Page 26 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

“Y ou look like crap,” I say as soon as Wes opens the door. He didn’t even give me a chance to use my key.

He blinks at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or a fever dream. His hair’s doing this chaotic swirl like he’s been in a fistfight with his pillow, and his t-shirt is clinging to muscles no man should possess before coffee.

His eyes are red-rimmed. Defeated.

“The stray took a shit in the kitchen again, Lena,” he grits out, jaw so tight I think it might snap.

“Lovely greeting. You know how to charm a woman.”

He follows on my heels, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “It’s been three weeks. He still aims for the same tile. It’s like he’s GPS-locked on that spot.”

I find Milo sprawled belly-up beside the kitchen island, his tail thumping against the cabinets with excitement.

At least someone is happy to see me.

I crouch down and scratch his velvety ears. “We talked about this, buddy. Outside bathroom. You’re making me look bad.”

Milo’s response is to lick my chin, then lumber over to Wes, where he collapses at his booted feet in an abject display of repentance. Wes tries—truly tries—not to soften, but his shoulders relax as he ruffles the big pup’s head.

Rosie’s curled up on the couch like a sick little burrito with a bottle half-empty in her fist. Her cheeks are flushed, and her curls are stuck to her forehead. Peppa Pig is oinking from the TV, but she’s not watching. She’s just breathing, her eyes heavy. Clingy. Miserable.

And yet, somehow, Wes looks worse.

“You’re both sick?”

He sniffs once and winces. “I should’ve texted you.”

“And let me sleep in or have a day off?” I arch a brow. “Yeah, that sounds exactly like you.”

A grudging half-smile appears, gone before it settles. He sinks onto the couch beside Rosie, and she immediately plasters her cheek to his chest with a sigh.

“I was going to power through. The shop’s slammed, but she’s clingy as hell today.”

I tug off my denim jacket and toss it over a barstool.

“I’m serious, Carter. Take the day off. Go do… wh atever it is you do for fun at your age.”

I bark a laugh. “What are you, ninety? And for the record, my plans usually involve laundry.”

“Well,” Wes mutters, running a hand through his hair, “you should probably get out of here before you catch whatever the hell this is.”

I wave him off. “I have this amazing, scientifically unproven ability to avoid colds. It’s like a superpower.”

He exhales something close to a laugh, but it’s weak.

“I’m here now,” I tell him, already moving toward the kitchen. “So let me help.”

I wash my hands, pull out eggs, bread, a banana that looks salvageable, and start rummaging for the pan I like. The silence behind me isn’t hostile. It’s surrender.

Ten minutes later, I set a plate in front of him. Scrambled eggs on toast for him, toast with banana for Rosie.

“Drink.” I hand him a cup of coffee. “It’s legal amphetamines. Two shots.”

He takes one cautious sip, then a grateful gulp. “Holy hell.”

“You’re welcome. Now eat.”

He scowls like a sullen teenager, but stuffs in a bite of eggs.

While he chews, I survey the carnage: tissues, half-empty toddler meds, coffee mugs, and baby wipes. It’s not bad. Wes is usually neat, but a night of single-parent flu has left its mark.

I roll up my sleeves, grab a dish towel and anti-bacterial spray, and start cleaning the countertop.

Behind me, Wes grumbles, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Compulsive nurturing. Comes with the uterus.”

“I think I’ll keep you. ”

I keep my back turned, because if I meet his eyes, I will melt into a Lena-shaped puddle.

With the kitchen sanitized, I switch out the humidifier filter in Rosie’s room and set a load of onesies in the washer.

Wes is where I left him, except his eyes are closed again, and Rosie’s tiny fist is tangled in the collar of his T-shirt. Milo is snoring at his feet.

I perch on the opposite armrest. “You look like a knocked-out heavyweight.”

One eyelid lifts. “It feels like I fought one.”

Beneath that fatigue lies grief. Today isn’t just another day. It would’ve been his sister’s birthday.

I draw a breath, then ask so softly it barely counts as sound. “It’s her birthday today, isn’t it?”

He goes perfectly still, gaze fixed on some point past my shoulder. Then he dips his chin and exhales a long, shaky breath. “She would’ve been thirty-four.”

Silence folds around us, thick but not suffocating.

I offer a tentative smile. “Do you know how they met?”

That pulls a huff of almost-laughter from him. “Oh, yeah. Amber was the sister who told me everything, and I mean everything.”

I settle on the arm of the couch. “Lay it on me, Turner.”

He leans back, eyes a little glassy but mouth curving.

“Freshman orientation mixer at UC Davis. Mike tried to impress her by juggling three Solo cups of warm beer. Dropped all of them. Amber applauded, called him a clown, and offered to show him how to shotgun a can properly. He proposed three months later because he said any woman who could out-drink him and call him a clown in the same breath was wife material.”

A laugh bursts out of me. Wes’s smile tilts, softer now, the grief and love sharing space in his eyes.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Thanks for asking.” His voice is rough, but steady. “Helps to say it out loud.”

I reach over and give his wrist a gentle squeeze because I don’t really have words for moments like this, and I hated any time someone would try to force them with me. Sometimes it’s enough to know you’re not going to be swallowed whole by your grief. Not alone, anyway.

I stand and ruffle Milo’s ears before I clear my throat. “Soup okay for dinner?”

His wary gaze flicks to mine. “Lena—”

“Just let me help.”

A sigh. “Soup’s fine.”

∞∞∞

By mid-afternoon, Rosie wakes enough to demand Peppa off and cuddles on. She whines until Wes yields and hoists her.

I drop onto the couch beside them with the thermometer and a damp washcloth. “Mind if I steal?”

Rosie swivels and makes grabby hands at my ponytail. Permission granted. I settle her on my lap and press the washcloth to her forehead. She sighs a contented sound that vibrates straight through my sternum.

Wes watches, lids heavy, the bowl of soup cooling in his grip.

“You’re good at that,” he tells me, voice hoarse. “You need a raise. ”

“Damn right.”

His mouth curves before he eyes the soup with a skeptical arch of his brow. “What’s in it?”

“Love,” I deadpan. “And twelve cloves of garlic.”

“Trying to kill me?”

“Trying to resurrect you. Eat.”

He takes a spoonful and groans. “Holy shit, Carter. Marry me.”

God, I’m good.

“You don’t propose with a runny nose, Romeo. Finish the bowl, then we’ll talk dowry.”

While he eats, I grab a smaller bowl, tear the noodles into bite-sized pieces, and persuade Rosie to have four spoonfuls before she decides the spoon is lava. It’s progress.

When we finish our soup and Rosie finally passes out again—this time in the portable crib—I come back to find Wes slumped sideways.

“Go to bed,” I order.

“Shop—”

“Will not explode without you for one afternoon.”

He rubs his eyes. “But—”

I plant both hands on my hips. “You’re arguing with a woman who once wrestled a Costco rotisserie chicken away from a seagull. I will win.”

His mouth twitches. Then a resigned exhale. “Fine.”

When he pushes up, he sways slightly, so I grab his elbow to steady him.

“Easy, tiger.”

“Got it.” His cheeks turn the faintest pink, and I don’t think it’s the fever.

Wes Turner, blushing. Mark the calendar.

I shepherd him to his bedroom with a bottle of water. Collapsing face down on the mattress, he mumbles something that might be thanks or might be an inventory of things he needs for the shop.

Milo clambers in after us, lets out a soft bark, and climbs up on the bed to rest at Wes’s feet.

See, I knew they were getting along.