Page 18 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

G rocery shopping is an art form.

Some people treat it like a chore, a mindless errand they rush through while half-listening to music.

Not me.

No, I’m in the big leagues now because I’m a proud, card-carrying member of the Fresh Meal Every Night Club.

I wasn’t inducted willingly.

Wes made it clear that he appreciates home-cooked meals for Rosie, and now, somehow, I’m the executive chef of the Turner House. Not that I mind. I like cooking, and I like knowing Rosie gets healthy food. But also, I enjoy a challenge.

I go into every grocery run prepared—mentally, physically, and with a half-assed list that I’ll completely ignore by aisle four.

Rosie is settled in the cart, her feet kicking against the metal as I weave through the aisles. She’s clutching her stuffed elephant in one hand and a giant plastic soup ladle in the other because we lost the battle against random impulse purchases a long time ago.

“Alright, Rosie-Posie, what’s next?” I ask, scanning the shelves before tossing a bag of shredded cheese into the cart. “Cheese? Good call.”

Rosie squeals, waving her ladle like a tiny battle axe.

“What’s that? You think we should grab some pasta, too?” I gasp, throwing a hand to my chest.

She babbles something completely unintelligible, but I nod thoughtfully.

“I completely agree.”

Wes does this with her all the time. He talks to her like she’s a forty-year-old bank clerk. He’s worried about her speech. I think she’ll get there in her own time, but I’ve now picked up the habit of speaking to her like she’s my best friend.

God, I think she is.

We turn into the next aisle, where I grab a box of pasta and throw it into the cart. “And that’s dinner secured, folks. Another culinary masterpiece in the making.”

Rosie slams her ladle against the side of the cart, cheering me on.

I laugh under my breath, about to reach for sauce, when something shifts.

That’s when I feel it.

A prickle at the back of my neck.

Like someone’s watching me .

I glance up, expecting to see some elderly woman smiling at Rosie because people do that all the time. Babies are basically tiny celebrities in public.

But instead, I see a woman standing at the end of the aisle, and she’s looking straight at us.

The moment our eyes meet, she looks away, turning on her heel and disappearing behind a shelf.

Weird.

I shake it off and push the cart forward.

But then it happens again.

Two aisles later, I see her peering around a display of granola bars. She’s staring not at me, but at Rosie.

Okay, what the hell?

I keep moving even as my pulse kicks up a notch.

She’s probably just another baby-obsessed stranger, but something about her makes my gut tighten.

By the time I reach the dairy section, I know she’s following us. Not in an accidental way. No, this is intentional. And I don’t like it. At all.

My fingers tighten around the cart handle.

I may not be Rosie’s mom, but something protective surges inside me.

When I turn into the next aisle and feel her presence again, I don’t ignore it this time. I stop the cart, spin around, and look straight at her.

She freezes.

I freeze.

What do I do now?

Her mouth falls open like I caught her off guard, or she wants to say something, but she quickly snaps it shut.

She’s beautiful with black, shoulder-length hair, full lips, and the kind of curves that can make a person cry. She’s wearing a cream coat that screams expensive, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the way she holds herself.

She looks harmless, if not a little stalkery, but my patience has officially run out.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, voice firm but polite, because even with a potential kidnapper, I still don’t like confrontation.

Her eyes flick from me to Rosie and back again.

It’s not until I step between them and block her view that she finally speaks. “Is that Rosie?”

A cold trickle runs down my spine. “Why do you ask?”

In a voice that’s barely above a whisper, she says, “I’m Lyndsey.”

Yeah, Lyndsey The Kidnapper.

The name means nothing to me.

I blink rapidly as my mind flips through every mental file I have. I come up blank.

She shakes her head, letting out a fractured breath. “I’m Wes’s ex-girlfriend.”

I go very, very still.

My first thought? Wes has an ex-girlfriend?

Well, of course he does, Lena. He’s not celibate.

My second thought? I know nothing about this woman. This could be some crazy lady ready to steal a child.

My child.

Wait.

Not my child.

Calm down.

I flick a glance down at Rosie, who’s still happily banging her ladle against the cart, completely oblivious.

My gut is still twisting because if this is Wes’s ex, why hasn’t he mentioned her ?

And why does she look like the sight of Rosie has knocked the air out of her lungs?

Lyndsey glances around nervously. “Is Wes with you?”

My fingers tighten on the cart handle.

It’s the note of desperation—or maybe it’s hope—in her tone that has my spine going so straight I swear I hear it crack.

“No,” I say carefully, “but he’s on the way.”

When he said he wanted to come with us, I thought it was both unexpected and sweet. Although I think he just wants to wrestle Brussels sprouts out of my hands before they make it into the cart.

Lyndsey’s gaze darts to Rosie again, and my stomach feels heavy.

This is about them, about Wes and Rosie.

And for the first time, I feel a sharp, unpleasant coil in my chest. It’s some swirl of worry and jealousy that isn’t mine to feel. Rosie isn’t my child. This isn’t my place.

Except right now, it feels like it is.

I spot Wes before he sees us. The second he rounds the corner, my pulse kicks up.

It’s involuntary, the kind of reaction you have when someone fills a space the way Wes does.

