Page 34 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

I t’s been a good night. No drama, just a few beers and some mindless conversation. But now I’m three beers in and feeling done. I’m ready to go home and turn in for the night. I’m already exhausted.

I’m about to tell Connor and Ryan as much when Ryan screeches to a halt.

Connor, walking behind him, nearly plows into his back. “What the hell?”

“Look,” Ryan says with far too much excitement, nodding across the street to a dimly lit entrance where a small crowd of women are slipping inside.

I glance up at the glowing sign: The Velvet Room.

Ryan’s eyes are practically bugging out. “We have to go in there.”

Connor shrugs like this isn’t a bad idea, which it absolutely is. “Kate said we need to find you female company.”

For fuck’s sake. I don’t need a babysitter, and I can find my own damn woman.

I make a face. “You’re seriously following women into a jazz bar?” I jerk my chin at the group. “Feels kind of... I don’t know, sleazy?”

Ryan smirks. “Got a better plan? Unless you’d rather go home to your nice, quiet house, stare at your phone with your cock in your hand and wait for your nanny to text you.”

My jaw ticks. “Watch it.”

He holds his hands up. “I’m just saying. We promised Kate we’d make sure you didn’t end up a hermit tonight.”

I should tell them both to fuck off. That’s definitely what I should do, but then I hear the soft brush of cymbals, the heartbeat thump of a stand-up bass, and the curl of saxophone riffs drifting through the open doorway.

It’s good.

And yeah, I can appreciate good music.

I sigh, roll my shoulders, and wave them on.

“Fine,” I grunt. “Move.”

The moment we enter, warm golden light bathes everything—velvet booths, dark wood floors, and a polished bar along one side.

The place is crowded, but not rowdy. The hum of voices is low, interrupted by the clink of ice in glasses and the shuffle of servers gliding between tables.

Above it all, a jazz band weaves lazy rhythms that burrow under your skin.

I’m scanning the room when my eyes fall back on the stage, and I see her.

It’s like my entire body goes stiff at once. Because there, on the stage under a single spotlight, stands Lena.

My Lena.

She’s dressed in this black dress that clings in all the right places, dipping low enough to leave my mouth dry with the hem ending right above her knees.

It’s hugging curves that my subconscious has apparently been cataloging without permission.

I’ve seen her in baggy sweatshirts, in short shorts, in those stupid cat-ear hoodies she buys to match Rosie.

This is something else entirely. I know the shape of her body even when I’ve tried not to notice it. But she’s showing it off tonight in a way that feels downright unfair.

She’s swaying, eyes closed, lost in the gentle rhythm of the band behind her.

And then…fuck, then she starts singing, and it’s like the entire bar stands still.

Her voice is husky but smooth, warming the air like a slow pour of honey over the crowd.

I can almost feel it brushing against my skin and sinking into my bones.

Every conversation hushes, every gaze lifts to the stage.

And me?

I’m fucking gone.

Ryan whacks my shoulder. “Alright there, boss?”

Connor nods, looking equally stunned. “She’s... she’s good.”

I can’t muster a single syllable because I’m too busy trying to remember how to inhale.

How did I not know she could do this? My whole existence for the past year has revolved around schedules and ensuring that Rosie has everything she needs. Meanwhile, Lena’s living this hidden life as a jazz singer at some swanky bar?

Warmth flows from my chest to my limbs, a strange blend of shock, pride, and something else that feels far too much like lust for comfort. She sings as if she’s sharing a secret I never knew I wanted to learn.

I’m still glued to the spot when Ryan’s elbow digs into my side. “We came here to get you laid, and you pick her? Why not try punching a little lower for your first night?”

“It’s Lena,” I rasp before clearing my throat.

“Lena? Your Lena?”

Yeah, my Lena.

“The nanny?”

Connor peers at me, eyes wide with realization. “Holy shit. This is the nanny? No wonder you don’t let her near the shop.”

Both of them exchange glances, identical grins spreading across their faces. “Man, she is so out of your league,” Connor muses, half-laughing.

