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

by Emma St. Clair

But trying to tell my older brother anything is like trying to teach a cement block to fetch and roll over. Not happening.

“Whatever else you do, just don’t fall for him,” Brandon says. “Again.” “I won’t.”

Logan is suddenly right behind me, his big hand covering mine on the doorknob and his chest pressed against my back.

Watching Parker is better than Netflix. She moves like a cheerful gale-force wind through the tiny kitchen, banging pots and thwacking her knife into the cutting board, all while telling me every conceivable fact about the Appies.

I always felt most like myself around her or Brandon—and only her and Brandon. Until I didn’t. With Brandon anyway. Apparently, even after these years, I can still be myself with Parker. Only now, there’s the crackle and spark of something new. Like the brief moment when I was tempted to kiss her last night. That is new. And absolutely needs to be avoided at all costs.

But I realize safe isn’t something I usually feel. The mere idea creates a vacuum of longing inside my chest, like some black hole yawning and waiting to be filled. The only times I really felt safe in my life were with Brandon and Parker.

Getting Logan to talk about himself was always like trying to pull teeth … from an angry dragon using a pair of chopsticks while wearing mittens.

“If you need me to be your boyfriend, I’ll be your boyfriend.” I ball my hands into fists. Then I swallow. Then I remind myself to breathe. My mind has snagged on what Logan said. If I need him … to be my boyfriend. I really, really like the sound of that.

Forget the lady doth protest too much. I need the Logan to doth protest more!

This feels less like teasing and more like … flirting. Wait—is Logan flirting with me? Doesn’t matter! It does not matter if he’s flirting because this is serious, fake-dating business. Focus, Parker!

“I can’t think of any reason we’d need to kiss on the lips, Logan.” “Maybe not a need. But what if it’s a want?” This man has zero idea what he’s doing to me right now. The closeness of his chest to mine. His strong hands lightly gripping my arms. The flirty tone. The whole topic of this conversation. The idea of kissing Logan, which obviously, I have obsessively fantasized about since about the time kissing started to sound appealing instead of disgusting.

I am no longer able to hold my words back, the ones that have been rising to the surface like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. Jerking myself out of Logan’s grasp, I meet his gaze, bracing for impact. “There will be no kissing, Logan. Because my first kiss isn’t going to be with someone I’m fake dating.”

“Any particular show you binge to unwind?” Parker asks. “Downton Abbey.”

“Downton Abbey, Logan?” she says. “Really?” “Can’t a man like Downton Abbey?” “A man can absolutely like Downton Abbey. I just didn’t expect you to like it.”

I allow my gaze to fall on her lips, thinking. Too much thinking. It’s like Parker mentioning not kissing has everything in me laser focused only on that. I really am the worst.

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

I’m sort of blown away by her honesty. But then, Parker was always braver than me. She spills secrets like they’re pennies cast into a fountain to make wishes on.

“Do you have to do that tonight?” Disappointment makes my shoulders fall. It’s late. I don’t like the idea of her working here alone. I’m also not ready for the night to be over. “I probably should,” she says. “Why?” “I’ve got another idea.” Before I can rethink or overthink it, I hold out my hand. “Skate with me?”

Logan is more out of my league now than he ever was. Famous hockey studs don’t fall for the small-town woman who’s never been kissed. No way.

When he grins, my stomach doesn’t just flip. It executes a complicated set of gymnastic maneuvers that leave me breathless.

Logan’s smile is slow, and it toasts my insides like a marshmallow in front of a blowtorch. “Because pink is your favorite color,” he says. “Right?” “Yes,” I manage, struck even more dumb by the fact that Logan knows this. “So, choose the pink. You’ll feel good wearing what makes you happy.” “Pink it is.”

I’m not sure beautiful is the right word, and part of my problem was just that. I had no words when she opened the door. None. I could only stare. Parker is the perfect combination of girl-next-door and dead sexy. She is too beautiful for words. At least, not any words I know. Even if I had a stellar vocabulary, the sight of her made me lose even the most basic single syllables.

Logan offers me his arm, and I’m only a little disappointed he doesn’t take my hand again. On the plus side, I get to feel his firm biceps underneath my fingers. Zero complaints on that front. Would definitely recommend. A glowing Yelp review will be forthcoming.

