Page 5 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Wes

R osie’s perched in her highchair, cheeks smeared with berry pulp, and babbling like she’s got a whole damn speech to give. I cradle my coffee mug at the kitchen island, trying to wake up enough to catch every garbled syllable.

“Morning to you, too, princess,” I say, voice still rough with sleep.

Her only reply is more enthusiastic babble with one hand waving in the air like she’s certain she can make a point if she tries hard enough.

I let out a low laugh and take another sip. “You got a lot to say today, huh?”

She offers up more nonsense in return, her bright eyes fixed on me, and it never fails to punch a hole in my chest. Sometimes it stings, how pure and trusting she is, even though she has every right not to be.

There are still no actual words from her this morning.

I read somewhere that talking to babies like they’re adults helps them develop speech, so that’s what I do.

I speak to her constantly—about work, about house projects I need to finish, and about how I’m in way over my head trying to be her parent, but I’m giving it everything I’ve got.

She just babbles and shoves berries into her mouth.

“Maybe that’s why you don’t talk yet.” I wipe a berry chunk off her chin with my thumb. “Your mouth’s always stuffed with food.”

That gets a giggle.

My chest twists with both guilt and worry.

It’s hard to pin down which one these days.

The doctor said she’s fine, that all kids hit milestones at their own pace, but every time she calls me by a drawn-out string of babbles instead of, I don’t know, words, I get this knot in my stomach. Like I’m failing her somehow.

She’s fourteen months old. There should be something resembling a word, right?

I settle in, leaning against the counter. “Got a new nanny starting today. Lena. Ring any bells?”

Rosie bounces her feet, a big grin on her face as if to say, Sure, Uncle Wes, I remember that lady. It’s more babbling, but I like to think she understands more than I realize.

I went through an agency to find the nanny.

They posted the job listing and vetted the applications.

Lena’s was the first to hit my inbox. I had a couple of others lined up, and figured I’d get through them by the end of the week.

Then she showed up and smiled like the job interview didn’t faze her at all.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I opened the door. I just wasn’t expecting…her.

She was all bright brown eyes and soft smiles.

But she’s got a degree. References. Kids love her, apparently. I just wasn’t prepared for how fucking beautiful she is.

That should have been my first clue that I shouldn’t have hired her.

My friend, Julian, warned me about this. His exact words were: “Don’t hire a hot nanny. Hot nannies are trouble.”

He’s not wrong. I already know I fucked up.

But Rosie smiled and reached right for her. If Lena can keep her fed, safe, and maybe even teach her a thing or two, then I don’t care how pretty she is.

Distraction or not. I just need this to work.

Last week, Lena suggested she stop by the house a couple of times before officially starting, just to let Rosie warm up to her, and because I had no clue what I was doing, I listened.

Rosie was fine.

Lena was fine.

I was a fucking wreck.

But by day four, I even left them alone for fifteen minutes while I took a walk.

Well, calling it a walk is generous. I made it to the end of the driveway, stood there sweating while checking my phone, then jogged back under the excuse of forgetting something.

What I forgot was that Lena doesn’t need training wheels.

She was sitting on the floor with Rosie in her lap, both of them reading a picture book about a dog with a fear of loud noises. Rosie looked up at me and actually pouted when I walked back in.

So yeah. Turns out Lena’s got this.

Still, the knot in my stomach tightens. Will she pick up on Rosie’s signals? Will she know the difference between the I’m hungry cry and the I’m teething again, please kill me cry?

I have to trust that it’ll work out. Rosie needs consistency, and I’ve got a business to run. End of story.

I’ve been back at the shop for a while, but my guys have been picking up the slack.

They thought I needed more time to grieve, but after weeks of pacing these floors and pushing Rosie’s stroller around the same damn park, I was losing my mind, so I brought her to work with me.

It was a stupid idea from the start. A garage isn’t made for toddlers, especially now that she’s walking.

The guys love her and treat her like our mascot, but not every customer appreciates a toddler squeaking a toy car under their feet.

It’s not the life I pictured.

When I bought this house a year ago, I thought I was finally settling down. I had plans for the place—renovate the living room, add a fresh coat of paint, ditch the ugly couch. Then everything went to shit, and those plans died on impact.

One night. One fucking night, and my life flipped upside down.

I squeeze the coffee mug so tight I’m amazed it doesn’t crack.

Rosie whimpers quietly, like she can sense the storm gathering in my head. Her big eyes fix on me as she lifts her arms, sticky fingers and all.

I exhale and push away the darkness. Eight months in, and I’ve learned she’s the only thing that can yank me out of that grief spiral.

Thank God for that.

She doesn’t cry for her parents at night like she used to. She finds comfort in me now because I’m all she’s got. It doesn’t mean I always feel worthy of it.

I set my coffee down and step over to her high chair, sliding my arms around her to lift her up. “Come here, princess.”

She squeals, clamping her sticky palms around my jaw. Berry juice and baby drool. Fucking gross.

I laugh under my breath, moving to the sink so I can wash her face and hands. Rosie doesn’t give me much time to sit in my thoughts. She demands attention around the clock, and I’m grateful for it. But at night, when she’s fast asleep, that’s when it hits.

