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That earns a soft chuckle from him as he rests his hands on my shoulders and gently guides me forward. “Such a flirt.”

Twenty-Nine

Wes

The nanny is officially tipsy.

I mean, she’s not dancing-on-the-table drunk, but the volume of her laugh passed normal Lena territory a while ago. She and Sienna are cackling at something, and by how their gazes are flicking over to us, I’m guessing it’s about men.

Both of them were booted from the poker game a while ago because they decided it was a team effort and accidentally won two in a row.

I’m trying to focus on the hand I’ve been dealt, but Lena’s leaning against Sienna on the sofa, pointing at nothing and laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’sever seen.

I can’t stop watching her.

Which is exactly when Nathan kicks me under the table.

“Something else got your attention?” he says, not even pretending to hide the smugness in his voice.

Julian cuts in, shaking his head like this is something he warned me about. “Told you.”

Ignoring them, I toss a chip into the pot with more force than necessary.

Across the room, Sienna stretches and gets to her feet. “Okay, this poker game is rigged and boring without us. What this party needs”—she spins toward my record shelf—“is music.”

“Keep it low, baby. Rosie’s a light sleeper,” Nathan tells her.

Lena and I share a look.

“Not anymore, she’s not.” I tip my beer toward the couch. “Lena started blaring music and vacuuming during her naps. She’ll sleep through a natural disaster.”

Sienna leans over and smacks a kiss on Lena’s cheek. “Bless you, Lena. You’re officially my favorite person in this house.”

Lena grins, but her cheeks go a little pink. “I’ll take it.” She flicks her gaze to mine with a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry, Wes.”

“Not offended.”

How could I be? She’s my favorite person too.

Sienna flips through the vinyls a second before Lena joins her, running a finger along the edges to find one she likes.

Her eyes lock on a title. I watch her brows furrow, studying the records a second before she freezes.

One after another, she pulls the records I bought last week from the shelf. They’re titles she mentioned offhand over the months, names I jotted down in my phone like a complete fucking goner. Music her mom played. Records she’s always wanted.

Her smile fades, and then her eyes cut to mine.

I nod toward the stack. “All yours.”

No one else knows what the hell we’re talking about, but she does. Her throat moves like she’s swallowing something big before her mouth curves into a smile so full it knocks the breath out of my lungs.

She mouths,Thank you, and I catch the shimmer in her eyes before she looks away.

That. That’s what I was waiting for.

She picks one from the stack—not the Lauryn Hill just yet, but something else I thought she’d like.

The needle drops, and the soft groove of Al Green’sLove and Happinessrolls through the room.