I place a hand on Logan’s chest again. It’s a gesture that I hope communicates something like: This man is under my protection. If you mess with the bull, you get the horns. Proverbially.

As far as adhesive goes, I’m about as effective as an off-brand glue stick. The kind that barely holds construction paper together and frequently serves as a snack for children.

“I don’t plan to let you go again,” Logan murmurs close to my ear. “This time, I’ll be your glue.”

Sorry, Logan. You might have intended to be one-night-only glue, but you’re actually the forever kind. A new, lab-tested and irreversibly permanent glue.

“Cold?” Then, with a note of teasing in his voice, he says, “Or scared?” “Neither. I’m happy.” “You shiver when you’re happy, Pete?” “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “I would, actually,” Logan says, and then his voice changes. It’s sincere and impassioned. “We’ve lost years, and that’s my fault. But I want to know what I missed. To know who you are now, Parker, and who you want to be. Not to start over but to start fresh.” The words make my eyes prick with tears. They sound like a confession, and not the close friends kind. But am I delusional to think Logan could want more? With me?

But I hug Logan as if that’s possible, as if I could squeeze this bad memory right out of him. I’d also like to stab Brandon with a fork. A plastic one because I’m not really a violent person. But the heavy-duty plastic kind because I still do want it to hurt.

Is anyone ever totally confident at the end of a date? It’s like stepping into a room with ten unmarked doors, all leading in different directions. They could open up to reveal the end of night and an amicable goodbye—or a more permanent one. A door might open and extend the evening a little longer—or a lot longer. The doors might lead to a long future. Or a goodbye.

Clucking my tongue, I say “Oh, Pete. You think this is the only way to hold hands?” “There are more?” she asks. I tug her to a stop in a pool of shadows under the General Store’s awnings. Then I unlink our fingers and then press our palms together, hooking all my fingers around her hand. “For starters, this is called the Palm Curl.” She giggles, the sound tiptoeing through my chest. “You’re making that up.” I am. And clearly, I’m not doing a very good job. “No, for real.” I readjust so our hands are pressed up against each other, flat with fingers straight like we’re holding a high-five. “This one is the Mirror or the High Five Hold.” Again, Parker laughs. I will make up stupid hand holding names all. Night. Long. Now I link our fingers the way they were before. “This, of course, is the Classic.” I’m running out of ideas, which means running out of time. We’re about thirty seconds from our apartments. And I’m not ready.

Holding hands, I’ve decided, is severely underrated.

My eyes drift over to Parker as she films Alec. The possessive feelings I’m having are already getting old. I didn’t think I was a jealous man. But maybe I didn’t care about anyone enough to care who they talked to or who looked at them. Like everything else—it’s all different with Parker.

Honestly, I think from the moment I first saw Parker across that conference room and realized who she was, it’s like she kicked me out of my normal orbit. Now I’m floating through deep space, trying to recalibrate.

Is there a prerequisite course guys must pass before they reach adulthood on how to lean sexily in a doorway? If so, Logan aced it. Top of class. Extra points for the way his biceps bunch while standing still.

Logan held back my hair. He rubbed my back. He got a cool washcloth and wiped my face. And when it was all over and the contents of my stomach—and maybe part of my stomach lining—were emptied out, Logan picked me up, carried me to my room, and tucked me into bed. While a memory involving barf isn’t the epitome of romantic, it reminds me how thoughtful and tender he could be, even when he was a dumb teenage boy. (Because let’s face it—all teenage boys exist on a sliding scale of stupidity.) Bringing it up is also a nod to our shared past and how much history we share.

“I made reservations,” he says. “When did you have time to do that?” I hiss. “Does it matter?” Yes. “No. But when?” “I called between practice and filming,” he says. “They didn’t open until noon.” Maybe it’s a sign I don’t date enough or don’t date nice enough guys that Logan’s simple act of planning is blowing me away. Especially considering the fact that he told me he didn’t date much. How is he even this smooth? I can only imagine how he’d be if he decided to date someone for real.

“Maybe it’s not too much. Maybe you’ve just grown used to not enough.”

