Page 73 of If Love Had A Manual

Rosie swivels and makes grabby hands at my ponytail. Permission granted. I settle her on my lap and press the washcloth to her forehead. She sighs a contented sound that vibrates straight through my sternum.

Wes watches, lids heavy, the bowl of soup cooling in his grip.

“You’re good at that,” he tells me, voice hoarse. “You need a raise.”

“Damn right.”

His mouth curves before he eyes the soup with a skeptical arch of his brow. “What’s in it?”

“Love,” I deadpan. “And twelve cloves of garlic.”

“Trying to kill me?”

“Trying to resurrect you. Eat.”

He takes a spoonful and groans. “Holy shit, Carter. Marry me.”

God, I’m good.

“You don’t propose with a runny nose, Romeo. Finish the bowl, then we’ll talk dowry.”

While he eats, I grab a smaller bowl, tear the noodles into bite-sized pieces, and persuade Rosie to have four spoonfuls before she decides the spoon is lava. It’s progress.

When we finish our soup and Rosie finally passes out again—this time in the portable crib—I come back to find Wes slumped sideways.

“Go to bed,” I order.

“Shop—”

“Will not explode without you for one afternoon.”

He rubs his eyes. “But—”

I plant both hands on my hips. “You’re arguing with a woman who once wrestled a Costco rotisserie chicken away from a seagull. I will win.”

His mouth twitches. Then a resigned exhale. “Fine.”

When he pushes up, he sways slightly, so I grab his elbow to steady him.

“Easy, tiger.”

“Got it.” His cheeks turn the faintest pink, and I don’t think it’s the fever.

Wes Turner, blushing. Mark the calendar.

I shepherd him to his bedroom with a bottle ofwater. Collapsing face down on the mattress, he mumbles something that might be thanks or might be an inventory of things he needs for the shop.

Milo clambers in after us, lets out a soft bark, and climbs up on the bed to rest at Wes’s feet.

See, I knew they were getting along.

Twenty-Six

Wes

Iwake with a start, heart pounding, and my breath catching like I’ve run a mile uphill. No alarm. No sound. Just a sick, sinking feeling that I missed something important.

The sweat slicked to my skin says flu. The panic clawing at my ribs says grief.

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