Page 67 of If Love Had A Manual

But no, because apparently, the universe has clocked me and said:Oh, sweetheart. Not today.

Today, Wes is running late.

Which means I’m walking into danger with a squirming puppy in my bag and a lie forming in real time.

I nudge open the door with my hip.

Wes is in the kitchen, next to the coffee maker, wearing his usual dark jeans and boots, but his T-shirt’s half-tucked, and his damp hair is still dripping down the back of his neck.

I gulp and pull myself together. Okay. Cool. Normal. Be normal. Say normal things.

“Morning,” I chirp.

Wes grunts. “Morning. Rosie’s still asleep. Gimme five.”

Cool. He’s distracted. This is good. This is fine.

He’s not even looking at me. Everything’s going to be—

Wait. No. Crap. He’s looking. He’slooking.

Abort mission.

My face is smiling. Why is my face smiling?

Stop. Smiling.

I’m sure I look borderline manic at this point.

Wes squints, studying me, and then my bag. “Lena?”

Shit.

“Yeah?”

“Why the fuck is your bag breathing?”

Right. Okay. No getting around that one.

“Okay, so—” I start, before the damn traitor in my bag wiggles out and plops his happy little body right onto the counter.

I lunge like I’m catching a baby from a burning building.

“I was going to tell you,” I say, like the liar I am. “Ijust found him on my way here. He was alone, Wes. Look at him.”

Wes does look at him.

Then me.

His gaze continues to ping-pong between us.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I huff. “I’m just going to take him to the vet later and see if he’s microchipped. Someone could be missing him.”

Wes sighs, like he’s aged seven years in the past forty-five seconds, but then, to my surprise, he scratches the puppy behind the ears.

Victory.

Mini one.

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