Just Don't Fall (Sweater Weather, #1; Appies, #1)

by Emma St. Clair

Back in the day, she had the singular ability to make me smile, something I rarely had reason to do. She was always overflowing with energy and big ideas, like some kind of fiery woodland sprite fueled by straight espresso.

She laughs then, which was my goal, and I catch a glimpse of the girl I remember. If Parker wasn’t laughing, she was smiling. Always. She was a compact ball of sunshine who drove away the constant storm cloud I lived under. For a while.

He’s still Logan. Good guy wrapped up in a rough—but pretty—package. Maybe now a little gruffer and world-weary,

I knew he is still the guy I fell for all those years ago. The hot, sweet one I looked up to and adored. The one whose name I doodled in notebooks. The one who always made me feel like I mattered.

No, Parker! Bad. Must not fall for the hot hockey player who already left you high and dry once! This particular crush i...

The way Aaron kept incessantly hitting on me while staring at my chest—which, if I’m being totally honest, isn’t all that much to write home about—tempted me to poke him in the eye with one of the breadsticks. The only reason I refrained was because the breadsticks were fantastic. Aaron Wagner isn’t even worth a good breadstick to the eye.

town magic is totally working on me.

“If you were my girlfriend,” Logan says then, his voice gravely and low, “there would be a lot of physical contact.”

His voice has lost the teasing edge. Now it’s almost tender. Which might be more my undoing than the flirty teasing one. Because Logan cares about what makes me comfortable.

I’m filled with a sudden urge to see Parker wearing my jersey.

Grumpy Logan is great. Happy, smiling, laughing Logan is fantastic. But all-business Logan practically spooning me as he shows me how to properly grip a hockey stick is my new favorite.

Logan leans closer, and I freeze like a little baby fawn as a wolf stalks through the grass nearby.

Logan seems to take my incapacitated state as surrender because he pats my shoulders twice and moves away. “Good girl,” he says. I barely manage to hold in a whimper.

As the moment stretches, so does the intensity. Something is building between us, gathering momentum like a boulder hurtling down a hill. I can sense the cliff’s edge just before I go flying over.

“I would make sure you felt safe,” he says then. “Safe and wanted.”

“I would explore,” this man holding my heart says then. “I would savor you.”

As much as I love reading romance, there are a few phrases authors use that I simply cannot handle. The one that makes me immediately roll my eyes is a character saying they felt their ovaries explode. Yeah, right. Ovaries. Exploding.

“Are you still with me, Pete?” “Mm-hm,” I manage. “I’m glad. Because we’re about to get to the good part.”

But we should probably make sure we’re on the same page about what this looks like.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “Because if you were mine, I’d be sure everyone knows it. There would be no question in anyone’s mind.”

“I’d make sure people knew you were mine in so many ways.”