Page 3 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

I park just outside the house, tucking Ruby—my beloved, beat-up car—behind a row of overgrown hedges.

“Sorry, girl,” I tell the car, patting the dashboard. “It’s not you, it’s judgmental suburbia.”

Sure, her paint’s chipped and one of the mirrors is held on with duct tape, but she’s got heart.

Unfortunately, heart doesn’t pay the bills, and I need this job. First impressions matter. So, Ruby’s staying hidden in the hedges, at least until I can charm my way past the front door.

I kill the engine and glance through the gaps in the hedges at the house: two-story, white siding, a wraparound porch that’s begging for a fresh coat of paint and maybe some flower boxes to mask the existential fatigue. It’s a little weathered but charming.

I double-check the address on my phone screen, then glance at the dashboard clock.

9:55 a.m.

Five minutes early. Perfect timing to make a decent first impression.

I blow out a breath, trying to settle the tiny flicker of nerves in my gut. I’ve done this before: new families, new babies, new routines. Kids are my jam. The meltdown-lunch-naptime cycle is basically my bread and butter at this point.

I swallow down the nerves, gather my things, and step out of the car.

Right.

Game face on.

Smile at the door, like a normal, functional human with an early-childhood degree and a big heart for chubby-cheeked toddlers. No big deal.

After climbing the three steps of the porch, I force my shoulders back, give two polite knocks on the front door, and wait.

And wait.

Silence.

My foot taps against the deck as I strain to hear anything from inside.

Still nothing.

I recheck the address. This is definitely the right place.

Was Grandpa right? Am I about to be kidnapped? Or is it adult-napped?

I need a nap.

I’m about to knock again when something crashes inside. It’s a low thud that sounds like something being kicked out of the way.

“Fucking hell. This damn house,” a deep voice curses, muffled but unmistakably exasperated.

Long seconds later, the door swings open.

The man from yesterday’s phone call—Wes Turner—fills the doorway.

And I do mean fills it. He’s tall, with broad shoulders that look like they carry the entire world, and a face that’s all sharp angles and tired eyes.

A few days’ worth of stubble traces his jawline.

Beneath the exhaustion, there’s the subtle hint of a scowl, or maybe that’s just the set of his mouth. Either way, it’s intense.

He takes one slow sweep of me, head to toe and back again.

I’m going to vomit.

“You’re Lena?” He says it like it’s a bad thing.

I swallow the dryness from my throat and nod, forcing a smile. “Yep. That’s me.”

He lifts his chin. It’s a silent, standoffish gesture, but he steps back so I can come inside. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries like hello or nice to meet you . Nope, just a curt “Come in.”

Okay then. We’re skipping small talk. I can roll with that.

Inside, the air is cooler, but the house feels haphazard.

Not dirty, just clearly drowning in baby stuff and leftover coffee cups.

Toys cover the floor. A lone pink sock is flopped over the arm of the couch like it got tired halfway to the laundry basket.

Meanwhile, a half-finished baby bottle rests on the kitchen counter, abandoned next to a coffee mug.

In the middle of all this chaos sits a little girl with dark curls that frame her face like a halo. She has that wide-eyed, sleepy look that babies get when they’re ready to crash but can’t quite surrender.

“Rosie, right?” I look to Wes, remembering he mentioned her name on our brief phone call yesterday.

He nods again.

Not much of a talker.

All good .

“Mind if I say hello?” I ask, glancing up at him. He won’t stop staring at me, or maybe he’s inspecting me for explosives, I’m not sure.

“Go ahead.”

A soft smile takes over my face as I crouch down to her level. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

Rosie gives me a slow blink, probably wondering, Who is this lady, and why is she talking to me before I’ve had my morning nap? But surprisingly, she lifts her chubby arms for me to pick her up.

I reach for her, but before my hands can make contact, her face crumples. That adorable baby curiosity morphs into a trembling lower lip. She twists away and lets out a quiet whimper as she turns to Wes for comfort.

Just like that, the big, scowling man softens like butter in the sun.

“Hey, princess,” he soothes, gathering her up with the kind of gentleness I didn’t expect . His voice is like gravel, but there’s an undercurrent of tenderness when she latches onto his shirt and buries her face against his chest with a sad little sigh.

I realize in that single moment that this child is his world.

The living room might be on the losing side of a war with laundry and toys, but the baby? She’s loved. You can see it in the way he holds her and the way his hand gently cups the back of her head.

