Page 89 of If Love Had A Manual

I glance up at the glowing sign:The Velvet Room.

Ryan’s eyes are practically bugging out. “We have to go in there.”

Connor shrugs like this isn’t a bad idea, which it absolutely is. “Kate said we need to find you female company.”

For fuck’s sake. I don’t need a babysitter, and I can find my own damn woman.

I make a face. “You’re seriously following womeninto a jazz bar?” I jerk my chin at the group. “Feels kind of... I don’t know, sleazy?”

Ryan smirks. “Got a better plan? Unless you’d rather go home to your nice, quiet house, stare at your phone with your cock in your hand and wait for your nanny to text you.”

My jaw ticks. “Watch it.”

He holds his hands up. “I’m just saying. We promised Kate we’d make sure you didn’t end up a hermit tonight.”

I should tell them both to fuck off. That’s definitely what I should do, but then I hear the soft brush of cymbals, the heartbeat thump of a stand-up bass, and the curl of saxophone riffs drifting through the open doorway.

It’s good.

And yeah, I can appreciate good music.

I sigh, roll my shoulders, and wave them on.

“Fine,” I grunt. “Move.”

The moment we enter, warm golden light bathes everything—velvet booths, dark wood floors, and a polished bar along one side. The place is crowded, but not rowdy. The hum of voices is low, interrupted by the clink of ice in glasses and the shuffle of servers gliding between tables. Above it all, a jazz band weaves lazy rhythms that burrow under your skin.

I’m scanning the room when my eyes fall back on the stage, and I see her.

It’s like my entire body goes stiff at once. Because there, on the stage under a single spotlight, stands Lena.

MyLena.

She’s dressed in this black dress that clings in all the right places, dipping low enough to leave my mouthdry with the hem ending right above her knees. It’s hugging curves that my subconscious has apparently been cataloging without permission. I’ve seen her in baggy sweatshirts, in short shorts, in those stupid cat-ear hoodies she buys to match Rosie.

This is something else entirely. I know the shape of her body even when I’ve tried not to notice it. But she’s showing it off tonight in a way that feels downright unfair.

She’s swaying, eyes closed, lost in the gentle rhythm of the band behind her.

And then…fuck, then she starts singing, and it’s like the entire bar stands still. Her voice is husky but smooth, warming the air like a slow pour of honey over the crowd. I can almost feel it brushing against my skin and sinking into my bones. Every conversation hushes, every gaze lifts to the stage.

And me?

I’m fucking gone.

Ryan whacks my shoulder. “Alright there, boss?”

Connor nods, looking equally stunned. “She’s... she’s good.”

I can’t muster a single syllable because I’m too busy trying to remember how to inhale.

How did I not know she could do this? My whole existence for the past year has revolved around schedules and ensuring that Rosie has everything she needs. Meanwhile, Lena’s living this hidden life as a jazz singer at some swanky bar?

Warmth flows from my chest to my limbs, a strange blend of shock, pride, and something else that feels far too much like lust for comfort. She sings as if she’s sharing a secret I never knew I wanted to learn.

I’m still glued to the spot when Ryan’s elbow digsinto my side. “We came here to get you laid, and you pick her? Why not try punching a little lower for your first night?”

“It’s Lena,” I rasp before clearing my throat.

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