Page 35 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

T he last person I expected to stroll into the bar tonight was Wes.

And if you’d told me I’d be sitting in this cozy corner booth with him half an hour after my set, just... talking? I’d have called bullshit.

But here we are, and here he is. Actually talking.

Not grunting his usual morning greetings or giving one-word answers that sound like it physically hurts him to speak.

No, tonight, Wes is fully engaged, leaning forward, firing questions at me like this conversation is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world to him.

When he’s not asking questions, he’s listening. Really listening. Like I’m a puzzle he’s desperate to solve.

His friends left ten minutes ago, and I figured he’d leave with them, but he didn’t.

He stayed, settling back into the booth, beer in hand, those impressively strong forearms resting casually on the table.

He’s wearing a navy Henley with his sleeves pushed up, which is doing dangerous things to my blood pressure.

His jeans fit like a sin, and whatever cologne he’s wearing is officially ruining my life.

I take a sip of water, shaking myself out of the fog of lust-induced idiocy. “What’s with the interrogation tonight, Turner?”

He drags his thumb along the neck of his beer bottle. “Just realizing how little I know about the person who spends half her life in my house.”

“I’m a simple creature,” I say. “Feed me coffee and let me hang out with babies, and I’m happy.”

Wes cocks a brow at me. “I’m sure there’s more to you than that.”

“Not much.”

He studies me closely, clearly calling bullshit without saying it. “I know you’re close to Tess, but are you still that close to all your siblings?”

More questions it is.

Crossing my legs, I sit up straight. “I’ve got younger brothers who are twins. They’re twenty and enjoying college life, so I don’t get to see them as much, but we talk almost every day.”

His jaw flexes like he’s working something out. “What about your dad?”

Something in my chest squeezes tight. “We don’t really speak. Long story. Let’s just say he and I had different views on a lot of things.”

There’s a quiet patience in his eyes, the kind that says he’ll wait me out if I want to talk, but won’t hold it against me if I don’t. It makes my pulse kick up, so I do the only thing that feels safe.

I change the subject.

“Does Rosie remind you of Amber?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and for half a second, I worry I’ve crossed a line, but Wes just exhales and gives me a reassuring smile.

“She’s got Amber’s eyes. And the attitude?

All hers. Amber could win a fight without raising her voice.

Mike was the quieter one, more awkward, but loyal as hell.

The kind of guy who’d help you move house and then bring beer after.

” He peels at the corner of the label, his thumb working it loose in slow, distracted circles.

“They were good together. Stupid in love. Rosie had them wrapped around her tiny finger the second she arrived.”

His gaze lifts to meet mine again, and something about the way he’s looking at me cracks my chest wide open.

“She’ll still have a good life, Wes.”

He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders sag a little as the tension melts away.

“And your parents?” I ask. “I kinda assumed they were, I don’t know. Not around?”

His mouth twists. “Dead, you mean?”

I wince. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine. Most people assume.” He takes another drink. “They’re alive. Retired. Traveling around in a camper van somewhere in southern Europe, last I heard. ”

“Seriously?”

“Not exactly the nurturing types. Amber and I figured things out on our own.” He tips his beer toward me. “They send postcards. They’ve got better communication with the Italian postal system than they ever had with their kids.”

“Wow,” I breathe out. “Well, it’s their loss. Rosie’s amazing.”

His lips pull into something close to a smile—a real one.

“She is.” He’s silent for a long breath, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. “So what’s your plan? Going to be a nanny forever?”

“Firing me again?”

He wipes his threatening smile away with his thumb. “Not tonight. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

His knee brushes mine under the table, and even through denim, the heat of him sinks into my skin. The reaction is instant, distracting, and completely inappropriate. My thighs clench before I can stop them.

“So…” he prompts, unaware that my body is experiencing a hot flush.

I lean back in my chair just to put some distance between us. “Honestly? I don’t know. I tried college, thinking it might give me a big career epiphany. All it did was prove I preferred kids over adults.”

He nods like he gets it. “Nothing wrong with knowing where you belong.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’ve figured that part out yet,” I admit. “But Rosie makes it easier to forget I haven’t.”

He’s quiet for a second, then says, “Well, she’d never forgive me if I let you go. ”

I glance away, attempting to play it cool, but the heat rising in my chest has other plans. I grab my glass and take a sip, giving my face something to do other than blush.

