Page 7 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

I honestly didn’t expect Wes to hold out till noon before checking in on us. I’m in the middle of stacking some bright-colored cups with Rosie, who’s determined to knock them down the second they’re up, when my phone dings on the counter.

Wes: Everything okay?

That’s it. No greeting. Just straight to the point.

I flick my gaze at Rosie, who’s currently singing a one-year-old’s version of a sea shanty before tapping out a quick reply.

Me: Yeah, we’re great! I’m just in the kitchen while Rosie tackles the stairs on her own. Thinking we might try skydiving later too.

I send it off with a snort.

Sure enough, the little typing bubbles pop up before they quickly disappear. It happens a couple of times, but still no reply.

Uh-oh. Did I break him?

I snap a quick picture of Rosie for proof of life purposes and send it to him.

Me: Sorry, I promise I’ll leave the sarcastic humor at home until at least week three. As you can see, she’s doing fine. You can get out of your truck now. You don’t need to come rushing back.

It takes ten seconds for his reply.

Wes: I wasn’t leaving .

Liar.

But I let the anxious uncle have this one small victory.

Me: We’re good. Rosie just had her snack and is about ready for a nap.

Again, the typing bubbles flash on… then off. I can practically see him standing in the corner of his shop, phone in hand, wrestling with whether he should trust me or bail on work to check for himself.

Last week, I was here nearly every day for an hour or two, mostly to let Rosie get used to me, but I’m pretty sure Wes was the one who needed the most reassurance.

On our second day, I took Rosie for a short stroll around the neighborhood, and when we rounded the corner to come back, Wes was standing out front, tools in hand, pretending to tighten a screw on the mailbox.

The mailbox, which was perfectly fine, considering he’d done the same thing twenty minutes earlier.

It must be killing him to be away all day today .

Wes: Okay.

Okay?

No lecture?

It’s progress.

Nodding in approval, I set the phone aside and go back to Rosie.

“I think we’re getting along just fine. What do you think, Rosie Posie?”

More babbling and spit bubbles.

I think that’s a yes.

∞∞∞

Rosie goes down for her nap like a dream. No major protests, just a few half-hearted whimpers, but I wait in the nursery until I’m sure her gentle snores have settled into a steady rhythm before backing away like I’m defusing a bomb.

Downstairs, I set the monitor on the counter and take in the aftermath of snack time.

Crumbs. Everywhere.

I wipe down the highchair, scrub some berry residue from the floor, and load the sink with dirty dishes. A random plastic spoon has somehow ended up on the other side of the kitchen, but I track it down and toss it into the dishwasher.

When the kitchen is clean, I turn on the TV. I’ve noticed that when Rosie takes her nap, Wes keeps the house quiet. I can’t handle silence, and every kid should be used to noise. By the time I’m done with her, Rosie will be able to sleep through a hurricane. But for today, we’ll start with the TV.

My eyes land on the bookshelf against the far wall, packed with his vinyl records. I find myself examining the photos again, especially the one of Rosie as a newborn with her parents.

Poor baby girl.

My stomach twists with that surge of empathy. I set a mental note to ask Wes their names later. It feels strange to have their daughter in my care and not know their names.

A roll of blueprints juts out, wedged next to the picture frame.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I carefully slide them free.

They detail plans for a house renovation: built-in shelves, a brand-new deck, and an updated kitchen.

At least he can check the kitchen off his list. But clearly, Wes had big ideas for this place.

Had being the key word because life happened, and Rosie happened.

I think we might be alike in that way, stuck in places that never quite got finished. His are measured in blueprints and unpainted walls. Mine are a little harder to spot. More of a state of mind. Half-built dreams and corners I haven’t dared to unpack yet.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tuck the blueprints back.

I’m tempted to bundle Rosie up and head to the park, but something tells me Wes would have a minor coronary if I left on my first full day, especially in the “rust bucket,” as he affectionately called my car.

I can’t really blame him. I think he trusts me as much as you can trust anyone with your kid. He’s just struggling.

He’ll figure out soon enough that we’re fine. A week, maybe two, and he’ll see that Rosie is safe and happy. Then we can venture further than the front yard without him hyperventilating.

As if on cue, the baby monitor crackles to life with a tiny rustle. I lean in, listening to Rosie’s soft movements, followed by a sleepy hum. Nap time is officially over.

