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

by Emma St. Clair

“You remember Logan,” I say pointedly. 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. Or, on a more basic level: Mine.

I can tell from the length of the handshake and the clenching of jaws that one or both of them is squeezing too hard. I would bet money Dad started it, and Logan’s not going to back down. Men and their stupid battles of the handshakes.

“Now that we’ve faced the familial inquisition, we can actually have fun.” Logan gazes at me with a smolder full of promises he has NO business making as a fake boyfriend. “Who says I’m not having fun already?”

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. Because within half an hour, I’ve lost Logan. Completely and totally lost. There is no sign of the man anywhere. And trust me, I’ve looked. It’s not like he’s hard to miss either—he’s a big dude. A big dude who might have left the building right alongside Elvis.

I’m not surprised he stole Logan, but I sure wish Larry would bring him back.

“I don’t mean to butt in,” Logan says, and it’s clear from his tone he’s not the least bit sorry and absolutely meant to butt in, “but I need to have the first dance of the night with my girlfriend. It’s a requirement.” Girlfriend. This all may be fake, but hearing Logan call me his girlfriend does things to me. I am a stick of butter left outside on a summer day. A warm, buttery puddle.

Silly me, I never thought hearing a man threaten someone could be sexy. It absolutely is. It is the sexiest.

“Surely, you could spare Parker for one dance,” Aaron says with a sneer. “I don’t share,” Logan says, and the rough edge to his voice makes my insides quiver.

It is in this moment that I realize I might be a little bit in love with my fake boyfriend.

It was a close call, but Ed Sheeran was spared. I’m glad because I wasn’t at all looking forward to removing his songs from my playlists after Aaron ruined his music forever.

The trimmed hair above Logan’s collar bristles against my fingertips and I find myself sliding my fingers up his scalp. Might as well milk this moment for all it’s worth.

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.

Everything in me wants to open up again. Except the part borne out of the hurt Logan caused when he left. That part wants to raise the drawbridge and add some crocodiles to the moat in front of my castle.

An hour later, we still haven’t left the dance floor. After our initial slow dance, the band picked up the tempo and I fully expected Logan to lead me away for drinks or the buffet. Instead, I was totally shocked when he smirked (like he knew just what I was thinking), twirled me expertly (like this is something he does all the time), and then proceeded to show off his moves (like his life depended on it). And let me tell you—the man has moves. His hips? They don’t lie. His feet? Not guilty, because they have got serious rhythm. His groove thing? Thoroughly shaken.

Logan looks downright murderous now, which makes me feel all warm and happy. Guess I’m into homicidal urges now.

“I only had to use pepper spray once. Did you know it affects the person spraying too? Especially if you’re in a car.” Logan groans, looking caught somewhere between laughing and throwing furniture. “That’s terrible. You actually had to use pepper spray?” “I know it sounds extreme but when I said no and he didn’t⁠—” “No,” he interrupts. “If some guy didn’t listen to you saying no to kissing or whatever else, I fully support the use of pepper spray.” “Just not in a car,” I add, smiling.

I just hate thinking about any guy treating you like that. You deserve better.” He pauses. “Also, if you have a list of their names and last known addresses⁠—” I cut him off with a laugh.

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.

I lean back on the couch, processing. Parker came to see me play. All these years when I had cut her and Brandon off, she made the effort to come see me play. “Did you wear my jersey?” I ask. I can’t not ask. And yeah, maybe it makes me a brute or an egomaniac or whatever. But I have to know. Parker’s smile is soft. “Of course. I’ve only ever worn your jersey, Logan.”

“Because if you were mine, I’d be sure everyone knows it. There would be no question in anyone’s mind.”

“Where’s your head at, man?” Alec teases, leaving me standing on the ice like an idiot. The smile he throws over his shoulder tells me he didn’t even need to ask. I briefly consider giving chase, tripping him, then skating right over that pretty face. “I think we all know where his head’s at,” Eli says, grinning. “And it’s right up there.” He jerks his head up. And sure enough—there’s Parker. Leaning over the metal railing, filming. My pulse ratchets up, and I quickly glance away.

Like some kind of sign from the universe, the fake boyfriend in question happens to walk into my office right at this moment. Correction: He doesn’t walk into my office. Logan appears in the doorway like a gorgeous six-foot-two mirage, then stops and puts one arm up on the door frame, leaning. Is there a prerequisite course guys must pass before they reach adulthood on how to lean sexily in a doorway?

he kisses me again, this time on my temple, lingering just long enough to set my insides aflame. I die a little. Right then and there. Hopefully, it’s not obvious. But the smug look on Logan’s face when he takes his seat across from me tells me it’s super obvious. I hide behind my menu and hear him give a low chuckle.

