Page 20 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)
Lena
I sit cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking blocks while Rosie watches. She glances from the growing tower to me, her little lips pursing in intense concentration.
“Okay, Rosie,” I say, carefully placing the last block on top. “This is our masterpiece. Our legacy. The eighth wonder of the—”
Before I can finish, Rosie lunges forward, obliterating it with a delighted war cry. Blocks fly in every possible direction. One rolls beneath the couch, another ricochets off my shin. Rosie claps, delighted with herself.
I tickle her. “You tiny monster.”
She just giggles louder.
Destruction, it seems, is her love language.
I reach out to scoop her up, lifting her in the air and nuzzling her belly with my head until she laughs.
“We need to get new hobbies,” I tell her, placing her on my hip. “We can’t build towers and eat all day every day.”
She lets out a deceptively adorable hiccup in reply. Then another. My brain barely registers the warning before—
Oh, sweet merciful lord, no.
She vomits.
All over me.
It’s not a cute baby spit-up. This is a violent, stomach-emptying, horror-movie projectile assault.
I freeze with my arms still awkwardly extended, as warm, sour-smelling goo drips slowly down my shirt. Rosie blinks at me, offended at her body’s sudden betrayal.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I groan while suppressing my gag reflex. “That was…awful. Ten out of ten.”
Miraculously, she’s untouched. Even her pink onesie remains pristine. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve lost a battle with a blender.
I deposit Rosie in the playpen so I can deal with myself. There’s only so much baby wipes can do, and I desperately need a clean shirt.
“You’re not going to do that again, are you?” She looks better. The smile she gives me tells me so. “I know. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t tickle you after dinner.” I think she just nodded. Right. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
I dash upstairs and into her room to grab a sweater from the small pile of clothes I keep here for this exact reason.
I’m tugging the vomit-soaked sweater over my head and trying not to touch my hair with it when I hear the front door swing open.
Shit.
Wes.
He called earlier to say he’d be late and asked if I could stay a little longer. I thought I had at least another twenty minutes.
Clearly, time management is not my forte.
“Lena?” His deep voice echoes downstairs, keys jangling against the counter.
I hear him talking to Rosie and asking her where I am, as if she can respond. He’s really not letting this speaking to her like an adult thing go.
Jesus Christ, Lena, get a hold of yourself and hurry.
My arms tangle hopelessly in my sweater. I twist around, flailing like a confused octopus, just as his heavy footsteps sound against the steps of the stairs.
No, no, no.
Do not do this to me today, Wesley.
“Do not come in here!” I shout, voice muffled by the fabric twisted over my face.
“What?” he bellows, his voice closer than I expect.
God, I must sound like I’m being strangled.
I stomp my foot in frustration, but I only manage to lose my balance and nearly crash into the changing table.
“DO. NOT. ENTER.”
I finally free one arm as the door swings open, leaving me standing here with my face covered, and the rest of me exposed. Today was a bad day to feel adventurous and wear a lace bra .
“Shit—fuck—sorry!” Wes rasps out like something is caught in his throat.
I wrestle my sweater back down just in time to see him facing the door, muscles in his back rigid against his white, grease-stained t-shirt.
“At least you’re a gentleman,” I mutter, chest heaving, hair wild, dignity lost.
“Didn’t realize you were... ” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Under attack by my clothing?”
His shoulders shake. “Yeah, let’s go with that.”
“I specifically said not to come in.”
“In my defense, you sounded like you were fighting off a rabid raccoon. It was very concerning.”
I cross my arms, painfully aware that I look ridiculous. My face is flushed, my hair is a tangled disaster, and I’m standing in a puke-stained sweater that I’m sure is now see-through. This is not my most attractive moment.
Turning ever so cautiously, his eyes meet mine for a long breath before they drag down my body. I swear I see the muscles in his jaw flex as his hands curl into loose fists at his sides.
And I definitely don’t miss how his eyes darken before snapping back up to my face.
God, this isn’t fair. He should not be allowed to look this good while I’m wearing literal vomit.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rougher than usual.
“This isn’t my vomit.”
“I guessed.”
I clear my throat, cheeks flaming even hotter. “Are you just going to keep staring or…?”
“You finished fighting with your clothes yet?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He props his shoulder against the door frame with a smirk, enjoying every second. “I’m just checking in. Occupational safety and all that.”
“If you’re finished being smug, I’d like to put on something less vomit-chic.”
“Go ahead,” he says, turning away. “I’ll take over Rosie duty.”
As he walks away and goes back downstairs, I hear the deep hum of his laugh.
Bastard.
Righting myself, I smooth back my unruly hair as best I can before I take a deep breath and pray for patience…or my dignity back…or something.
I hesitate for half a second when I hear Wes’s voice soften. “Hey, princess. Rough day, huh?”
Yeah, rough day for the nanny.
When I finally make it downstairs, fresh sweater on and damp hair brushed into submission, I pause in the doorway. Wes sits stretched out on the couch with Rosie sprawled on his chest.
His head is tilted down, dark hair slightly mussed, looking at her with the kind of tenderness that could send me straight into ovulation.
Someone needs to put a warning label on this man.
I clear my throat. “She okay?”
He glances up. “Yeah, just tired herself out.”
“Gee, wonder why.” I drop into the chair opposite him. “It’s exhausting spending the entire day terrorizing your nanny.”
His mouth quirks as he examines me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good once she is.”
“Give me the dry-cleaning bill.”
“I’ll give you my therapy bills. ”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “You mean I didn’t have that in your contract?”
“No. It should be compulsory.”
He chuckles, rubbing a large hand over Rosie’s head.
“Oh, by the way, the pediatrician appointment went well today,” I tell him.
His face immediately clouds with guilt. “Shit, Lena, I meant to ask earlier—”
“Relax. It was a routine check-up. You’re there for everything else. You’re allowed to miss one thing.”
Guilt he doesn’t need to feel clouds those amber eyes. “Still. I hate missing stuff.”
My chest tightens again at how genuinely remorseful he sounds. “You work your ass off for her. She’s lucky to have you. Besides,” I add, smiling, “I took very professional nanny notes.”
His lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “Yeah?”
“Yep. The doctor said she’s in the ninety-eighth percentile for adorableness.”
That low, easy laugh of his sends heat curling down my spine.
“We also went on a shopping spree. She deserved a treat for being so good.”
“Define ‘shopping spree.’”
This is my favorite part.
I grab the bag beside me, proudly holding up a tiny pink hoodie with fluffy cat ears. “Look! It has ears, Wes. Ears!”
“Oh God, Lena.”
“Tell me this isn’t adorable.”
“She has enough clothes.”
“And?” I pull out another hoodie, this one gray. “Don’t worry, I got this one too. And look.” I grab the larger sweater. “I got a matching one for me.”
He only blinks at me.
“You paid,” I tell him.
Shaking his head, he blows out a breath like he’s realizing he will never win this argument. It took him long enough. “I’m glad that credit card I gave you is finally being used on those emergencies.”
Then I remember something else he’s going to hate me for, but I couldn’t resist. I pull the leaflet I picked up earlier from the bag and hand it to him. “I signed her up for this.”
He studies the writing, judging every letter. “Baby yoga? Lena, that’s a scam.”
“No, it’s not. She’ll love it.”
He glances back at me, gaze soft and lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Whatever you say, Mary Poppins.”