He’s still in his work gear—worn jeans streaked with grease, dark shirt stretched taut across broad shoulders—and every determined stride pulls my attention straight to him.

He’s pure intensity with his jaw tight, eyes sharp and focused.

He hasn’t even spoken yet, but his protective energy floods the aisle, an invisible boundary instantly drawn around Rosie.

My heart twists at the sight, a heavy, unfamiliar warmth settling in my chest.

He presses a kiss to Rosie’s head.

She promptly whacks him in the face with the ladle.

“Jesus, kid.” He rubs his jaw.

“She’s been wielding that thing like a medieval weapon all morning,” I inform him.

He dodges another blow. “I can tell.”

I swing my gaze towards Lyndsey so hard it hurts. I know he’s already seen her, but is he just going to ignore her?

Please don’t. The tension is killing me.

He turns and simply says, “Lyndsey.”

The way her eyes roam over him makes my stomach flip. She stares like she’s been thirsty and is committing every detail to memory.

I kind of hate it.

“Hey, Wes,” she says quietly, her smile shaky.

I knot the hem of my sweater, resisting the urge to run away with Rosie in tow.

“You look…” Lyndsey starts, tilting her head. “You look good.”

His voice is clipped when he says, “Yeah. You too.”

Silence follows.

Terrible, suffocating silence where I’d give anything for one of them to crack a joke.

“How have you been?” Lyndsey tries.

“Busy,” Wes replies curtly.

“Yeah. I figured.”

I want to shake them both. This is excruciating. They’re two people who once shared something, now stumbling over every syllable.

Eventually, Lyndsey lifts her chin and takes a step toward us. “I just wanted to say hello to Rosie. She’s gotten so big.”

Wes exhales, stepping aside.

Cautiously, she edges closer to the cart, looking at Rosie with a high-pitched greeting.

Rosie, for her part, freezes. She glances at me with a silent, Who is this lady, and why is she in my face?

I’m officially fluent in Rosie’s side-eye.

I watch as Lyndsey holds out her perfectly manicured hand and offers Rosie her index finger.

Why do people always do this?

Why do fully grown, rational adults offer babies their fingers?

Rosie, naturally, wraps her tiny hand around it for an inspection.

Is it edible?

No.

Does Rosie care?

Also no.

I see it happen.

So does Wes.

And before either of us can react, Rosie brings it to her mouth.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

“Rosie, no!” Wes and I say at the same time.

But it’s too late. She’s already chomping down.

Lyndsey gasps and yanks her hand back so fast she nearly drops her basket.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, as she cradles her hand. “She’s a biter.”

Lyndsey’s expression is a mix of shock and…hurt?

She shouldn’t take it personally. Rosie tried to take a chunk out of my thigh for lunch last week. I still have the bruise.

She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “Oh. Right. Well, I'd better get going.”

Wes dips his chin in acknowledgment, and for the first time, Lyndsey’s eyes flick between the three of us.

Me. Wes. Rosie.

Her face shifts.

My gut clenches because I know that look.

Sadness.

Lyndsey is coming to a conclusion that is very, very wrong, and I don’t want to be here for it.

Sensing that she’s about to say something, maybe even something she’ll regret, I cut in. “It was nice to meet you,” I say with a polite smile, then promptly take the cart and turn back to the shelves, as if whatever is on display is the single most fascinating thing I have ever seen in my life.

Over my shoulder, I hear it.

“It was good to see you, Wes.”

“You too, Lyndsey.”

She’s lingering.

Debating.

Oh God, Wes, put us all out of our misery and say goodbye or kiss her senseless.

But then she adds, “We should meet for coffee someday. Catch up. I’d love to hear how Rosie’s doing… and the shop? Have you done any more work on the house?”

My eye twitches.

Well, that was rude.

What if Wes and I were together together? Lyndsey doesn’t know. She just breezed right over me like I don’t exist.

Then again, we’re not together. So technically, I shouldn’t be irritated by this.

And yet, I absolutely am.

My brain fires up, ready to prepare its first fake argument with Lyndsey, complete with exaggerated eye-rolls and dramatic retorts that will never actually be spoken out loud.

I’m a badass bitch in my head.

I risk a glance at Wes, but Rosie wallops me on the head with the ladle as if she can sense I’m being nosy.

“Hey,” I whisper-hiss at her. “Maybe now would be the time for you to speak up, little miss.”

I swear she just stuck her tongue out at me. I’d better add manners to the list of things to teach her.

Lyndsey is still standing there, waiting, hope flickering in her expression like a candle about to go out.

I hold my breath.

Wes exhales.

We’re all dying the same slow death.

“I’m real busy,” he finally says.

Oof.

Lyndsey nods, and it’s so final that even my heart breaks a little.

She knows. She knows that whatever she was holding onto—whatever moment she thought might still exist between them—doesn’t anymore.

With a shaky breath, she turns and walks away.

Wes is still clenching his jaw when he turns back around to me and Rosie.

The awkwardness reaches new levels of suffocating.

He clears his throat. “You can say it.”

I blink up at him, trying to act innocent and like I wasn’t just listening to every word. “Say what?”

“That was weird.”

Thank God.

“That was weird. And Wes?”

“Yes, Lena?”

“I have so many questions. ”

“I guessed you would.”