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
