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

by Emma St. Clair

When Logan’s statement is met with an awkward pause rather than an answer, his jaw flexes. It’s truly a sight to behold in person. Every bit as alluring as it is in the black and white commercials where he’s selling … body wash? Some kind of specialty watch? I wasn’t paying attention to the product. Just the man selling whatever it was.

my cloak of invisibility has been lifted. More like forcibly yanked off my body. Thanks, Larry. I appreciate the way you found a fleet of double decker buses and threw me underneath them.

“What does this mean?” Logan asks in what would best be described as a growl. Too bad it’s an angry one, not a sexy one. Actually, no—it’s definitely both.

She was always overflowing with energy and big ideas, like some kind of fiery woodland sprite fueled by straight espresso.

Parker’s office is hardly bigger than a closet with no window and outdated … everything. It also looks like a sticky-note store exploded. No motivational posters or framed pictures here—just every available wall surface covered in the small, colorful squares.

Nathan grumbles out some kind of response and disappears, only to be replaced by another one of my soon-to-be teammates. This one is all smiles, his lanky body full of too much energy. Is there, like, a line of guys in the hall outside Parker’s door?

Every guy calls Parker Boss. All of them look at her in a way I don’t like. Not that they looked at her disrespectfully. The opposite actually—it’s clear they hold Parker in high regard. Which should ease my tension. Instead, it bugs me that these guys I don’t know and don’t trust have a familiarity with Parker that used to be mine.

“Does everyone around here call you Boss?” I ask. What I don’t ask: Are all the guys in love with you?

I smile. Welcome to the Appies, Wolverine. Getting razzed—which is probably way too innocent a term for the kinds of foul insults these guys hurl at each other—is just a part of being included on a team. They’re giving Logan a hockey-style welcome. In no time, he’ll be fully assimilated. And insulted. Same thing.

This team is full of great guys. Flawed and human and, well, hockey players—with the foul mouths and the women and the egos—but still great.

They crash into the plexiglass with the kind of sound that makes my blood hum. “Ooooh,” Javi and I say in unison. Then we both laugh. But only because this time, Logan doesn’t react badly. The two seem to be laughing as they skate away. There you go, Logan! More of that, please. Happy hitting. Not angry hitting.

I haven’t figured out how to untangle or explain away my bold-faced lie. Yet. Until then, I really, really don’t want to talk to Brandon. Not on the phone. Not in person. Not in a box or with socks or any other rhyming or non-rhyming places.

And of course Brandon would know Logan started today and how things went. He has someone on the team who serves as his eyes and ears. Aka: a spy and a snitch. And when I find out who …

And also Mr. Eds didn’t like him.” Brandon snorts. “Your cat hates everyone. Including you.” He’s not wrong. My rescue cat spends most of his time skulking under my furniture and trying to swipe at my ankles when I walk by.

I turn down the small alley where the walkup to my apartment is, setting my bag down. I need both hands to manage the outer door, which has a nasty habit of sticking. Maybe it’s the cooler temperatures, but today, the door isn’t just sticking, it’s stuck. I shimmy the handle, then give the door a good kick. “Come on, door. Be a good door.” I try cajoling first, using baby talk like I’m trying to convince a puppy to obey. But a wiggly puppy would be more responsive. The door gives me nothing. I switch tactics, ramming my hip into it. “You have one job!” I scold. “And it’s to open! Do your job, door!”

Logan and I land in a tangle of limbs at the bottom of the steep staircase. I don’t register the pain at first. Just the delicious weight of Logan’s body on mine. He somehow managed to slide a hand underneath my head before it hit the floor. Hockey reflexes, man. Not a thing to be trifled with! Logan’s breath flutters over my cheek, and I feel the light scratch of his stubble on my jaw. Dear door, I was wrong to reprimand and criticize you. You have given me this beautiful gift, and I shall forever be grateful.

I keep my head down, hiding behind my hair. Because I cannot face the man whose abs I just groped like some kind of ab-groping weirdo.

It’s so rich and full that I want to grab my phone and record it so I can listen again and again.

I’m the hottest of hot messes. Ghost pepper level hot. Landfill level mess.

A low growling sound has me whipping my head toward the couch. I don’t see anything, but then I hear it again. It sounds like it belongs in some kind of horror movie. “Do you have a dog?” I ask, still eyeing the sofa. Parker rolls her eyes. “That’s just Mr. Eds. He’s a cat.” “You like cats now? And what kind of name is Mr. Eds? Plural?” “It’s short for Evil Demon Spawn,” she says, like this is a totally normal name for a cat. Or anything else. “And no, I don’t like cats. But I used to volunteer at the shelter, and no one would adopt him. He was set to be euthanized, so I took him in, thinking I could win him over or that maybe he’d be nice out of gratitude. Turns out, I’m not so charming. And he’s not grateful. But don’t worry. He’s an equal opportunity human hater, so he won’t come out while you’re here.”

