Page 84 of If Love Had A Manual

“Up. Inside. Now.”

Before I can argue, he’s got me standing and leading me into the house by the elbow.

“Sit,” he orders, pointing at a kitchen stool.

“What are you doing?” I squint at him from behind my sunglasses.

He grabs some ice from the freezer and puts it in aglass. “Saving your life.”

“Oh god,” I moan, resting my forehead on the counter. “Please don’t let it be pink.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he starts moving around the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Ten minutes later, he sets a plate of food and a glass in front of me. Eggs, toast, a banana, and a big glass of water with what might be some weird vitamin powder.

“Eat,” he demands, sliding the plate toward me.

I take a bite of toast and chew. “You’re not my real dad.”

Arms crossed over his broad chest, he leans against the counter, scrutinizing me with his gaze. I think he’s making sure I don’t die on his watch.

I point a piece of toast at him. “You make a surprisingly good wife.”

“I’ll pass that along to my future husband.”

I almost choke. “Wesley Turner, was that a joke?”

He doesn’t reply to that either.

“God, maybe I am still drunk. You’re practically nurturing.”

We fall into silence then, the kind that feels surprisingly comfortable. The music from outside floats in through the open back door. It’s an old Springsteen track.

I finish the last of my toast and sigh. “You saved me.”

“Anytime,” he says.

I look up, and for a moment, there’s something serious in his expression. Something that settles in my chest and lingers there all heavy and warm.

But before I can do something reckless like acknowledge it, I push my plate away. “Okay, new rule.No more Sienna cocktails unless I’ve signed a living will first.”

“Deal,” he says, smirking. “But you’re going to need to do me a favor in return.”

“Like what?”

“Next time, you’re carrying Nathan.”

“I knew he fell asleep on me in the cab.”

Wes walks past me to grab his toolbox. “I had money on it. You were both snoring.”

Tools in hand, he leaves me there, laughing to myself, and maybe—maybe—even a little in love with a man who made me eggs and watched me drool on our dog.

God help me.

Thirty-One

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