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 that 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