“When exactly were you going to tell me you sing like an angel?”

I choke mid-sip. “Jesus, warn a girl next time.”

“Seriously. I walked in here tonight, but I wasn’t expecting—” he gestures vaguely toward my dress “—whatever that was.”

I bite my lip, fighting another blush. “It’s just for fun.”

The look in his eyes isn’t flirty this time. It’s knowing. The kind of look that sees through the carefully casual shrug and the throwaway line. “Didn’t look like just fun. It looked like it meant something.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He tilts his beer bottle toward me. “I don’t think I am.”

There’s something in his voice that wipes the smile right off my face.

Peeling my tongue from the roof of my mouth, and praying for sense, I finally say, “It’s a side thing. I don’t think much about it.”

“Maybe you should. I mean, it’s definitely better than Kumbaya.”

I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head. “You are never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

After that, we sit there for what feels like forever, talking about everything and nothing.

Music, books we pretended to read in school, the weirdest jobs we’ve ever had.

It’s easy in a way that sneaks up on me.

No pressure, no performance. Just two people tucked into a corner booth, slowly peeling back layers like neither of us is in a rush to stop.

And somewhere between his quiet jokes and the way he listens when I speak, I forget this isn’t supposed to happen.

I’m not supposed to feel a flutter in my chest every time he laughs.

I’m not supposed to feel that slow, simmering heat in my lower belly when his eyes rake over me like he’s memorizing the details.

This is my job. My life raft , not a detour into disaster.

But my body clearly didn’t get the memo.

The bar staff are cleaning up when I check my phone for the time, and my heart falls into my stomach. Have we really been sitting here that long? “Shit.”

Wes raises a brow. “What?”

“I didn’t realize how late it was.”

He downs the last of his beer and stands. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That’s sweet, Turner, but no need. I walked.”

He stops mid-step. “You what?”

“I walked,” I say, heading for the door.

I swear I hear him having a minor coronary behind me.

“Walked?”

“Relax. It’s not like I live on the other side of town. I love warm nights.”

He looks like he’s five seconds away from putting me over his knee. Can’t say I’d object either.

“You walk home alone at night?”

“Yes.”

“In the dark?”

“Well, it tends to get dark at night, so also yes.”

His jaw clenches. “Yeah, that’s not happening anymore.”

I roll my eyes, nudging him playfully as we fall into step. “Oh, please. I have pepper spray, and I walk the main road. I’ve never had an issue.”

“Still not happening.”

“Are you seriously telling me what I can and can’t do?”

“Yes, and now I’m telling you that I’m walking you home.”

I blink up at him. He’s so damn tall, I need to crane my neck back just to meet his eyes. “You really don’t have to.”

“Too bad.”

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m aware.”

I give in with a loud sigh. “Fine, but you’re carrying my bag.”

He gives me a dry look that screams he wouldn’t be caught dead. “It’s already on your shoulder.”

“It’s heavy.”

“It’s the size of a shoebox.”

“Filled with emotional baggage. Besides, it’s the principle.”

He groans, but to my surprise, he takes it from me, and we fall into step beneath the glow of streetlights. There’s something strangely intimate about walking next to him like this.

I take the moment to glance at him, noticing how different he looks in this light. Less guarded. Less burdened. More him.

“You look nice tonight,” I say and wait for the embarrassment to bubble, but it never does.

“I look the same as I always do.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “You usually look like a hot mechanic who’s too grumpy to function. Tonight, you’re more like a hot mechanic, but approachable.”

His lips twitch. “So still hot?”

I open my mouth to argue, but I don’t because he’s not wrong.

He smirks, clearly picking up on my hesitation.

“Don’t get cocky.”

He barks a laugh. “Too late.”

“You’re such a pain in my ass.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes dipping to mine. “But you weren’t smiling like that five minutes ago.”

Why did he go and say that?

Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like just a walk home. It feels different. Like we’ve slipped into something we weren’t meant to, yet neither of us is pulling away. Neither of us is stopping it.

“You know,” I say, hands shoved in my jacket pockets, “I fear you might’ve wasted your one child-free night walking me home.”

There’s the faintest crease between his brows when he looks at me. “Wasted, huh?”

“You could’ve spent it picking up some hot woman at the bar instead of babysitting me.”

“I am picking up a hot woman.”