Page 7 of If Love Had A Manual

Okay then. We’re skipping small talk. I can roll with that.

Inside, the air is cooler, but the house feels haphazard. Not dirty, just clearly drowning in baby stuff and leftover coffee cups. Toys cover the floor. A lone pink sock is flopped over the arm of the couch like it got tired halfway to the laundry basket. Meanwhile, a half-finished baby bottle rests on the kitchen counter, abandoned next to a coffee mug.

In the middle of all this chaos sits a little girl with dark curls that frame her face like a halo. She has that wide-eyed, sleepy look that babies get when they’re ready to crash but can’t quite surrender.

“Rosie, right?” I look to Wes, remembering he mentioned her name on our brief phone call yesterday.

He nods again.

Not much of a talker.

All good.

“Mind if I say hello?” I ask, glancing up at him. He won’t stop staring at me, or maybe he’s inspecting me for explosives, I’m not sure.

“Go ahead.”

A soft smile takes over my face as I crouch down to her level. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

Rosie gives me a slow blink, probably wondering,Who is this lady, and why is she talking to me before I’ve had my morning nap?But surprisingly, she lifts her chubby arms for me to pick her up.

I reach for her, but before my hands can make contact, her face crumples. That adorable baby curiosity morphs into a trembling lower lip. She twists away and lets out a quiet whimper as she turns to Wes for comfort.

Just like that, the big, scowling man softens like butter in the sun.

“Hey, princess,” he soothes, gathering her up with the kind of gentleness I didn’t expect.His voice is like gravel, but there’s an undercurrent of tenderness when she latches onto his shirt and buries her face against his chest with a sad little sigh.

I realize in that single moment that this child is his world.

The living room might be on the losing side of a war with laundry and toys, but the baby? She’s loved. You can see it in the way he holds her and the way his hand gently cups the back of her head.

Bouncing her in his arms, he lets out a weary breath. “She’s been up since five. Earache, I think.” He shifts Rosie to his other shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I was hoping she’d go down for a nap before you arrived, but she’s fighting it.”

“Poor thing.”

Our eyes briefly meet before he nods toward the hallway. “I’ll be back.”

And then he’s gone, carrying Rosie up the stairs like she’s an extension of himself.

I take the opportunity to look around. The place is plain, not much in the way of décor. It’s neutral walls and simple furniture. There’s a faint sense of unfinished business. It's as if someone started to put their stamp on the house, got halfway through, and then life intervened. Hard.

A gleaming, renovated kitchen catches my eye—sleek walnut cabinets, marble countertops, and a fancy faucet that looks expensive. The rest of the house isn’t so polished. It’s like he tried to do everything at once, and mid-renovation, the universe decided to hand him a baby and a million complications.

I wander over to a dark wooden cabinet along the wall. It’s packed with vinyl records. There’s classic rock, a bit of old-school country, and some blues. It’s an impressive collection.

My gaze drifts over the spines, and suddenly, I’m eight years old again, curled up on the floor, watching some cartoon while Mom cleans in the kitchen, dancing in mismatched socks toAin’t No Mountain High Enoughby Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

God, I haven’t thought about that in years.

Between the records, there are pictures scattered on the shelves. Most are of Rosie, but one catches my eye. It’s a couple holding a newborn. Something about this one tugs at me. Maybe it’s the tightness in the woman’s smile, or the way the man’s hand hovers protectively over the baby. There’s a weight to it that lingers in the back of my throat.

Just as I’m leaning in for a closer look,a deep voice behind me makes me jump.

“Those are Rosie’s parents.”

Heart thumping, I spin around. Wes stands there with his arms folded, no baby in sight. My stomach gives a weird little lurch because he looks haunted. Like he’s balancing on the precipice of some memory he hasn’t fully processed.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, not sure if I overstepped. “I just—”

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