That’s when everything is quiet.

That’s when the silence is too fucking loud…

But not as loud as—

What the fuck is that noise?

It starts as a deep, grinding rattle, followed by a metallic wheeze that sounds suspiciously like something dying.

Rosie flinches and lets out a tiny “ooh!” before burying her face against my shirt.

I stride toward the door, adjusting my grip on her as I yank it open.

Lena is scrambling out of a car that should’ve retired years ago.

My brain stalls.

How had I not noticed this thing before?

She wasn’t driving it last week, that’s for sure.

The ‘96 Camry is technically old enough to be a classic, if you ignore the duct-taped side mirror. The body is still mostly intact, but rust creeps along the wheel wells, and the once-glossy paint has faded into a dull, patchy red.

She shuts the door, turns toward us, and her face goes from pure chaos to a beaming grin in one second flat.

She takes a step, or tries to, but her dress is caught in the fucking door she just slammed shut.

Jesus Christ.

Lena curses as she yanks the dress, then mumbles an apology about her language that I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hear or not. She tugs at the door, swears again, then finally manages to free her dress.

Brushing down the fabric, she straightens up like nothing happened and marches toward us.

“Morning, beautiful girl,” she sings, tickling Rosie’s belly.

Rosie grins, showing off the tiny baby teeth she’s been working so hard for.

“Did she finish her antibiotics?” she asks.

“Yeah. She’s as good as new.”

“It’s hot today,” she sighs, grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and pulling her long, dark hair back into a messy ponytail.

I eye her, then glance at the car still sitting in my driveway like an abandoned relic from another time.

“Let me guess,” I drawl, raising a brow. “No air conditioning in the rust box?”

She gasps, placing a hand over her heart like I just personally insulted her family. “That’s Ruby.”

I blink. “You gave that a name?”

“She’s got character,” she says with a shrug.

I look at her.

Then at the car.

Then back at her .

“Character is one word for it.”

“It was my grandpa’s car. He can’t drive anymore because, you know…stroke and all.”

Staring at her, I do my best to process everything that comes out of her mouth.

Before I can even formulate a response, Lena suddenly snaps her fingers. “That reminds me. I’m going to need to take the car seat from your truck.”

I don’t even hesitate. “No.”

“No?”

“You are not taking my niece in that car.”

She gapes at me. “Why not? My license is clean. I sent over all the documents. Didn’t you get them?”

“I got them.” I gesture to the very obvious reason sitting in my driveway. “But I’m pretty sure that thing is ninety percent responsible for the hole in the ozone layer.”

“Ruby is perfectly safe,” she argues, hands on her hips.

“Then you won’t mind waiting until I can have a look at it.”

What can only be described as fear flashes in her eyes. “Look at it?”

“Yeah. Make sure it’s roadworthy. You know, confirm that it’s not going to fall apart if you hit a speed bump.”

She huffs, muttering what I’m sure is another string of curses under her breath.

If Rosie’s first word is shit , Lena’s fired.

If it’s fuck , well, that’s on me.

She peeks at her watch, cheeks flushed. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

Right. Work. The whole reason I needed a nanny in the first place.

She steps closer and lifts her arms like she’s done this a million times, and sure enough, Rosie goes right to her.

“Yeah,” I mutter, stepping into the house alongside her.

It hits me again, that weird pang in my chest. I’m actually leaving her.

It’s for the best. Rosie can’t hang out in the shop forever. It’s better for her, I know that.

“You cleaned?” Lena asks, brows raised, as we step into the living room.

I rub the back of my neck. “Believe it or not, you caught me on a bad week last week. The house isn’t always a shit show. With you starting today, I wanted you to be able to find anything you needed.”

Her expression softens. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did. And it wasn’t all me. Kate helped.”

She pauses, her gaze flicking to me as I move into the kitchen. “Kate?”

I grab the milk from the fridge and pour some into Rosie’s bottle before handing it to her.

“She’s a mechanic at the shop, and happily married,” I say, catching the hesitation in her tone. “But she loves Rosie and helps out when she can.”

“That’s nice.”

Rosie kicks her legs and drinks her milk, utterly oblivious to the fact that I’m still mentally stalling.

The room goes quiet for a beat.

“So…” Lena prompts, tilting her head while swaying on her feet.

I take the opening to rattle off everything I’ve laid out for the day.

“Her snacks are in the second cupboard. I’ve left her lunch in the fridge, but if she doesn’t want it, there are backup meals in the freezer.

She naps at one, but don’t let her get overtired, or she’ll be a demon.

Her clothes are in the wardrobe. Vests in the first drawer, pajamas in the second—”

“Okay, okay,” she cuts me off. “You’re organized. We’re going to be just fine, Wes.”

I linger.

She notices.

“Wes?” she says slowly, one brow raised. “Are you actually going to leave today, or are you planning on staying to supervise?”

She’s right.

I need to just rip off the damn Band-Aid and go.

“You’ve got my number?”

“Sure do.”

“The shop number is on the fridge if you can’t reach me.”

“Got it.”

I hesitate for one last moment. “And Lena?”

She meets my gaze. “Yeah?”

“Promise you’ll contact me if there are any issues.”

Her expression turns soft. “I promise.”