Felix: Full disclosure—Parker told me to text you. I was planning to anyway, but now I feel like I have to say that she asked everyone. Prepare for your phone to blow up. You’ve been warned.

After seeing the blank look of shock on Logan’s face when I confessed my lie, I got nervous and kept babbling. I was like some kind of old, rusty fountain that just kept spewing up junky water. I told Logan I wouldn’t make him dance with me and promised to pay for his tux (which in all honesty, I can’t really afford) and said it was a fake date anyway since I lied. And then, I said he’d be saving me from being set up with a guy who only liked me for my boobs. I cringe now, just remembering that I actually said boobs to Logan. I swear when the word came out of my mouth, his eyes twitched and his face tensed, like he was trying to hold back a Pavlovian response to glance at my chest. To his credit, he kept his eyes locked on mine. I ended the runaway mouth train by reminding him it was not a real date, just one night, and that it wasn’t marriage. Yes, I also said the word marriage. To a guy who hasn’t agreed to go on one date that’s not even a real date. It was like I studied a primer on how to scare a guy off. I could star in the sequel to How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days—How to Lose a Guy in Ten Seconds. Which was worse: talking about my boobs or mentioning the M-word?

Groaning, I drop my forehead to the table, which I realize too late is sticky. Oh, well. I’ve already touched down. Might as well stay. Story of my life.

“It’s not a real date,” I mumble. “There won’t be any kissing.” “Uh huh. But your feelings are real. It would be easy for the lines to get blurry.” I sure hope they will, I think. Blur away, lines!

I cover my face with my hands. “I hate both of you.” “You love us,” Mia says. I shoot her a pointed look, because there is no good reason for her to mention the L-word in front of Logan. That’s even worse than me talking about boobs and marriage! Mia is incurring some serious fines tonight for violating terms of our friendship agreement.

“What are they doing?” “Nothing.” Mia gives a little shrug. “They’re being totally normal.” That can’t be right. I narrow my eyes. “No one’s hitting him?” “Nope.” “Or getting up in his face?” “No.” “Felix isn’t choking him?” Mia blinks. “Is that something Felix would do? I thought he was the bookworm.” “He is. But it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for,” I tell her.

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.

I groan and drop my head in my hands. “I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus, Logan.” “In this analogy, are you the bus?”

What I want to know is how could Parker have made it this long without kissing someone? Someone so beautiful. So kind. So vibrant and fun.

Every so often, we’d be at the rink at the same time, but I wasn’t super into watching figure skating then. Now, I wish I had. I wish I’d paid attention to her practicing on the other side of the rink while we were lacing up. I wish I’d gone with Brandon to see her compete. He invited me a few times. It was obvious his parents made him go, and it wasn’t where I wanted to spend my time. Meanwhile Parker was at every one of our games that I can remember, cheering and trash talking and wearing Brandon’s jersey, screaming for us both. I’m filled with a sudden urge to see Parker wearing my jersey.

Though honestly … the hockey player plus the never-been-kissed girl-next-door would be a killer Hallmark movie. Not with actual killing. Obviously. But definitely some kissing. Just the thought of that has me gazing up at Logan’s definitely kissable lips and the scar running from his mouth to his chin. What would it feel like to kiss his scar? To trail my lips along his jaw, exploring and⁠— “So, you have to do all the video editing yourself? There’s no other media person to help?” Logan asks, jarring my mind out of its not-quite-Hallmark-appropriate fantasy.

“So, is this where you bring all the girls?” I mean this to be teasing, but I’m immediately flooded with irrational, raging jealousy at the mere idea of Logan skating like this with someone else. He snorts. “No.” Good. That makes for less people I need to murder.

like I said, I’ll pay for your tux rental. This is a favor to me, and I don’t want to put you out.” Logan squeezes my hand. “You’re not putting me out. And I have a tux.” “You do?” He smirks, again giving me a sideways look. “Had to get one custom made. Off-the-rack suits won’t fit over all this.”

“All that, huh? I hadn’t really noticed. Hockey uniforms are so bulky. Hard to tell what’s underneath.” Okay, THAT didn’t come out the way I intended. Logan really looks at me this time, his smirk even smirkier. “You spend a lot of time thinking about what’s under my uniform, Pete?” Now I am. Though thanks to several endorsements with major brands, I am already very aware of what’s underneath the Appies T-shirt Logan’s currently wearing.

“And I plan to exact my revenge through making you dance like a circus monkey in my videos.”

