Page 53 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

“L ena, this is fucking humiliating.”

I glance over from the bookshelf I’m sizing up, arching a brow. Wes is standing frozen in the middle of the furniture store, jaw clenched, hands gripping the handles of—God help us both—the dog stroller. Not to be confused with Rosie’s actual stroller, which is parked beside it.

Inside said dog stroller is Milo. The forty-pound puppy.

Milo looks like he’s having a delightful time.

Wes? Not so much.

I smile sweetly. “What’s the problem?”

He just stares at me. “The problem is that I’m pushing a dog who weighs more than some fifth graders in a goddamn stroller.”

“He’s a baby,” I say, dead serious.

“He’s forty pounds, Lena. He’s a bear cub.”

“Forty-two,” I correct. “And sensitive.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes .

“I used to be cool. I used to ride a motorcycle. I had abs. Now I’m pushing a rescue mutt through a furniture store.”

“You’ve still got abs.”

He ignores me. “He just tried to lick a lamp.”

“He’s curious.”

Wes makes a guttural sound that might be a plea to the gods.

Rosie, in the actual child stroller, is sharing her snacks. One cracker for her, one for Milo, one for her, one for Milo.

“See?” I gesture to them. “She’s learning how to share.”

“They’re plotting,” Wes mutters darkly.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being—?” He stops to lower his voice, but now he just looks like a deranged whisperer. “I’m being dramatic? We’re both pushing strollers. One has a fucking dog in it.”

I swear his eyes almost pop out of his head, so I bite back the grin I know he’ll hate me for.

“You didn’t have to be the one pushing him.”

“You said—” His voice pitches. “You said it’d look weird if I pushed the baby and you pushed the dog.”

Seriously, it’s far too easy to rile this man up.

“It would,” I reply. “Gender roles.”

He levels me with a dead-eyed glare.

By the time we make it to the couch section, Wes looks like a man who’s survived a war. I, on the other hand, am thriving, bouncing from couch to couch like Goldilocks.

“Oof. This one. This is it.”

Wes stands nearby, arms folded. “You said that about the last three. ”

“Yeah, but this one’s got heft, Wes. This couch could hold secrets.”

“I hate that I know what you mean.”

I slide off and jog to the next one, sprawling out like I’m fainting in a Victorian novel. “This one’s too hard.”

“You’re scaring the employees.”

“You should see how I test mattresses.”

That gets a smile.

“Pervert,” I mumble under my breath.

I pop up again and beeline for the next option—a big, overstuffed, glorious L-shaped couch that looks like it belongs under my ass.

I drop onto it like it’s calling to my soul. “This. Is. It.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m never sure about anything. “Nope.”

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Grant me patience.”

“Okay, Mister Tasteful, show me what you like.”

He points to a sleek, modern, angular white couch with the personality of an Apple store. “That one.”

“You have a toddler. You want her crawling across that thing with Nutella fingers and leaky sippy cups? It’ll be brown in a week.”

“She’s clean,” he argues weakly.

“She tried to brush Milo’s teeth with barbecue sauce yesterday.”

He throws his head back with a groan. “Damn it.”

We compromise on a dark gray L-shaped sectional that hits the sweet spot between functional and not hideous. I bounce on it one last time for good measure.

Wes sighs. “You’re the reason furniture stores have security cameras.”

∞∞ ∞

Rosie’s officially over it. She’s been making weird throat noises for ten minutes straight. It’s her way of telling us that she’s two minutes away from an epic meltdown, and she wants out of this furniture store.

The cashier—a woman named Denise, according to her name tag—rings up the order as I try to distract Rosie with funny faces.

Denise beams down at us, and God bless her, doesn’t comment on how Rosie’s chewing on a paint swatch, and I appreciate that. “Oh my goodness, look at that little face.”

Wes steps closer, setting the tins of paint on the counter. “She’s trouble. Don’t let the cheeks fool you.”

“She’s all her mama,” Denise says sweetly, glancing at me. “Looks just like you.”

My breath catches just a fraction, and Wes goes completely still beside me, but neither of us corrects her.

We don’t say, Actually, she’s not mine.

We just... smile.

His mouth curves as he shoots me a wink and says, “She’s got her attitude, too.”

“She’s precious,” Denise adds, scanning our final item. “Y’all make a beautiful family.”

Family.

I guess in some dysfunctional way, we are.

We manage to pay and escape to the front of the store, where Rosie immediately starts fussing over the balloon we picked up along the way and tied to the bag. I bend to untangle it, but so does Wes.

I stand too fast, and my forehead collides with his chin with a sickening thud .

“Shit—ow!”

“Jesus, woman!”

We both stagger.

Rosie screeches.

Milo barks.

Eyes watering, he grabs my face, inspecting me. “Are you bleeding?”

“No, are you?” I wince, hand on Wes’s jaw, tipping his face toward the light.

“No, but I think you dislocated my jaw. I’ll never eat solids again.”

“You’re such a baby.”

He glares, rubbing his chin. “I take back every nice thing I said in the paint aisle.”

I lean in and nudge him. “Even the part where you said I bring out your color adventurous side?”

“Especially that.”

Grabbing my face again, he presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head where I’m sure there’s a bump developing.

By the time we wrangle the kid, the dog, and the paint into the car, we’re both slightly winded. Wes opens the passenger door for me like a gentleman, and then immediately steals the last bite of my granola bar from the cupholder.

“I was saving that,” I say flatly, buckling in. “You’re sleeping on the ugly couch.”

“You mean the one you forced me to buy?”

My jaw drops, offended. He knows that’s not the one I’m talking about.

“Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll stain it on purpose.”

“I’ll stain you on purpose.”

“Promise?”

I shove him, but he grins like the smug bastard he is, then backs out of the parking space as Rosie babbles something from the backseat that sounds suspiciously like Milo poop.

Milo, for the record, looks completely unrepentant.