“I’d forgotten about the Fud.” “Surprising—given how much time you spent in her office,” I say. Logan chuckles, then gives me a heated look I feel all the way down to my toes. “Does this mean I can’t misbehave?”

Leaning forward, Logan gently pries my hands off the menu, one finger at a time. Without breaking eye contact, he kisses the tips of my fingers. One by one by one. It’s a very effective method of shutting me up.

This decision to have temporary and selective amnesia does wonders for my mood. As do the breadsticks and whipped butter the waitress leaves us. Plus the promise of even more food—the mere thought of pumpkin ravioli has me excited. I have no idea when I last ate. The days and weeks leading up to a game are long and busy, especially the ones with filming added in. I don’t think I’ve had more than a chai latte today. No wonder I’m losing it. Logan smiles knowingly as I scrape the bottom of the butter dish with the last breadstick. I point what’s left of it at him. “If you so much as hint that I was hangry earlier, I will kick you in the shins.” “I would never!” “Smart man.

“I’ve always liked your scar,” I say instead. My cheeks heat with the boldness of my confession. Better than saying I’d like to kiss the scar. Hopefully Logan can’t read that in my expression. His eyes brighten and he chuckles. “So, it’s not a cliché that chicks dig scars?” “Oh, it’s definitely a cliché. But it’s also true.”

I snort when I realize he has a book tucked inside the front of his shirt. “Whatcha got in there?” I ask, pointing toward his stomach. Logan angles his body away from me. “I should have chosen a better hiding spot. I forgot how you like to feel my abs.” “Logan!” I protest, eyeing Emmy, who’s covering her mouth with her hand. “He’s making that sound all wrong. It was one time, and it was an accident.”

Her back is to me as she locks the door and calls goodbye to Mr. Eds. “Be a good monster. And leave my curtains alone, please. I’m not into the shredded look.”

Javi gives us both a small smile as the elevator doors close. The moment they do, Parker once again throws herself into my arms, giggling even as she kisses me. I could kiss this woman forever,

I have an as yet unproven theory that people who love running are actually some kind of alien race dressed in human skin suits. It’s the only logical explanation. Unfortunately, I haven’t found a way to test this hypothesis.

The man who, before he falls asleep at night, knocks on the wall four times. Goodnight, Parker. Four syllables. That was his explanation when I asked—the fool grinning boyishly like he invented his own language.

Because the guys drive themselves to the Summit on game day, we film them coming into the building. A little better than seeing Eli looking like a million bucks while climbing out of a beat-up truck no one would pay fifty dollars for.

Eli stops in front of me, drops to a knee and holds up yet another pink rose. “Milady,” he says in a horrendous Scottish brogue, “please accept this token of favor.”

“Just wanted to say thanks for your help with the flower thing. And the later thing.” “Aw, isn’t he so cute when he’s in love?” Van leans in and pinches my cheek. I slap his hand away. “Never mind,” I say. “No thank you. You all suck.”

As he counts down, I study the faces around me. All of them share the same determination. They’re as invested as any team I’ve played with. Maybe this shouldn’t surprise me, as hockey players have ice in their blood. And yet, I am surprised. And surprisingly here for it. I want to win, and not just so I can show anyone watching that I’m back, but because I want it for the team.

Felix catches my eye, nodding, and I realize we’re both grinning like idiots. “Glad to have you,” Alec says, leaning close so I can hear him over the roar of the crowd and the music blasting through the speakers. “Though we could have done it without you,” Van says, smirking. “Yeah, pull your weight next time, man,” Eli adds, tapping my helmet.

Watching him tonight with the guys makes my chest expand with warmth. Not like I have a single thing to do with how the team plays, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a mama bird drop-kicking her babies out of the nest and watching them fly.

you can’t trust that a man knows what you mean unless you tell him.

like a store’s you-break-it-you-buy-it policy. There is no you-kiss-it-you-keep-it-forever policy.

“Let me guess,” I say, gripping the arms of the chair for dear life. “If I try to escape, you’ll⁠—” “Tie you to the chair,” Van says. “We’re not going to tie her up,” Nathan says, then glances at me. “We’re not going to tie you up.” “But I brought bungee cords.” Van holds up three of them, and I start to feel slightly alarmed. “Where’s Logan?” I ask as my chair jerks to a stop in the middle of the hallway. There’s a scuffle behind me, with Van protesting loudly. When I glance back, Nathan is holding Van against the wall, forcibly taking the bungee cords. Felix takes over pushing my chair while Eli bounds ahead, walking backwards as he smiles at me with the same suspicious smile.

the guys are being awfully, suspiciously quiet. “Hello?” No one answers, but when I reach up to lift my blindfold, someone gently smacks my hand. “Ow!” “You can’t hit her,” someone who sounds like Eli hisses. “I’m telling Logan.” “It wasn’t a hit. Just a tap!”

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.”