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“You thought I was,” he finishes for me. He gives a shrug that’s more resigned than anything. “I guess I am. I’m all she’s got.”

“So you’re…” I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

Whoisthis man?

Is this even the guy I’m supposed to be meeting?

Is this how I die? Lured into a house by muscles and desperation?

I’m such a cliché.

“Uncle,” he finally says. “Her guardian.”

Close call.

I almost got myself adult-napped by a man with tragic eyes and a vinyl collection.

When my pulse calms, my brain finally catches up.

Her guardian.

His words echo in the silence, and for a beat, I don’t know how to respond. Wes doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he bends down and starts scooping toys off the floor, shoving them into a basket.

“Sorry about the mess. It’s been a hectic morning.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, this is nothing. I grew up with three younger siblings. Our house looked like a bomb went off most days.”

Something flickers across his face when hestraightens to glance at me from the corner of his eye. Interest? Curiosity?

I’m usually good at reading people, but with just one look, Wes seems to have so much going on that I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling.

Before I can place it, he gives a quick jerk of his chin toward the kitchen. “Coffee? Water?”

I smile politely. “I’m good, thanks.”

He nods, more to himself than to me, and suddenly, we’re drifting in a pause that’s too long for comfort. I get the sense he’s not used to making conversation with anybody, let alone a strange woman.

“Go ahead and take a seat.” He gestures to the couch.

I lower myself onto a cushion, perched on the edge like an awkward middle-school kid waiting for the school counselor.

Sinking into the armchair across from me, he braces his elbows on his knees and studies me for a long, silent moment that has me resisting the urge to squirm.

“I’ll be honest. I have no clue what I’m supposed to ask you.”

“Oh. I won’t complain if we skip the ‘What’s your biggest weakness’ question. That one always trips me up.”

One corner of his mouth lifts, almost like a smile. Almost. “I’m a mechanic. I hired my guys by seeing if they could fix a busted brake line. That was the interview.” He glances toward the stairs where he brought Rosie. “This is… different.”

I nod, trying to look reassuring, like someone who has answers.

Scrubbing at the stubble along his jaw, he leans back and looks toward the framed photo on the shelf. “Mysister and her husband were killed in a car crash eight months ago. Drunk driver.”

The air whooshes out of my lungs. “I…I’m so—”

He cuts me off with a dip of his chin, like he’s heard enough of people’s condolences. I get it.

“I don’t have much family, and my brother-in-law didn’t either. Rosie ended up with me.” He flexes his hands into fists before he releases them. “Poor kid.”