They’re right.

I pull my gaze away from them to look at her again—anything to distract myself from the swirl of conflicting thoughts in my head.

I’m the one who hired her. There are lines—lots of them—and she’s behind every single one. But right now, seeing her own this stage, seeing the hush that falls over the crowd as she dips into a lower register…it’s fucking hypnotic.

The song ends on a lingering note. There’s a beat of silence, then the room erupts into applause.

Lena smiles as she leans toward the microphone. “I’ll be back in fifteen,” she says, voice rich with a playful laugh.

She sets the mic aside before stepping off the stage, and the band instantly transitions to a more upbeat number.

Still, I barely notice because I’m too busy tracking her path across the bar, where the bartender already has a drink waiting for her. He winks as he slides it over, and she fucking laughs. I can’t hear it, but I know it well enough that I feel it.

Something sharp twists in my gut. I take a slow pull of my beer to keep my jaw from clenching too hard because all I want to do is grab that smug-looking bastard and rip his eyes from his head just to stop him from undressing her with them.

My mind is mid-spiral when her eyes lock with mine. They widen for just a second before her face melts into a smile.

I swear I can hear her thoughts: Didn’t peg you for a jazz guy, Turner.

I lift my beer, arching an eyebrow as if to say, There’s a lot you don’t know.

Then she starts moving, that dangerous dress hugging every move, until she’s right there.

Up close, she’s even more beautiful.

My mouth goes dry like I’m a teenage boy about to speak to his crush for the first time.

Pathetic.

“So,” she drawls, sipping her water. She casts a glance at Ryan and Connor. “What’s this? You just happen to stroll into a jazz bar? Sounds like the start of an inappropriate joke.”

Ryan laughs, hooking a thumb toward me. “Nah, we dragged him in here. He’s been stunned stupid ever since.”

Connor nods. “Never seen him like this. Even better than the time he realized he’d run out of diapers and had to improvise.”

Lena’s brows shoot up in amusement.

“You never told me you could sing,” I say when I finally untangle my tongue.

A shy smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, right where a blush is blooming across her cheek. “I tend to keep this to myself. I wasn’t expecting you to walk in, so I guess my secret is out.”

No shit.

I turn to introduce her to Connor and Ryan just to give myself something to do.

She tucks a loose curl behind her ear—a nervous habit, I’ve noticed—then lifts her chin with a small, steady breath. “Nice to finally meet you. Wes has mentioned you.”

Ryan cackles. “He talks about you plenty, too.”

She turns to me. “Oh, you talk about me?”

“You watch my niece. There’s a lot to say.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended because seeing her in that dress, recalling the smoky melody of her voice, I’m dangerously close to forgetting where we are and who we are.

Connor mutters something under his breath about how he’ll never look at “the nanny” the same way again. I glare at him in warning, but he just grins.

We fall into easy conversation after that. Well, they do. Ryan cracks jokes, Connor offers sarcastic commentary, and Lena teases them right back, sliding into our group like she’s always been part of it.

I mostly watch. Listen to her laugh. Notice how she flicks her hair behind her shoulder.

“My break’s almost over.” She tosses back the rest of her water and turns to me with a mischievous smile. “Want to duet?”

My heart knocks against my ribs. She’s teasing, and I have no comeback this time. “Looks like you’ve got it handled.”

With a nod, she spins on her heels and heads back to the stage while I take the opportunity to watch her.

That’s a bad fucking idea .

When she’s back on stage and leans into the mic with that sultry tone, I’m gone all over again.

This a problem.

A big one.

Because I shouldn’t be looking at her like this, I know that. She’s Rosie’s nanny. She’s not mine to admire in a black dress, or to imagine what she sounds like singing those notes directly into my ear.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop it.

My chest is tight, my pulse is thumping, every sense dialed to the max.

I take a slow sip of my beer.

I’m not thinking about hooking up with some random woman tonight, not when Lena’s on that stage, singing like she’s weaving a spell over the entire bar.

And if I’m honest? I’m not sure I want to break it.