Page 22 of If Love Had A Manual

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’smybaby.”

“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.

Seven

Wes

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