Page 55 of If Love Had A Manual

She just grins, her earlier seriousness replaced by that mischievous spark I know all too well.

When she takes over pushing the cart, I fall into step beside them and wait for the ache in my chest to loosen. I’m glad she’s here, even if that means dealing with Brussels sprouts on my dinner plate.

Still, a part of me wonders: how long will Lena stay? Because God help me, if she goes and leaves us too, I don’t know how many more pieces I’d be able to pick up.

Nineteen

Lena

Isit cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking blocks while Rosie watches. She glances from the growing tower to me, her little lips pursing in intense concentration.

“Okay, Rosie,” I say, carefully placing the last block on top. “This is our masterpiece. Our legacy. The eighth wonder of the—”

Before I can finish, Rosie lunges forward, obliterating it with a delighted war cry. Blocks fly in every possible direction. One rolls beneath the couch, another ricochets off my shin. Rosie claps, delightedwith herself.

I tickle her. “You tiny monster.”

She just giggles louder.

Destruction, it seems, is her love language.

I reach out to scoop her up, lifting her in the air and nuzzling her belly with my head until she laughs.

“We need to get new hobbies,” I tell her, placing her on my hip. “We can’t build towers and eat all day every day.”

She lets out a deceptively adorable hiccup in reply. Then another. My brain barely registers the warning before—

Oh, sweet merciful lord, no.

She vomits.

All over me.

It’s not a cute baby spit-up. This is a violent, stomach-emptying, horror-movie projectile assault.

I freeze with my arms still awkwardly extended, as warm, sour-smelling goo drips slowly down my shirt. Rosie blinks at me, offended at her body’s sudden betrayal.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I groan while suppressing my gag reflex. “That was…awful. Ten out of ten.”

Miraculously, she’s untouched. Even her pink onesie remains pristine. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve lost a battle with a blender.

I deposit Rosie in the playpen so I can deal with myself. There’s only so much baby wipes can do, and I desperately need a clean shirt.

“You’re not going to do that again, are you?” She looks better. The smile she gives me tells me so. “I know. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t tickle you after dinner.” I think she just nodded. Right. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

I dash upstairs and into her room to grab a sweaterfrom the small pile of clothes I keep here for this exact reason.

I’m tugging the vomit-soaked sweater over my head and trying not to touch my hair with it when I hear the front door swing open.

Shit.

Wes.

He called earlier to say he’d be late and asked if I could stay a little longer. I thought I had at least another twenty minutes.

Clearly, time management is not my forte.

“Lena?” His deep voice echoes downstairs, keys jangling against the counter.

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