By the time I reach the nursery, Rosie’s already sitting up, eyes half-lidded. Her curls are mashed to one side, and she’s got a faint pink line on her cheek from the crib sheet.

“Hello there, sleepy head,” I say quietly, stepping closer. She blinks at me, then huffs, like waking up is such an inconvenience. With a dramatic flop, she falls back onto the mattress. “Tough life, huh?”

She exhales another sigh, chubby legs kicking out once in protest, until she finally lifts her arms, demanding Up, woman!

In the hallway, she pats my collarbone, pointing down the stairs. I dutifully follow her lead to the living room, where she wriggles out of my arms and speed-toddles straight to her basket of toys.

I watch as she rustles through them like a little tornado. When she finally emerges, she’s hugging a stuffed grey elephant to her chest, and she turns to me with a beaming smile.

“Is that your favorite?” I kneel beside her. “What’s their name?”

Rosie blinks, then thrusts the elephant into my lap before grabbing my hand and placing it on the plush head.

“Oh, you’re sharing? How generous,” I say softly. “How about Ellie?”

Original, Lena.

Rosie grins, nods, then plops onto her diapered butt with a flourish. And just like that, I’m part of her inner circle.

∞∞ ∞

“I swear I didn’t touch them.” I hold up my hands for Rosie to see. She’s been determined to get her blocks more than two high for twenty minutes, and they always topple. According to the stink eye she’s giving me, it’s always my fault. “We almost had it that time.”

We’re soaking up the late afternoon sun on a blanket in the front yard, a welcome break from being cooped up. I figured some fresh air might tire her out before dinner, but mostly, it’s just nice to sit and do nothing.

Rosie is setting up her blocks again when the low rumble of a truck engine breaks her concentration. I glance up, shielding my eyes to see Wes pulling into the driveway. I didn’t expect him back so soon.

The second he’s out of the truck, his eyes zero in on Rosie, and all that tension in his shoulders dissolves.

“There’s my princess,” he says, voice tinged with relief. He crosses the yard in a few long strides and pulls her into his arms. “How was she?”

I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Rosie, but I answer anyway. “Great. We had lots of fun. She’s an angel.” I stand and brush off my shorts. “You’re home early. I thought I was supposed to watch her until five?”

He shoots me a quick look while he bounces Rosie on his hip. “You are.”

“Checking on us?”

That’s when I notice the red toolbox sitting at his feet. “Your car. Figured I’d take a look.”

Oh. Of course. Ruby.

I know exactly how this is going to go. He’s about to judge the hell out of my sweet junker .

Rosie gurgles to get Wes’s attention back, so he presses a quick kiss to her temple and hands her back to me.

“Go easy on Ruby,” I say with a pleading smile. “That’s my baby.”

“That’s concerning.”

Yep, I was worried he’d say that.

I sink onto the blanket with Rosie in my lap, and watch as Wes walks around my car, his every move slow and methodical. He runs a broad, calloused hand over the hood. It’s strangely mesmerizing to see him in his element. If Ruby could talk, she’d be trembling under his scrutiny.

He pops the hood.

Jesus, take the wheel.

His forearms—all strong, tanned, veiny perfection—flex as he reaches in, grabbing onto something that I do not care about, and I swear, I feel a genuine moment of weakness.

I’m currently experiencing a hot flash that has nothing to do with the sun.

He pulls out a rag from his back pocket, wipes a streak of grease off his fingers, then drags a hand through his messy, sweat-dampened hair.

I shit you not, a small, depraved sound nearly slips out of my throat.

I snap my eyes to the sky in silent prayer.

Stay cool, Lena.

But then he braces a hand on the edge, leans in deeper, and those muscles shift and flex with each movement.

This is your boss. He’s grieving. You’re not a raging pervert. Keep it together.

Rosie chooses that moment to clap her hands, snapping me right out of my unholy daydream. I tighten my hold on her, cheeks burning.

“I’m going to get her dinner,” I call to him, standing up like my ass is on fire. “You have fun with Ruby.”

Wes barely glances over, elbow-deep in dusty engine parts.

“Mmhm,” he mutters.

That’s all I get. A noncommittal grunt.

Men.

Especially men who’re good with tools and have arms like that.

I roll my eyes—mostly at myself—and hustle inside, figuring it’s best if I keep a safe distance from the impure thoughts zone. My hormones can cool off, Rosie can get fed, and I can avoid proposing marriage to the hot mechanic in the driveway.