Bouncing her in his arms, he lets out a weary breath. “She’s been up since five. Earache, I think.” He shifts Rosie to his other shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I was hoping she’d go down for a nap before you arrived, but she’s fighting it.”

“Poor thing. ”

Our eyes briefly meet before he nods toward the hallway. “I’ll be back.”

And then he’s gone, carrying Rosie up the stairs like she’s an extension of himself.

I take the opportunity to look around. The place is plain, not much in the way of décor. It’s neutral walls and simple furniture. There’s a faint sense of unfinished business. It's as if someone started to put their stamp on the house, got halfway through, and then life intervened. Hard.

A gleaming, renovated kitchen catches my eye—sleek walnut cabinets, marble countertops, and a fancy faucet that looks expensive.

The rest of the house isn’t so polished.

It’s like he tried to do everything at once, and mid-renovation, the universe decided to hand him a baby and a million complications.

I wander over to a dark wooden cabinet along the wall. It’s packed with vinyl records. There’s classic rock, a bit of old-school country, and some blues. It’s an impressive collection.

My gaze drifts over the spines, and suddenly, I’m eight years old again, curled up on the floor, watching some cartoon while Mom cleans in the kitchen, dancing in mismatched socks to Ain’t No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

God, I haven’t thought about that in years.

Between the records, there are pictures scattered on the shelves.

Most are of Rosie, but one catches my eye.

It’s a couple holding a newborn. Something about this one tugs at me.

Maybe it’s the tightness in the woman’s smile, or the way the man’s hand hovers protectively over the baby.

There’s a weight to it that lingers in the back of my throat.

Just as I’m leaning in for a closer look, a deep voice behind me makes me jump.

“Those are Rosie’s parents.”

Heart thumping, I spin around. Wes stands there with his arms folded, no baby in sight. My stomach gives a weird little lurch because he looks haunted. Like he’s balancing on the precipice of some memory he hasn’t fully processed.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, not sure if I overstepped. “I just—”

“You thought I was,” he finishes for me. He gives a shrug that’s more resigned than anything. “I guess I am. I’m all she’s got.”

“So you’re…” I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

Who is this man?

Is this even the guy I’m supposed to be meeting?

Is this how I die? Lured into a house by muscles and desperation?

I’m such a cliché.

“Uncle,” he finally says. “Her guardian.”

Close call.

I almost got myself adult-napped by a man with tragic eyes and a vinyl collection.

When my pulse calms, my brain finally catches up.

Her guardian.

His words echo in the silence, and for a beat, I don’t know how to respond. Wes doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he bends down and starts scooping toys off the floor, shoving them into a basket.

“Sorry about the mess. It’s been a hectic morning.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, this is nothing. I grew up with three younger siblings. Our house looked like a bomb went off most days.”

Something flickers across his face when he straightens to glance at me from the corner of his eye. Interest? Curiosity?

I’m usually good at reading people, but with just one look, Wes seems to have so much going on that I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling.

Before I can place it, he gives a quick jerk of his chin toward the kitchen. “Coffee? Water?”

I smile politely. “I’m good, thanks.”

He nods, more to himself than to me, and suddenly, we’re drifting in a pause that’s too long for comfort. I get the sense he’s not used to making conversation with anybody, let alone a strange woman.

“Go ahead and take a seat.” He gestures to the couch.

I lower myself onto a cushion, perched on the edge like an awkward middle-school kid waiting for the school counselor.

Sinking into the armchair across from me, he braces his elbows on his knees and studies me for a long, silent moment that has me resisting the urge to squirm.

“I’ll be honest. I have no clue what I’m supposed to ask you.”

“Oh. I won’t complain if we skip the ‘What’s your biggest weakness’ question. That one always trips me up.”

One corner of his mouth lifts, almost like a smile. Almost. “I’m a mechanic. I hired my guys by seeing if they could fix a busted brake line. That was the interview.” He glances toward the stairs where he brought Rosie. “This is… different.”

I nod, trying to look reassuring, like someone who has answers.

Scrubbing at the stubble along his jaw, he leans back and looks toward the framed photo on the shelf. “My sister and her husband were killed in a car crash eight months ago. Drunk driver.”

The air whooshes out of my lungs. “I…I’m so—”

He cuts me off with a dip of his chin, like he’s heard enough of people’s condolences. I get it.