Page 10 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

T wo months.

I have officially survived two entire months under Wes Turner’s skeptical, eyebrow-arching supervision and his tiny, adorable, permanently sticky sidekick. It feels simultaneously like it’s been two weeks and two decades, and weirdly, I’m not mad about it.

Life’s found a rhythm. Every morning, Wes hands Rosie over with an expression suggesting he’s debating whether or not to call in sick and stay home. Every evening, Rosie leaps out of my arms to scramble to him.

It works.

She’s growing too. She conquered the couch last week.

It was her personal Everest. She finally figured out how to drink from a sippy cup without bathing in apple juice.

And the other day, on a walk, she pointed at a scruffy little dog, and I swear she tried to announce “Pup!” in a squeaky voice that nearly made my ovaries explode.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t the whole word, but she made a “Puh” sound.

Wes missed it. He played it off like it was nothing, but I saw the way his face fell, just a little. So, I recorded Rosie doing it again just to send it to him. His entire response?

Thanks.

Then there’s Ruby—my beloved death trap on wheels. Wes still openly declares it a moving health hazard, but a couple of weeks ago, he appeared at my door lugging a separate car seat.

“So you don’t have to keep moving it between cars,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Translation: “I begrudgingly accept you’ll continue driving this tin can, so let’s at least make it slightly less deadly for Rosie.”

Progress. We call that progress.

Honestly, I love this weird little routine.

I love arriving every morning to Rosie’s adorable, sleepy mop of curls.

I love ending my day with Wes rolling his eyes in resignation at me.

I love how Rosie claps and squeals when I walk in.

And I particularly love that Wes no longer texts me fifteen times a day for detailed status updates.

Now it’s just one quick afternoon check-in, usually along the lines of “Alive?” Which, from Wes, is basically a love letter.

So today, I’m mixing things up.

This morning, I stroll into Wes’s kitchen armed with my acoustic guitar slung over one shoulder. Rosie’s already face-deep in mashed bananas because that child never stops eating. Wes, meanwhile, eyes me over his coffee mug.

“You play guitar?” His voice is dubious, bordering on outright skepticism.

“No, Wes,” I deadpan, gently setting the guitar down. “I carry this around for fun. ”

He shakes his head as I lean down and boop Rosie’s nose. She giggles, banana goo oozing from her chin.

Gross yet adorable.

“I didn’t peg you as the guitar type,” he admits.

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “What type did you have me pegged as?”

He studies me over the rim of his mug. “The type who blasts embarrassing pop songs at stoplights.”

I gasp. “Excuse me?”

“Am I wrong?”

Ugh. Fine. He might have a tiny point.

“I can love cheesy music and still shred on guitar. It’s called versatility.”

Rosie claps, picking my side like the traitorous, beautiful little cherub she is.

Wes shrugs and sets his coffee mug down. “Go ahead, dazzle me, Carter.”

Oh, buddy, you’ve done it now.

I grab my guitar and remove it from the case before strumming an aggressively dramatic chord. Rosie gasps. That’s the reaction I was hoping for. She’s going to love this.

And because I know it’s going to piss him off, I strum another few chords before breaking out into none other than Kumbaya.

He blinks at me like I’ve just started chanting in Latin and summoning woodland creatures.

His left eye twitches.

I swear I see a vein in his forehead throb.

At least Rosie appreciates my effort.

“You know,” he drawls as I finish, “sometimes I wonder who’s babysitting who here.”

“Mission accomplished. My feelings are deeply wounded. ”

His chest vibrates with a laugh. It’s a warm, rough sound that hits somewhere soft in my chest before I can brace for it.

I roll my eyes and start packing up the guitar just as he asks, “What’s on Rosie’s itinerary today? I heard they opened a new soft-play spot downtown.”

I freeze, eyes widening in horror. “A soft-play area? One of those festering petri dishes of childhood disease? Wes, have you ever actually seen a ball pit? It’s a glorified soup of toddler germs.”

He rubs his forehead, looking like he regrets ever bringing it up.

“No, I’m serious. I’ve personally witnessed children licking slides. Licking the slides, Wes. Are you listening to me?”

“You’re spiraling.”

Of course I am.

“Do you know how they sanitize those places?” He opens his mouth to answer, but I don’t give him the chance. “They don’t. It’s just an endless Hunger Games scenario for preschoolers.”

He lifts a hand to stop me. “Relax, Lena. Germs are good for kids.”

“You monster.”

Amusement crinkles his eyes. “Let me guess. You were the kid who washed her hands halfway through finger painting.”

“That’s hurtful and accurate.”

“Fine, you’ve convinced me. I’ll take her myself this weekend.”

“Wait—”

“I insist,” he says with a triumphant smirk.

“I expect a full germ report by Monday.”

“Noted. ”

My pulse skips stupidly at the thought of grumpy, antisocial Wes willingly braving public chaos for Rosie.

Dangerous territory.

I quickly divert. “Before you leave, do you mind if I take Rosie to visit my grandpa today? I usually go in the evenings, but I have…plans tonight.”

His eyes narrow. “Plans?”

I nod.

I’m being evasive, but I’m not quite ready to confess that I moonlight every two weeks as a jazz singer in a downtown bar.

Baby steps, Lena.

He assesses me quietly, like he can tell I’m not saying everything. “You know best.”

“Rosie will cheer him up.”

“Just don’t let him fill her head with nonsense.”

“Define nonsense.” This is my grandfather we’re talking about, after all.

He stares flatly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

I put my finger over my mouth and wink at Rosie. “I promise nothing.” I grin, waving as he heads for the door. “Have fun adulting, Turner.”

“Have fun bubble-wrapping Rosie’s day, Carter.”