Page 14 of If Love Had A Manual

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 andactually 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 theI’m hungrycry and theI’m teething again, please kill mecry?

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 yankme 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?

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