Page 83 of If Love Had A Manual

He doesn’t see me right away because he’s mid-conversation with Milo.

A dog really is a man’s best friend.

His head snaps up when he hears me. “Christ,” he grimaces. “That bad?”

“This,” I groan, gesturing to all of me, “is why I don’t drink. I tried to sleep it off, but my blankets were giving me anxiety.”

He chuckles and returns to hammering something while my head explodes. “Blanket anxiety. That’s a new one.”

“Everything feels too loud, Wes. Help.”

I sink onto the porch steps like I’ve just crossed the Sahara barefoot.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him as he knees something into place.

Okay, that’s hot.

Relax, Turner. I’m fragile.

“Finally getting around to fixingthe support beams. They’ve been uneven for months.” He glances over his shoulder. “Wanna help?”

“No.”

His chest vibrates with a low rasp of amusement.

Milo trots over and licks my face.

“Ugh, Milo, please. I need IV fluids, not drool.”

Wes stands and brushes his hands on his jeans.

That’s when he takes off his cap, runs his hand through that thick, dark hair, and puts the cap back on.

Backwards.

I think I just had an orgasm.

“Jesus, Wes. Don’t do that,” I croak.

“Do what?”

I make a vague, swirling gesture near my head. “Hat.”

His brows almost reach his hairline. “Put my hat on?”

All I can do is nod.

“Lena,” he says slowly, “are you having a stroke?”

“No. Hangovers just do weird things to my sex drive.” I rub my temples. “I’m not well.”

He gapes at me for a second, then mutters, “You’re still drunk.”

“Probably.”

With a roll of his eyes, he takes a determined step toward me. “Up.”

“What?”

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