Page 4 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

“I don’t have much family, and my brother-in-law didn’t either. Rosie ended up with me.” He flexes his hands into fists before he releases them. “Poor kid.”

My chest tightens. I don’t have words for that kind of loss, not ones that would help anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to say because I don’t have any other words.

I’m not sure why he’s telling me all this. He doesn’t have to.

Maybe it’s intentional. Perhaps he’s trying to see if I’ll spook and run.

Sorry, big guy. Trauma is my default setting. You’ll need to try a lot harder than that.

“I’ve never hired a nanny before,” he says. “It’s mostly nine to five, but I’ve got my own business. Sometimes I get pulled in different directions. You’ll need to be flexible.”

Well, I mean, I can almost put my legs behind my ears.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It’s the eyes. That’s the problem.

They’re this dark, stormy brown, not broody but intense. Like he sees things and catalogs them, and it’s making me nervous.

And now I’ve just mentally offered him a yoga demonstration.

Focus, Lena. You don’t want to go back to waiting tables.

Blowing out an unsteady breath, I do my best to concentrate.

“I could tell you about my experience?” I offer just to avoid dying from awkwardness. “My education?”

His shoulders visibly relax. “Great. Go ahead.”

I shift on the couch and start in, giving him the usual rundown—degree in early childhood education, years of hands-on work since I was sixteen, everything from daycares and after-school programs to part-time nanny gigs.

“I love kids,” I continue. “I love helping them grow. Especially little ones like Rosie.”

“Are you comfortable with a one-year-old?”

“Absolutely.”

“You said you’ve got three younger siblings?”

“Yep.” I give him a small grin. “It was chaos on a good day. This place?” I gesture to the scattered baby toys. “Looks downright tidy in comparison.”

Wes laughs…I think. It’s so quick and so quiet, I almost miss it.

“I need to ask you something else,” he says.

I brace for a question about references or CPR certifications.

“Where do you see yourself in a year?”

A year? That’s not a question I was prepared for.

“Excuse me?”

“A year from now.” He taps his knee. “Any plans to move? Go back to school? Start something new?”

“I mean, not really,” I say slowly. “Why?”

“I can’t ask someone to give up their life for this, but I also can’t bring someone in who treats it like a temp job. Rosie needs someone who’s going to show up. If you’re in, be in. If you’re not sure, I get it. That’s why I’m offering a trial period. But after that, I need you all the way.”

There’s no edge in his voice, just honesty. No sales pitch. No sugarcoating .

And I respect the hell out of it.

“I get that. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t serious about it.”

He watches me closely, then asks, “Is there anything else I should know? Any schedule conflicts?”

I hesitate, every nerve suddenly alert. I’ve been waiting for this question.

Say no. Just say no.

I really want this job. I need this job.

And lying about availability is not the way to keep it.

So instead, I carefully fold my hands and do my best to sound calm.

“There’s one thing. Every second Friday, I might not be able to work late.

Not every time, but if I could be done by six on those nights, that would really help. ”

His brow lifts, but there’s no judgment in it. “Standing plans?”

“Something like that.”

It’s not a lie, exactly, but I don’t tell him that every other Friday, I slip into my favorite dress and heels and head across town to The Velvet Room. That I stand under warm lights and become someone else entirely. Someone with a voice and a spotlight. Someone free.

He studies me for a beat longer, like he knows there’s more to the story, but he doesn’t ask. “I’m sure we can work around that.”

A grateful smile curls on my lips just as he shifts in his seat and leans forward.

I don’t mean to look.

I really don’t.

But Christ. Those arms.

I have a thing for forearms. Always have. And Wes Turner’s? Top tier.

Bold, Lena. Real professional.

Scolding myself, I rip my gaze away from his arms and back to his face. This is a grieving man who looks like he’s two seconds away from tearing out that beautiful hair of his. Now is not the time.

Oblivious to my minor crisis, he goes on to explain the days off, the expectations, and how there will be times when I might need to stay late if he gets caught up at his garage. He lays out holidays, paid time off, all of it.

It’s a lot. Some people might be intimidated by his directness, but I appreciate his no-nonsense attitude.

He’s in the middle of explaining the salary, which is far above any standard nanny’s pay, when my phone explodes with an embarrassingly loud ringtone from the depths of my tote bag.

My eyes fly wide. “I’m so sorry. I usually keep it on silent, but my grandpa’s in a nursing home.”

Wes’s gaze flicks to my phone, which is still buzzing. The name Grandpa lights up the screen.

“You should answer if it’s important.”

I press the silence button instead. “He’s nosy, not sick. If he were really sick, the nurses would call, so this is him checking in on me. He probably wants to make sure some maniac hasn’t abducted me.”

Shut up, Lena.

“Ah,” Wes says. “Well, sorry to disappoint him.”

I let out an awkward laugh, wishing I could text Grandpa to get him to stop calling. Instead, I tuck the phone away, but in my haste, my entire bag spills onto the floor.

I want to die.

Headphones. Hairbrush. An unhealthy amount of Chapstick. A few tampons for good measure.

And then, of course, my pepper spray.

I lunge for it, but instead of grabbing it gracefully, my fingers graze the canister just enough to send it rolling.

It spins, and spins, and spins…

And stops only when it collides with Wes’s boot.

Kill me.

“Shit,” I blurt, then immediately clamp my mouth shut. “I mean, sorry. I won’t curse around Rosie. If I even get the job. Which I probably won’t now because clearly, I’m a total disaster.”