And with that, he flips around and takes off, tossing me a look that reads pure challenge over his shoulder. Challenge accepted. And though I can only catch Logan when he lets me, we continue playing a game of tag until I practically collapse,

When Logan returns, it’s with gloves, sticks, and a puck. His grin is so big and so boyish that I can’t help but smile in response. “Get out here, Pete. You wanted to play hockey? Let’s play hockey.” He doesn’t need to tell me twice. And while there was something magical about skating hand in hand with Logan, having him teach me puck control and how to line up a shot is excellent. I also do not mind even the smallest bit when I need help with my hold and he comes up behind me, placing his arms around me to adjust my grip. “Slide your hand like this,” Logan says, moving my gloved hand. “I feel like I’m wearing the equivalent of clown shoes, but on my hands,” I say. “These are a little big for you, but the principle is the same.” Logan is all business now, adding another version of him to like. 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.

Arriving at my office early with a list a mile long of things to do before I finish the day, my head is buried in my phone. Which is why I don’t register the very important change until I sit down. Immediately, I scramble to my feet and back away slowly. “You’re not my chair,” I say. The strange chair, obviously, does not respond. A sense of panic unfolds. My old office chair was barely holding on. It complained loudly every time I moved. The lever to adjust the height broke off a year ago, which meant I looked not unlike a child sitting at an adult’s desk. There was one metal piece that always stabbed my shoulder if I made the mistake of leaning back. More than once I begged Javi to put in a request for a new one, and more than once he looked sad and mentioned budgets and blah blah blah. Now, I stare at what is clearly a very fancy and expensive and pink chair. I don’t trust it. This level of fancy doesn’t belong in my windowless office. And I didn’t know luxury office chairs came in such a fun color. Something is afoot.

I glance at the chair again. It’s like a Cadillac of office chairs. Scratch that—it’s more of a Lexus. Just looking at it, I feel my spine start to realign.

My eyes flutter closed as I lean back, sinking into the soft leather that feels almost like a caress. In a non-creepy and non-sexual way of course. Just in a super luxurious office chair kind of way. “I might be in love with you,” I whisper. “Oh, really?” At the sound of the very male and very familiar voice, my eyes fly open. And then, for reasons that must date back to prehistoric times and not logical, modern ones, I dive under my desk to hide.

“The chair. Definitely the chair.” Still glaring, I sink back into its cocooning softness. “Fancy Chair would never appear out of nowhere and scare me. Fancy Chair has some respect for boundaries.”

Mia’s grin could rival that of the Grinch, looking down over Whoville on Christmas Eve. “How convenient. Y’all could carpool to work and everything. Anytime you need to borrow a cup of sugar, you can just walk right next door.” I meet Logan’s amused green eyes. He holds my gaze, and I swear, my knees wobble. “I do often find myself in need of sugar,” he says, and how does this manage to sound so incredibly flirtatious?

“But you need to stop looking so miserable or I’ll have no choice but to take it personally.” A laugh bursts out of me, and Logan’s arm tightens around my waist. “That’s better,” he says. “Can’t have my Parker unhappy.”

And then I felt weird complimenting her. I don’t want her to think she only looks beautiful when dressed up or something. Because the truth is, Parker looks every bit as beautiful walking around the Summit in her work clothes or in leggings and a pair of skates. I actually prefer her in skates. Maybe even to the pink dress she’s wearing now. But seeing her all dressed up—dressed up for me … Yeah. I’m still overwhelmed and trying my best to appear perfectly normal when all I want is to reach across and take her hand. Then maybe pull the car over and kiss her the way I’ve been wanting to for days now.

This isn’t a real date. Logan is not my real boyfriend. I think this to myself. Then I whisper it. And then, because I’m totally alone in this bathroom, I say it again with force while staring into my own eyes in the mirror. “This isn’t a real date. Logan is not my real boyfriend. None of this is real.” Yeah—no. I can say it all I want. But the words are not making a dent in the part of me that feels like this is all very, very real.

The best I can do is enjoy the night and hope I’m not left shattered when Logan leaves again sometime in the not-so distant future. Thinking of him eventually leaving doesn’t even sober me up. I am punch drunk on Logan.

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 pat his chest with my free arm. Also very deserving of a Yelp review.

“So, I should stay with you all night. Got it.” I know he means stay with me all night here, at the party. But a wicked little part of me is picturing me and Logan kissing outside my door later tonight. And because this part of me has a very active imagination, it’s now picturing Logan kissing me pressed up against my door later tonight.

How are you going to sleep there if you don’t have furniture yet?” He shrugs. “You can’t just sleep on the floor, Logan. You need good sleep. Your body is your paycheck.” He chuckles, then brushes a lock of hair back from my cheek. It’s too quick for me to relish in the feel of his fingertips on my skin. I want to shake that stubborn hair loose so he’ll do it again. “I’m glad you’re worried about me, Pete. But I refuse to be objectified—my body is much more than a paycheck.”