“Parker—” But before I can get another word out, Parker slides one hand around my neck, lifts up on her toes and presses her lips to mine. I’m so startled I completely freeze. I’m hardly breathing as Parker softly kisses me once. And again. Tentative, seeking, questioning.

If I didn’t already fully belong to this woman, I do now.

I want that for Logan because I know it’s what he wants. As for what I want … well, I want my cake (Logan being happy) and want to eat it too (Logan staying here). I have a feeling I’m going to end up with either cake I can look at but not touch or no cake at all. Have I mentioned I really, really like cake?

Then, I wish I hadn’t. Because next, Larry says, “I have it on good authority he’s getting called back up after this game.” I guess when Logan said he wanted to talk about the future, it wasn’t our future he meant. It was his. Without me.

Thinking of Brandon takes my brain in a direction it doesn’t need to go. I’m already struggling to keep my mind off Parker and the conversation I want to have with her tonight. For a guy who’s almost thirty, asking a woman to be his official girlfriend shouldn’t be some noteworthy event. But it’s a first for me, and it feels huge. And heavy.

But as Mia has said more than once—you can’t trust that a man knows what you mean unless you tell him. Great advice for more than just men, by the way.

“I’m hating you,” I tell him, sniffling. “And I’m giving Fancy Chair to Javi so he can give it to someone else.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want it anymore. It’s too nice and was too expensive and reminds me of you.” “No, why do you hate me?” I stop punching him. Instead, I grab his jersey with both fists, stepping back but not too far back. I glare up at him with blurry, tear-filled eyes. “I hate you because I love you and you’re leaving,” I tell him, almost—ALMOST—getting through the sentence without choking on a sob. Logan blinks at me, his lips parting before he says, “You love me?” Why does he sound so shocked? “Why are you so shocked?” I go back to punching him, this time in the side. And apparently it tickles because he giggles. “I didn’t know—ow! Okay, stop. No, Parker.”

“You love me,” I repeat. He presses a soft kiss to my lips, then pulls back and gives me a full smile. “I love you.” “And you’re not leaving?” “Well, not yet. Nothing has changed that I know of. Jeremy seemed to think that I’d get at least a month or two here, no matter what.” “Oh.” I deflate a little. “So, you’ll still leave eventually?” Logan licks his lips and searches my eyes. “That was the plan.” “Was?” “I planned to have this conversation tonight with you, not here in the hallway when I stink and you’re crying. But I wanted to tell you how I feel and to ask you to be my official, non-fake girlfriend. And to discuss our future.” I love the way he says our. “Say it again.” “I love you.” “No—our.” Logan chuckles. “Our future.” He kisses me again, this one a little longer, more lingering.

And then he’s swinging me up and into his arms, skating out on the ice with me cradled against his chest. So far, this is the most romantic moment of my life, but I will be honest—it would be slightly more romantic if we were doing this after Logan had showered and changed out of his jersey. But I’m not complaining! Nope.

“Coming in at six foot two and two hundred twenty pounds, left winger out of Raleigh, number seventeen, Logan Barnes!” My heart leaps as the spotlight reappears, jumping over to illuminate Logan skating out of the tunnel. My grin is enormous, and the guys on the bench all cheer, pouring out to follow Logan as he skates laps, dribbling a puck as he goes. The music switches to Bruno Mars’s “Marry You.” And now, of course, I’m a puddle of tears. After what seems like an almost interminable wait, Logan skates up to me, the guys flanking him on either side. He passes the puck to Van, then drops to his knee, sliding to a stop in front of me.

The guys groan, but Logan’s smile widens. “Van?“ he says. “The puck.” Van gently sends the puck toward Logan, and as it reaches Logan, I see a small box taped to the top. The kind of box rings come in. I bite my lip as he removes his gloves, then picks up the box. His green gaze pins me in place, his smile replaced by an earnest sincerity that makes my heart skip. “Pete, I love you. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you just how much. Little ways. Big ways.” His eyes suddenly look heated. “A lot of ways.”

Logan opens the box, and I almost would rather him just ask because it isn’t about the ring but I can’t help making a strangled sound when I glance at it. Definitely a rock. A big one. And it’s pink. Parker pink.