Page 30 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Wes

T he nanny is officially tipsy.

I mean, she’s not dancing-on-the-table drunk, but the volume of her laugh passed normal Lena territory a while ago. She and Sienna are cackling at something, and by how their gazes are flicking over to us, I’m guessing it’s about men.

Both of them were booted from the poker game a while ago because they decided it was a team effort and accidentally won two in a row.

I’m trying to focus on the hand I’ve been dealt, but Lena’s leaning against Sienna on the sofa, pointing at nothing and laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

I can’t stop watching her.

Which is exactly when Nathan kicks me under the table.

“Something else got your attention?” he says, not even pretending to hide the smugness in his voice.

Julian cuts in, shaking his head like this is something he warned me about. “Told you.”

Ignoring them, I toss a chip into the pot with more force than necessary.

Across the room, Sienna stretches and gets to her feet. “Okay, this poker game is rigged and boring without us. What this party needs”—she spins toward my record shelf—“is music.”

“Keep it low, baby. Rosie’s a light sleeper,” Nathan tells her.

Lena and I share a look.

“Not anymore, she’s not.” I tip my beer toward the couch. “Lena started blaring music and vacuuming during her naps. She’ll sleep through a natural disaster.”

Sienna leans over and smacks a kiss on Lena’s cheek. “Bless you, Lena. You’re officially my favorite person in this house.”

Lena grins, but her cheeks go a little pink. “I’ll take it.” She flicks her gaze to mine with a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry, Wes.”

“Not offended.”

How could I be? She’s my favorite person too.

Sienna flips through the vinyls a second before Lena joins her, running a finger along the edges to find one she likes.

Her eyes lock on a title. I watch her brows furrow, studying the records a second before she freezes .

One after another, she pulls the records I bought last week from the shelf. They’re titles she mentioned offhand over the months, names I jotted down in my phone like a complete fucking goner. Music her mom played. Records she’s always wanted.

Her smile fades, and then her eyes cut to mine.

I nod toward the stack. “All yours.”

No one else knows what the hell we’re talking about, but she does. Her throat moves like she’s swallowing something big before her mouth curves into a smile so full it knocks the breath out of my lungs.

She mouths, Thank you , and I catch the shimmer in her eyes before she looks away.

That. That’s what I was waiting for.

She picks one from the stack—not the Lauryn Hill just yet, but something else I thought she’d like.

The needle drops, and the soft groove of Al Green’s Love and Happiness rolls through the room.

It starts low, with a soul-deep hum.

They dance in the middle of the living room like it’s their personal stage, Sienna belting lyrics while Lena twirls and laughs so hard that she nearly tips into the sofa. They’re all wild hair and swaying hips.

“You two are fucking soft,” Julian mutters, dragging me out of my Lena-induced haze.

I blink, still half-lost in the image of her laughing under those dim lights, then glance over at Nathan. He’s not paying attention. At all. He’s got that stupid, moony-eyed expression locked on Sienna.

“Aww,” Nathan says, finally breaking free of his trance and turning just enough to grab Julian’s face between his fingers. “Is someone feeling lonely?”

Julian winks at him. “You offering? You’ve always had the softest hands. ”

“Try me again and I’ll shove those soft hands down your throat,” Nathan deadpans.

Some things never change.

My gaze darts between them. “You two done?”

Julian smirks at me before he leans back and puckers his lips. “Don’t feel left out, Wesley. You can join.”

I press my fingers into my forehead. “Fucking hell. That’ll give me nightmares.”

He rolls his head back and laughs before downing his beer.

“You should try it sometime,” Nathan suggests…to Julian, not me, thank fuck.

Julian scoffs. “What? Women? I try women all the time. They’re great.”

“ One woman,” Nathan corrects.

I raise a brow. “He’ll need to find one to put up with him first.”

The truth is, I don’t think Julian is opposed to settling down.

Not really. He just won’t admit it. Not out loud.

Not even to us. He had a rough upbringing like the rest of us, but his left scars that run deeper.

It turned something sharp and dark in him that he keeps buried under charm and jokes.

Hell, there are parts of him he doesn’t even let me or Nathan see.

Letting a woman see them? Yeah, that would mess him up.

I lean back in my chair, eyes finding Lena again. She’s spinning in bare feet, laughing so hard her shoulders shake.

And what rises in my chest isn’t just attraction. It’s relief.

It’s that impossible, dangerous thing I haven’t felt in years.

Lightness .

But when it leaves—when the moment dips—it drags something else behind it.

Guilt.

Guilt for smiling on a night Amber should be here.

Mike should be dealing cards. Amber should be dancing with Lena, holding Rosie on her hip. They should’ve had this night.

I stare into the last inch of my drink, then down it in one go.

It doesn’t help.

None of it does.

Julian says something, but I miss it.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, pushing back from the table before anyone can ask. My heart is pounding, and sweat is breaking out across the nape of my neck, the way it always does when I’m dragged under.

I step out back, needing the air to loosen the knot in my chest. Sitting on the top step of the porch, I rest my elbows on my knees. My hands are shaking, barely. Just enough to notice.

Breathe.

Just fucking breathe.

It’s been over a year, but it still doesn’t feel real. Every time I let myself laugh, let myself feel something good, it comes back like this. This tight, angry, suffocating thing that I can’t grab hold of. The panic. The guilt. The shame of not falling apart when they did.

