Page 12 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Wes

I don’t expect to walk in and see her like this.

It’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

She’s on all fours.

Fuck. Me.

I freeze just outside the living room, keys still in my hand, staring at the very real, very unholy sight of Lena crawling across my living room floor in a pair of tight jeans.

Give me a break.

Did I notice her ass in those jeans this morning? Damn right I did. I’m parenting solo, not dead. But then she started serenading Rosie with Kumbaya, and I was too confused for coherent thought.

She’s talking to Rosie, but I can’t process words.

I see the face of every saint I’ve never prayed to flash before my eyes.

She’s mumbling something about “emergency surgery” while a stuffed dog hangs half out of her hoodie pocket.

I just got home. I’m sweaty. I’m cranky. And now, apparently, I’m fighting for my life in my own house.

“Hey!” she chirps, glancing over her shoulder like she didn’t just give me a stroke. “We’re playing animal rescue. I’m the vet, Rosie’s the patient, and Mr. Woofles had a very traumatic fall off the couch.”

“Uh-huh,” I manage, blinking like I just walked into a hallucination. “Everyone…gonna make it?”

She nods solemnly. “I’ve stabilized the cat and the dog, but Ms. Dolly might not make it through the night.”

“Tragic.”

I take a step inside, doing everything in my power not to look directly at her ass again.

I fail.

God help me, I fail hard.

Rosie has glitter stickers all over her forehead and is wearing the white coat from her doctor playset. She’s too busy to even acknowledge me.

“Hey, princess,” I say, kissing her cheek. She whacks me over the head with a toy. “Missed you too.”

I glance over at Lena who is currently fucking crawling again.

God, woman, will you get off your knees?

My hands are still dirty, and I smell like brake pads, but none of that matters because I just saw my nanny’s ass in full 4K.

I clear my throat. “You, uh…got something on your face.”

Lena wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie, smearing what I assume is either applesauce or paint. “It’s been a day. I don’t even ask anymore.”

“Do I want to know what happened here?”

“No,” she says immediately. “But I will say Rosie is either going to be a doctor or a school bully. She refused to go down for a nap until Mr. Woofles received CPR. I was not emotionally prepared to resuscitate a stuffed animal at 2:30 p.m., Wes.”

I rub my face. “You okay?”

She straightens up slowly, brushing off her knees like she wasn’t just crawling around like a sexy zookeeper. “We survived.”

I should move. Shower. Do something productive. But instead, I just stare at her. She’s got this ridiculous smudge of something purple on her hoodie, her curls are falling out of that lazy bun she always wears, and she’s still humming some little tune under her breath while Rosie gnaws on a spoon.

And I’m having very inappropriate thoughts about the nanny.

I head toward the kitchen under the false pretense of grabbing water, using it as an excuse to breathe. To focus. To not say something wildly inappropriate like, “Hey Lena, how do you feel about ruining our very professional nanny-employer relationship by letting me bend you over the coffee table?”

Jesus Christ.

This is what happens when you’ve spent too long without a sex life and your house is suddenly occupied by a woman like…well, like Lena.

Get it together.

She’s Rosie’s nanny.

She sings Wheels on the Bus with choreography.

She calls juice “num nums. ”

“I put dinner in the fridge,” she says as she reaches for her coat. “Nothing fancy. Just pasta. Rosie helped. By which I mean she stuck her hand in the sauce.”

“Cool,” I say dumbly. “Love a little toddler seasoning.”

Crouching, she presses a kiss to Rosie’s cheek. “Bye, monster. Don’t traumatize your uncle too much.”

She heads for the door, purse over one shoulder, keys jingling. “See you Monday.”

I nod, still rooted to the same damn spot. “Yeah. Have a good weekend.”

When the door clicks shut behind her, Rosie toddles over, wobbling slightly in those tiny pink socks, and stands in the living room doorway. She stares after Lena like she’s expecting her to come back. Her hand lifts, waving even though there’s no one there anymore.

She stays like that for far too long.

I set the water down and walk over. “Hey,” I murmur, crouching next to her. “She’ll be back on Monday.”

Her little lip wobbles, and shit, that’s not allowed. Not on my watch.

Before the tears can make an appearance, I scoop her into my arms. “Don’t worry, baby,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head. “She always comes back.”

Rosie sighs and lays her head on my shoulder, one chubby fist gripping the fabric of my shirt.

I pat her back gently, already walking toward the bathroom. “Now…” I say as I push open the door with my foot, “I think someone needs a bath.”

She makes a sound that’s either agreement or disapproval. It’s hard to tell. But she doesn’t fight me, which is a small miracle in itself .

“Let’s wash the glitter off your forehead, give your hair a good rinse, and maybe scrub off whatever the hell that is on your knee.”

She lifts her head to look at me, then blows a raspberry.

“Okay,” I mutter, running the water. “Noted. You feel strongly about Lena and the glitter.”

And I do too.

Unfortunately, my feelings involve a lot less glitter and a lot more ass.