Page 29 of If Love Had A Manual

“You play guitar?” His voice is dubious, bordering on outright skepticism.

“No, Wes,” I deadpan, gently setting the guitar down. “I carry this around for fun.”

He shakes his head as I lean down and boop Rosie’s nose. She giggles, banana goo oozing from her chin.

Gross yet adorable.

“I didn’t peg you as the guitar type,” he admits.

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “What type did you have me pegged as?”

He studies me over the rim of his mug. “The type who blasts embarrassing pop songs at stoplights.”

I gasp. “Excuse me?”

“Am I wrong?”

Ugh. Fine. He might have a tiny point.

“I can love cheesy music and still shred on guitar. It’s called versatility.”

Rosie claps, picking my side like the traitorous, beautiful little cherub she is.

Wes shrugs and sets his coffee mug down. “Go ahead, dazzle me, Carter.”

Oh, buddy, you’ve done it now.

I grab my guitar and remove it from the case before strumming an aggressively dramatic chord. Rosie gasps. That’s the reaction I was hoping for. She’s going to love this.

And because I know it’s going to piss him off, I strum another few chords before breaking out into none other than Kumbaya.

He blinks at me like I’ve just started chanting in Latin and summoning woodland creatures.

His left eye twitches.

I swear I see a vein in his forehead throb.

At least Rosie appreciates my effort.

“You know,” he drawls as I finish, “sometimes I wonder who’s babysitting who here.”

“Mission accomplished. My feelings are deeply wounded.”

His chest vibrates with a laugh. It’s a warm, rough sound that hits somewhere soft in my chest before I can brace for it.

I roll my eyes and start packing up the guitar just as he asks, “What’s on Rosie’s itinerary today? I heard they opened a new soft-play spot downtown.”

I freeze, eyes widening in horror. “A soft-play area? One of those festering petri dishes of childhood disease? Wes, have you ever actually seen a ball pit? It’s a glorified soup of toddler germs.”

He rubs his forehead, looking like he regrets ever bringing it up.

“No, I’m serious. I’ve personally witnessed children licking slides. Licking the slides, Wes. Are you listening to me?”

“You’re spiraling.”

Of course I am.

“Do you know how they sanitize those places?” He opens his mouth to answer, but I don’t give him the chance. “They don’t. It’s just an endless Hunger Games scenario for preschoolers.”

---