I close my eyes and breathe through it.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

I wait for my chest to settle.

Because I can’t let them see me like this .

Especially not her.

Not Lena.

But because Lena doesn’t give a single damn about timing or boundaries or how quietly I’m trying to drown in it, she barrels right through it.

The back door creaks open, and I hear her before I see her. Her laugh is soft, but a little unsteady.

“What are you doing out here?”

I keep my eyes on the grass. “Just needed some air. It’s hot in there. Go back inside.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t move. She doesn’t go back inside either.

Instead, she sits her ass down next to me.

I expect her to speak.

She doesn’t.

No deep questions. No probing.

Just silence.

Eventually, she takes a long breath and says, “Do you think birds ever look down at humans and wonder why we’re always walking around like we forgot our keys?”

The fuck?

She’s staring straight ahead, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap like she didn’t just ask one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.

“What?”

“We’re always pacing, double-checking, patting ourselves like we’ve lost something. Birds just fly and look like they’ve got their shit together.”

I know what she’s doing. She’s talking me down without addressing the ache I’m carrying. She’s distracting me.

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my mouth despite everything. “Were you never taught that silence is golden?”

“Missed school that day.”

We sit there, side by side, her presence slowly chipping away at the suffocating weight in my chest. The clawing pressure eases, bit by bit, like my lungs remember how to expand.

Then her voice comes quieter. “It sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?”

“What does?”

“Grief.”

I go still.

She doesn’t look at me. She just stares out into the backyard, her dark waves stirring slightly in the breeze. “It doesn’t care what day it is or how long it’s been. It doesn’t show up with a warning or ask if you’ve got time for it.”

That part I know all too well.

“It’s not linear,” she continues. “Those stages they talk about? Total bullshit. It’s all just a jumbled mess of laughing when you’re supposed to cry, crying when you thought you were fine, then panicking out of nowhere at your own birthday party.”

I look down at my hands, steady now.

“It’s okay, though,” she adds.

I finally look at her. Her eyes are soft. Knowing. Not pitying, but solid. Like she’s someone who gets it.

“Is it?” I ask.

She nods slowly. “The one predictable thing about grief is that it always comes back, but it never stays forever.”

Who is this woman?

She sees through me too easily. Pulls the pieces I keep locked up and just holds them.

She tilts her head to look at me then, and I know that mischievous glint in her eyes. “But what do I know? I’m just the hot nanny.”

Julian and his big fucking mouth.

I rest my head in my hands. “You heard that, huh?”

“I’ve been waiting to use it for weeks. I’m printing it and putting it on my wall.”

“You should put it in your resume.”

Her laugh coats over me. “You’re lucky to have those guys in there.”

“They’re a pain in my ass most days, but they always show up.

” I inhale a steadying breath, relief washing over me when my lungs burn a little less.

“After Amber and Mike died, they dropped everything. Stayed with me for weeks. Took shifts with Rosie. Cooked meals that were inedible. But they were here.”

Lena smiles at that. “I can imagine it. Must’ve been…sad and loud.”

“And drunk.”

Her shoulder brushes against mine. “You’ve got good friends.”

“You do too.”

Right?

Fuck, Wes, you’ve got to open your mouth and ask her this shit.

She shakes her head, no hesitation. “Nope. People exhaust me. My friends are Grandpa and Rosie.”

I rest a hand on my chest. “Hey, now.”

Her mouth curls upward into a smile so big it crinkles the corners of her eyes. “You too, Wes.”

What I want to do right now is open her. Not her body. Her. I want to bury deep and see everything she holds inside. That should be my first red flag, because it’s not about attraction or sex. It’s not about burying myself inside her until I forget how to feel .

It’s about her.

That quiet ache I get when she laughs and I realize I don’t know what she finds funny outside of Rosie’s animal noises.

We’ve spent months talking, but it’s always the same shit. Routines. Doctor appointments. What color was the diaper disaster today? And that was fine at first. That’s all I needed.

But now?

Now I’m looking at her and wondering what else there is. What does she think about when she can’t sleep? Whether she prefers red wine or white? Does she even like wine? What is her favorite color? If her eyes always had flecks of gold in them, or if it developed over time?

It’s all stuff that doesn’t matter. Not to the job, anyway. But suddenly it matters to me. I want to know. I want all of it. Every little detail. And I have no idea when that started.

Swallowing, I shake my head and look down at the grass. “I’ll be your bestie. That’s what the cool kids say, right?”

“Bestie?” she repeats, pretending to gag. “Really?”

“Although I don’t usually try to look down all my best friends’ tops.”

She gasps, scandalized. “Wesley Turner, you do not.”

I raise a brow and nod while gesturing to my chest. “Especially in that pink tank top you wore last week.”

She smacks my arm, laughing. “You absolute pervert.”

We fall into a quiet rhythm, the way we always do. No pressure. No force. Just…there. Breathing. Existing .

After a minute, she leans her head on my shoulder, exhaling slowly like it’s the first time she’s stopped moving all day.

“You’ll be okay, Wes,” she says softly. “It’ll all work out.”

I don’t say anything.

But I let her stay right there.

And I let myself believe her.