer to kiss her again, tongue to tongue, and it was crazy and hot and wonderful and silly, that they were doing this at all, let alone in public, even though there was virtually no one around because it was so late. Was it absurd, how happy this made her, that she felt like some idiot teenager making out with the hottest guy in class, right where God and everyone could see her?
But while her idiocy status might still be in question, she definitely wasn’t a teenager anymore—
Her hands planted on Wes’s chest, she pushed away. “What was that for?” she asked, noting that he seemed completely disinclined to let her go.
“Because I wanted to.” His gaze caressed hers, amused and sweet in the amber haze of the streetlamp, and the absurdity returned, nearly overwhelming her with the desire, the need, to be foolish in a way she hadn’t in years. To be free, of her fears, her doubts. Her clothes. “Have wanted to for some time.”
To give herself credit, she did actually think about what she said next. Weighed the pros and cons, even if only for a moment. The pros were pretty obvious, with getting naked and cozy with the kindest, sexiest man she’d ever known easily topping the list. The cons, however—that she’d be breaking her own promise to herself, that Wes might take it the wrong way—were nothing to sneeze at.
Then again, neither was his erection, importunately pressed against her as it was. All righty, then.
“And I’m guessing kissing’s not the only thing you’ve wanted to do for some time.”
“I’d apologize, except...” He shrugged. “I’m not sorry. In fact...” He bracketed her jaw again, holding her gaze hostage as his thumbs tenderly stroked her temples. “To be perfectly honest, all I want to do right now is make love to you until neither of us can think anymore. To fill up that empty space inside you.” He smiled. “Literally and metaphorically.”
When she gawked at him, he chuckled. “It’s no secret how I feel about you. Now let me show you.”
“As in...you want to come back to my place?”
He laughed again, so close she could feel the vibration. “Can’t see doing this in my office, somehow. And St. Mary’s is two hours away.”
“Hour and a half, this time of night,” she said, then took a deep breath.
He bent slightly to peer into her eyes. “It’s still entirely your call.”
“But you said—”
“Oh, make no mistake, I want this like you wouldn’t believe. But only if you do, too.”
His honesty was sexy as all hell. Unner
ving, but sexy. But old habits die hard. Meaning, as much as she believed he truly cared, that his attraction was based on more than sex, she still didn’t quite trust it. Trust him.
And yet...she wanted to. Wanted to believe, despite the thousand and one layers of cynicism shrouding her heart, that this man really, truly saw her. Not someone he found intriguing simply because she was so different from his wife, not someone whose own childhood enabled her to relate to his son, and certainly as something more than a distraction from his still-palpable grief.
But most of all, right now? She wanted him. Even if their immediate goals were mutually exclusive.
“And will you leave if I say this is only about tonight?”
A long moment passed before, slowly, he shook his head.
“Why?” she said, not sure if she was more irritated with him or herself. “Why, when I can’t give you any promises—?”
“Because if I did,” Wes said, grazing his knuckle down her cheek, “that would make me like all the rest, wouldn’t it?”
Oh, dear God. Oh, crap. All she’d expected, when he’d called, was dinner and conversation. Not a freaking challenge. Then again, she could say no, too. Could laugh and thank him for dinner, then turn him around, pointing him toward the intersection, where he’d find a taxi. Except, if she did that, what would that make her?
She took his hand. “I haven’t been home much, the place is a mess.”
“Somehow,” Wes said, lifting her hand to kiss it, “I doubt I’ll notice.”
* * *
He knew it was wrong, thinking about the last time he’d barely closed a door before clothes flew all over the room, when hands and mouths and those clothes tangled in a haze of need. But, as Wes pushed Blythe against her living room wall, illuminated only by the glow of the streetlamp outside, the memory briefly sparked at how similar this was to his first time with Kym, when they’d both been eighteen.
At least, the flying clothes, hazed-need part. As had been the mad dash into the grocery store for condoms ten minutes before—and can we give a shout-out for self-checkouts? But all the rest...night and day.
The Marriage Campaign Page 14
