The Marriage Campaign. Karen Templeton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