Page 137 of If Love Had A Manual

We’ve been painting for exactly one hour, and already, the living room looks like a war zone.

Paint smudges streak my arms, splatters dot my cheeks, and I’m pretty sure there’s even some tangled in my hair. The floor, despite the protective plastic and tarps, sports colorful evidence of our paint job. Or rather,mypaint job. Wes’s side is great. Mine? Not so much.

Milo sleeps peacefully in the corner, while Rosie naps upstairs, which means we don’t have long to finish before she wakes up and makes her mark.

This whole thing started as a simple project to make Wes’s half-empty living room feel like a home, but somewhere along the way, between playful insults and paint splatters, we turned into a pair of overgrown kids.

I pause, squinting at the wall where a missed spot taunts me near the ceiling. Distracted by the tiny imperfection, I don’t see Wes coming until it’s too late. He sweeps his roller in my direction, smearing a cold glob of paint right onto my shoulder.

“Oh my God, you asshole!” I shriek, spinning to face him, roller held up like a weapon.

“You started it,” Wes counters, eyes glinting wickedly.

“I absolutely did not.”

He spins around, showing me his jeans, where just two minutes ago I had stuck my paint covered hands to his ass. He’s now sporting my handprints as pockets.

He didn’t do anything about it at the time. That sneaky bastard was quiet in his retaliation.

I lunge forward, but Wes is quicker. He wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me off balance and against him. My back hits his chest, paint rollers tangling between us as laughter bursts from my throat.

“Say you’re sorry,” Wes growls into my ear, though his voice cracks with amusement.

“Absolutely not,” I manage through breathless giggles, squirming against his grip. Our bodies slip awkwardly, paint-slicked fingers fumbling, until we collide with the freshly painted wall. It’s a colorful mess.

“You’ll regret that,” he warns, still chuckling as he tightens his grip, holding me close against his chest.

I crane my neck to meet his gaze, lifting a brow defiantly. “Admit it, you love it.”

Laughter fading slowly, his dark eyes soften, the teasing glint replaced by something heavier. Suddenly, the playful air shifts, and my heartbeat stumbles into an uneven rhythm.

“No…I love you.”

It hits me like a freight train.

He looks just as stunned as I feel, like he didn’t mean to say it, but there’s no panic or regret on his face.

“You…” I start, my voice faint. “You love me?”

He nods slowly, eyes locked on mine. “Yeah. Fuck it. I do, Lena.”

I blink, once, twice, trying to keep myself steady as my paint roller slips from my hand, hitting the floor unnoticed. My heart thuds erratically as emotions flood me.

He steps even closer, pressing his forehead briefly against mine. “I love you,” he repeats more gently, voice rough but steady. “I love having you here. I love how you make this place feel like a home. I love watching Rosie reach for you, because she knows you’re hers as much as I do.”

My eyes sting, and my throat aches with the pressure of unshed tears. After losing Grandpa, I felt adrift, but right here, in Wes’s arms, I finally feel anchored again.

He doesn’t let me say anything before his mouth finds mine. The kiss isn’t hesitant or careful. It’s desperate, full of words neither of us can manage to say aloud right now.

Paint smears further across our clothes, but I don’t care. Not about the mess, not about anything except him.

We stumble over the plastic-covered floor, knocking aside brushes and cans until we land heavily. Wes braces himself above me before his fingers skim beneath my shirt. I arch instinctively into him with desire spiraling through me.

In one swift motion, he pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it aside. His mouth is hot and possessive as it trails down my neck. I tilt my head back, gasping as my nails scrape down his arms, tugging impatiently at his shirt until he yanks it off. Paint streaks his chest,and there’s a smudge lining his jaw, but I’ve never seen anything more perfect.

“I need you,” he groans, voice low, almost pleading. “Right now.”

My fingers tremble as I fumble with his jeans. My leggings follow quickly.

---