Page 24 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)
Lena
T he morning air is crisp, the last traces of winter fading into early spring as I drive toward Wes’s house. I’ve got my coffee, Rosie’s favorite breakfast snacks in my bag, and the vague hope that today will be one of the easy mornings.
What I do not have time for is stray animals.
But then I see him.
It’s a tiny, scrappy-looking puppy on the side of the road, sniffing around near a cluster of trees.
Just keep driving, Lena. Drive, drive, drive.
I can’t.
Throwing my head back against the headrest with a groan, I slow the car. He looks thin, his fur is a mix of matted brown and white, his ribs just a little too visible beneath his fluff. When I roll down my window, he lifts his head, and I swear to God, the moment our eyes meet, I’m done for.
I pull over with a sigh. “Oh, buddy. What’s your story?”
The puppy tentatively wags his tail. When I get out and crouch down, he sniffs my hand, then immediately climbs into my lap.
No collar.
I can’t just leave him here.
My entire life, I’ve been drawn to stray things. The lost, the forgotten, the ones that just need someone to give a damn.
So, yeah. This is happening.
I scoop him up and tuck him into my oversized tote bag, where he promptly curls up like he belongs there.
This is fine. Totally fine. I’ll just run by the vet later and see if he’s microchipped. Someone could be looking for him.
Feeling very responsible and not at all impulsive, I slide back into the car and ignore the little voice in my head that screams, You’re going to get attached.
∞∞∞
By the time I pull into Wes’s driveway, I’m praying this will be like any other morning. Smooth handoff. Minimal eye contact. Just a quick “hi,” “bye,” and “have a good day.”
But no, because apparently, the universe has clocked me and said: Oh, sweetheart. Not today .
Today, Wes is running late.
Which means I’m walking into danger with a squirming puppy in my bag and a lie forming in real time.
I nudge open the door with my hip.
Wes is in the kitchen, next to the coffee maker, wearing his usual dark jeans and boots, but his T-shirt’s half-tucked, and his damp hair is still dripping down the back of his neck.
I gulp and pull myself together. Okay. Cool. Normal. Be normal. Say normal things.
“Morning,” I chirp.
Wes grunts. “Morning. Rosie’s still asleep. Gimme five.”
Cool. He’s distracted. This is good. This is fine.
He’s not even looking at me. Everything’s going to be—
Wait. No. Crap. He’s looking. He’s looking .
Abort mission.
My face is smiling. Why is my face smiling?
Stop. Smiling.
I’m sure I look borderline manic at this point.
Wes squints, studying me, and then my bag. “Lena?”
Shit.
“Yeah?”
“Why the fuck is your bag breathing?”
Right. Okay. No getting around that one.
“Okay, so—” I start, before the damn traitor in my bag wiggles out and plops his happy little body right onto the counter.
I lunge like I’m catching a baby from a burning building.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, like the liar I am. “I just found him on my way here. He was alone, Wes. Look at him.”
Wes does look at him.
Then me.
His gaze continues to ping-pong between us.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I huff. “I’m just going to take him to the vet later and see if he’s microchipped. Someone could be missing him.”
Wes sighs, like he’s aged seven years in the past forty-five seconds, but then, to my surprise, he scratches the puppy behind the ears.
Victory.
Mini one.
But I’ll take it.
“Great because he’s not staying here.”
I hold the dog a little closer. “Obviously. I wasn’t going to—”
“Lena.” His voice drops. It’s that low, gravelly dad register he’s gotten really good at.
I glance up and there it is. That stare. That accusing, slightly amused, gorgeous bastard stare.
“You’re already attached.”
“I am not.”
“You’re holding him like he’s your child.”
Okay. Fine. He’s got a point.
Before I can make my case, the puppy scrambles up my chest and heads straight for my shoulder, only to get his claws hopelessly tangled in my hair.
“Ouch,” I hiss, scrambling to dislodge him while keeping hold of his squirming butt.
With a frustrated sigh, Wes steps forward and gently untangles the puppy’s claws from my curls. His fingers brush my shoulder before he tucks my hair back as if he’s done it a thousand times .
Realizing what he has done, and likely aware that we’re making physical contact that feels a touch too intimate, he freezes.
And then I freeze.
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there. My breath forgets how to function, and my knees whisper, “We’re done here, babe,” and threaten to give out.
His fingers graze my collarbone, and time just stops.
My brain: What is happening?
My ovaries: We have notes.
Forcing my soul back into my body, I clear my throat and take a tiny step backward. “Look, it’s not like I’m keeping him. I’m just helping him out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re being judgy.”
“I’m being realistic.”
He’s probably right, but I can’t help how my chest softens when the puppy snuggles into me. Or the fact that Wes is still standing stupidly close, and I can smell whatever shower gel he used this morning.
“Fine. Take him to the vet. But if he pisses on my floor, you’re cleaning it.”
I can’t help the grin that forms on my face. “You’re such a softie.”
“Lena,” he warns, voice stern.
As if that ever works on me.
“You pet him.”
“That was an accident.”
Oh, this is just too easy.
“Go to work, boss man.”
I remain still as his hand reaches out again, but this time, he’s about to pet the dog, and not me.
Disappointing.
But aww, the big burly man wants to say goodbye.
See, it’s instinct.
Sensing I’m about to get cocky, he halts his movement.
“Oh, go on,” I tell him. “Give him a scratch.”
“Lena?”
I look up at him. “Uh-huh?”
“You’re fired.”
That makes me smile. Those threats lost their bite a long time ago. “Sure, Wes. That’ll be the fifth time this week. Should I start packing or wait until you cry when I leave?”
He shakes his head, muttering something about “This damn woman” under his breath as he heads for the door.
Honestly, I live to torment that man.