Page 15 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Wes

W e’re posted up on a stone wall, ice cream melting faster than we can eat it. Lena’s holding some monstrous cone that looks like it was made by a five-year-old—chocolate, caramel, and rainbow sprinkles.

In the grass, Tess is chasing Rosie like her life depends on it. Rosie’s zigzagging on those wobbly toddler legs, completely feral and loving it.

My gaze flicks sideways to Lena. She laughs softly at the scene playing out in front of us, and that laugh sinks straight into my bones.

Those warning bells immediately start sounding.

Admiring her ass is one thing. Noticing her laugh is another thing entirely.

“Hey,” I say roughly, breaking our silence. “About earlier…what Tess said, about your mom.”

Her eyes are soft when she looks up at me. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“You’ve been around for months. I should’ve asked.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “It’s not exactly something you slip into casual conversation. ‘Hey, my mom died ten years ago. Pass the ketchup.’”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” She glances down at her lap. “You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you.”

I clear my throat, watching Rosie topple onto the grass, giggling as Tess finally scoops her up. “Still. Family obviously matters to you.”

“Well, you know Tess now. That’s half my story right there.”

We’re quiet again, watching Rosie reach for Tess’s hair. Lena nudges me, softer this time.

“Tess was right,” she says in between licks of her ice cream, unaware of exactly what the sight of her tongue flicking against the sweet cream is doing to my pulse.

I swallow hard. “About?”

“The stories. They really do help. Someday Rosie’s going to ask about her parents, and I want to have answers.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Small things, big things. Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

I suck in a slow breath, memories suddenly heavy in my chest. “Amber was obsessed with the eighties. She had this bright pink Walkman that she carried everywhere, even after the damn thing broke.”

“See, that’s something I can work with.”

I almost smile. Almost. But the sudden rush of other memories—sharper, darker ones—cuts off the feeling.

Sensing the shift, Lena looks away to give me space. Except her gaze lands on my cone instead, eyebrows pinched in clear judgment.

“Vanilla?” she asks, scrunching her nose.

“What’s wrong with vanilla?”

“Nothing.” Her smile turns playful. “I just didn’t peg you as a vanilla kind of guy.”

My eyes lock on her mouth for a second longer than they should.

She notices.

Fuck.

But I can’t help myself. I lean in closer and lower my voice. “Believe me, Lena, not everything about me is vanilla.”

Her eyes go round…then, shit, she proceeds to choke on her ice cream.

“Fuck,” I curse, slapping her gently between the shoulders. “You good?”

Her cheeks flush scarlet, eyes watering as she coughs and sputters. “Jesus, Wes, warn a girl first.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.” I pause the circles I’m rubbing on her back. “No, that’s exactly what I meant.”

She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide with shock, but it’s the intrigue in her deep chocolate gaze that has the heat in my bones flooding straight to places it shouldn’t be.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the inches between us, the slight hitch of her breathing, and the way her tongue darts nervously across her lower lip.

“I’m just saying,” I add, enjoying the flush that deepens down her neck, “I’m not all grease stains and baby bottles.”

She clears her throat, laughter shaky and embarrassed. “Believe me, I never thought you were.”

Chewing her bottom lip, her eyes lock with mine.

Are we…fucking flirting?

At least I think we’re trying to because I’m out of practice.

What the hell am I doing?

I drag a hand down my face just to break the eye contact.

Lena laughs under her breath, cheeks still pink. “Anyway, this is clearly your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one choking on ice cream like it’s your first day with a tongue.”

“Yeah, well, you flirt like a teenage boy. It’s disarming.”

I throw my head back and bark a laugh, and just like that, whatever moment almost happened dissolves into the kind of back-and-forth that feels easy.

She licks the side of her ice cream with a cheeky smirk. “So, are you going to just sit there, or are you going to help me stop my sister from teaching Rosie how to somersault off that picnic bench?”

I follow her gaze. Rosie is standing on top of the picnic bench like she’s about to base jump, arms raised.

We both think they're just playing until Tess crouches down and yells, “Ten! Nine! Eight—”

“Why is she counting down?”

“I don’t know, Lena, why the fuck is she counting down?”

“Tess, stop!” we both bellow in unison, leaping to our feet, ice-creams forgotten as they fall at our feet.

The world freezes for half a second.

Then Rosie jumps.

And Tess—thank Christ—catches her before they both collapse into the grass in a fit of giggles.

Lena and I just stand there with our hands on our knees, slightly traumatized.

“You and your sister,” I pant, “are going to give me a heart attack. Vanilla never did this to me.”

She shoves me with a laugh and straightens. “Stick around, Turner. I’m just getting started.”