Silence.

Then a slow, arched brow from Wes.

He bends down, picks up the pepper spray, and holds it out to me while I’m still on my knees at his feet like some tragic offering to the gods.

“Cautious,” he muses, still watching me. “I like it, but I’ll be real with you. I barely have the energy to pick up some toys, let alone murder the potential nanny.”

Relief and a weird flutter of laughter flood my chest. “Good to know.”

I snatch the pepper spray and shove it deep into my bag, then flop back onto the couch while blowing a stray curl away from my face with a puff of air.

Wes chuckles. It’s barely there, but it’s the first hint of humor I’ve seen from him since stepping into this house.

“You’ll fit right in with this chaos,” he says, shaking his head.

We exchange a look that feels dangerously close to the beginnings of an inside joke.

I’m just about off the embarrassment train when the baby monitor crackles to life, and Rosie’s pitiful cry drifts into the living room. Wes is instantly on his feet.

I stand with guilt pooling in my stomach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake her. ”

“She’s been fussing all morning,” he says, waving away my apology. “We’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour.”

I hesitate for half a second. There might be a chance to redeem myself.

“Can I come with you?” I ask. “To see her, I mean. I might be able to help.”

He studies me for a second and only agrees with a jerk of his chin.

Upstairs, the hallway’s pretty bare, just a few pictures and half-finished paint jobs.

Rosie’s room, on the other hand, is like stepping into a pastel dream. It’s all soft pink walls, white furniture, and a rocking chair in the corner next to a shelf of books. Clearly, this project was finished first.

Priorities.

Rosie is standing in her crib, leaning against the rail with a wobbly pout. She sniffles as she rubs her tiny fist against her ear.

“Can I?” I gesture towards the room.

Wes stands aside so I can go in first.

I don’t care if I get the job right now. I hate seeing a baby in pain.

“Aw, sweet girl,” I coo, stepping forward. I pick her up and cradle her against my chest.

Wes hovers, arms crossed, and the tension radiating from him is enough to make me bristle. “She’s been pulling on that ear all morning.”

I gently rock her. “Have you tried warm olive oil? My little sister had chronic earaches, and that always helped.”

“Warm…olive oil?” He says it like I’ve just recommended chicken soup for a busted transmission. “Never heard of that. ”

“It works wonders,” I promise. “Just a drop or two, warm it up and let it settle in.”

Without another word, he turns and disappears down the hall.

Less than thirty seconds later, he’s back with a full basket overflowing with medicine, wipes, thermometers, baby teething gels, creams, and ointments I don’t even recognize.

I blink at it. “Um—”

“After Rosie was first put in my care,” Wes tells me, setting the basket down on the dresser, “I went to the pharmacy. I had no idea what to get, so I told the lady to give me everything and anything I would possibly need.”

I lift a bottle of cream and squint at the label. “This is for—” I snort, turning the label toward him. “I don’t think she’s going to get athlete’s foot.”

“You can never be too careful,” he says, completely serious.

I fight a smile, shaking my head as I rummage through the basket. Sure enough, at the very bottom, I find a small bottle of olive oil.

“You just put it in her ear?” he repeats, unsure.

“I can show you if you’d like?”

A crease forms between his brow, but he agrees.

We head back downstairs, and I warm the oil in a little dropper.

“We’re going to get rid of that bad pain, sweetheart,” I murmur. “And then you’re going to feel so much better.”

Behind me, Wes lets out a breath, shifting from foot to foot. I glance over my shoulder to find him studying my every move.

Not just watching either. He’s memorizing. Like he’s mentally filing away everything I do in case he ever has to do it himself.

His hands flex at his sides, resisting the urge to reach out.

I don’t comment on it because this seems difficult for him, this handing over control.

Instead, I carry Rosie back to the couch and settle her on my lap, tilting her head slightly against me.

She whimpers in protest, but I shush her, rubbing small circles into her back.

“I know, sweet girl. Just a little longer.”

Wes crouches beside us, so close I can feel his body heat.

“Okay,” I tell him, gently parting Rosie’s dark curls. “Just a couple drops.”

I squeeze the dropper once, then twice, letting the warm oil settle into her ear before massaging just behind it, gently coaxing the liquid deeper.

Rosie hiccups then sniffles.

Her face is still flushed from sleep, and her little fist is curled around my dress, but after a long minute, she relaxes.

And then, for the first time since I walked into this house, she smiles. Small at first. Sleepy and uncertain, but there.

Wes exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

“She might still need antibiotics. Definitely have the doctor check, but this should help the pain in the meantime.”

He nods, his gaze locked on Rosie like she might disappear if he blinks.

Then she giggles.

It’s enough to light something behind Wes’s tired eyes .

I grin, relief flooding me when pain seeps from her body. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Reaching out, I brush the tip of her button nose with my finger. “Boop.”

Rosie erupts into a full-on belly laugh that bursts out of her.

Wes goes still, like he might be watching actual magic happen before his eyes.

I glance up at him.

He’s still staring.

Voice gruff, he blurts, “When can you start?”

I’m unsure if he even meant to say it, or if he’s so exhausted he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

His gaze drops to Rosie, who’s still laughing and clinging to me like I’m a new toy.

“I need someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who gives a damn. And you…” His dark eyes flick to mine. “Yeah. You’ll do.”