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

by Emma St. Clair

“Question one: does the favor need to be me, specifically?” If I’m not mistaken, the color in her cheeks deepens a little. “Yes.” Huh. Interesting. My brain scans for possibilities but I can’t think of a single thing Parker would need only me for. “Does it have to do with hockey?” “No.” “Dancing?” Hesitation. “No?” “Yes or no, Pete.” She wrinkles her nose. “Dancing is … optional but not required.” This game was a lot easier back in the day when the answers were simpler. When I knew Parker better. But even now, my ability to read her comes in handy. Something non-hockey with optional dancing. Something that has got her nervous and has to do with me. The last part is the one I’m struggling with. “Does it involve dressing up?” Bingo. She looks away from me, shifting in her chair, which groans. “Yes,” she says. “And does it involve your family?” She startles, the tiniest widening of her eyes and flex of her hand, still held in mine. “Yes.” Parker and Brandon grew up in the kind of house that could be featured in a show about extreme mansions. Set on a slope in the foothills, it has stellar views of Harvest Hollow. It boasts something like ten bedrooms and the same number of bathroom...

Well, that could have gone worse. Logan could have laughed in my face. He could have looked disgusted. Or said he finds me so unattractive that he couldn’t imagine going on a date with me. Those are responses I might not have recovered from. I would have ducked under my desk, curled up into a ball, and promptly died if Logan did any of those things. My successor would move into my office and have to use my bones as a footstool. So, see? It could have gone worse. But it did not exactly go swimmingly. “Let me get this straight,” Mia says, setting her wine glass down and looking a little too amused. “Logan didn’t say a word?” “Not a single one.” I take a sip of my root beer, the only kind of beer I like. Mulligan’s has it on tap, which is why I always insist on coming to this sports bar near the stadium instead of the fancier bars Mia prefers. “And he just … got up and left your office?” she asks. “He did.” “And he’s avoided you ever since?” “I mean, I wouldn’t say avoided. He’s busy. I’m busy. And it’s only been a day, so … yeah. Fine. He’s avoiding me.” My best friend stares at me, and I think she’s trying to decide if she’s allowed to laugh, or if she has to pretend this isn’t hilarious. She must really feel sorry for my humiliation because she doesn’t laugh, though she does use her wineglass to hide her smile. I bet if she were the one to ask Logan, he would have said yes. No questions asked. With her modelesque height, dark hair, and bright blue eyes, Mia turns heads in ...

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? Or lying in the first place when he said he hates people lying about him? I’m honestly not sure. I don’t tell all of the embarrassing details to Mia, but it’s like she knows. Probably because I can hide nothing from her. She knows how I’m always about one breath away from dropping my practiced poise and slippin...

“This is a huge mess,” I mumble. “It’s a terrible idea. Isn’t it?” Mia’s tone softens. “I honestly don’t know. I mean, part of me wants you to go for it. At the very least, it would help get Logan out of your system. Finally.” Do I want Logan out of my system? That’s the question. I somehow doubt spending an evening with him as my date would do anything to quell my feelings. If anything, I might get ideas. “But?” “But you could also get hurt,” Mia says. “Again. And it’s been forever since you’ve dated anyone. Is Logan really the best option for dipping your toe back in the dating pool?” She has a point. Dating has been difficult for years. And not just for the typical reasons dating can be hard when you’re single in your twenties. No, my reasons are … unique. And because our brains are that in sync, Mia steers the conversation right to those reasons. “What if Logan does say yes? And you go and have a great time together. And then at the end of the night, he wants to kiss you?” The mere idea of kissing Logan makes my entire body flush with heat. I keep my head pressed to the sticky table so Mia won’t see my red cheeks. “It’s not a real date,” I mumble. “There won’t be any kissing...

It’s not like I intended to be one of the last living kiss holdouts in the Western Hemisphere. Not kissing anyone wasn’t a purposeful choice. At first, anyway. I was a late bloomer and on top of that, consumed with figure skating for most of my teenage years. While every other girl I know (Mia included) was kissing boys at parties and going to school dances, I was at the rink, practicing. Competing. Traveling. When I finally gave up on the dream that was never really mine, everyone had left me behind. Not having kissed anyone felt horribly embarrassing as a senior in high school. Like the worst kind of secret. I had several almost kisses—and the experiences were so laughably bad, it almost turned me off on the whole idea. When someone trying to kiss you suddenly projectile vomits, barely missing your face, it will do that to you. And that’s just one bad story. That ushered me into my anxiety era. I couldn’t go on a date or even look at a cute guy without being cripplingly self-conscious about my lack of experience. Stupid, I know. But no amount of looking back and telling yourself not to care about something can change the fact that you did care at the time. It ruined any date o...