Page 93 of If Love Had A Manual

“When exactly were you going to tell me you sing like an angel?”

I choke mid-sip. “Jesus, warn a girl next time.”

“Seriously. I walked in here tonight, but I wasn’t expecting—” he gestures vaguely toward my dress “—whateverthatwas.”

I bite my lip, fighting another blush. “It’s just for fun.”

The look in his eyes isn’t flirty this time. It’s knowing. The kind of look that sees through the carefully casual shrug and the throwaway line. “Didn’t look like just fun. It looked like it meant something.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He tilts his beer bottle toward me. “I don’t think I am.”

There’s something in his voice that wipes the smile right off my face.

Peeling my tongue from the roof of my mouth, and praying for sense, I finally say, “It’s a side thing. I don’t think much about it.”

“Maybe you should. I mean, it’s definitely better than Kumbaya.”

I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head. “You are never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

After that, we sit there for what feels like forever, talking about everything and nothing. Music, books we pretended to read in school, the weirdest jobs we’ve ever had. It’s easy in a way that sneaks up on me. No pressure, no performance. Just two people tucked intoa corner booth, slowly peeling back layers like neither of us is in a rush to stop. And somewhere between his quiet jokes and the way he listens when I speak, I forget this isn’t supposed to happen.

I’m not supposed to feel a flutter in my chest every time he laughs.

I’m not supposed to feel that slow, simmering heat in my lower belly when his eyes rake over me like he’s memorizing the details.

This is my job. Mylife raft, not a detour into disaster.

But my body clearly didn’t get the memo.

The bar staff are cleaning up when I check my phone for the time, and my heart falls into my stomach. Have we really been sitting here that long? “Shit.”

Wes raises a brow. “What?”

“I didn’t realize how late it was.”

He downs the last of his beer and stands. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That’s sweet, Turner, but no need. I walked.”

He stops mid-step. “You what?”

“I walked,” I say, heading for the door.

I swear I hear him having a minor coronary behind me.

“Walked?”

“Relax. It’s not like I live on the other side of town. I love warm nights.”

He looks like he’s five seconds away from putting me over his knee. Can’t say I’d object either.

“You walk home alone at night?”

“Yes.”

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