Can't Help Falling (Sweater Weather, #3)

by Courtney Walsh

I fly under the radar. I blend in by not sticking out. I’m the girl at the party nobody remembers was there. Who am I kidding? I don’t go to parties. I wish someone would invite me to one so I could politely decline. I stay home and read. A lot. Pajamas > Party.

Fictional men are always better than the real ones.

This is the canon event. The hinge on which the story swings open. This is the moment the reader sits forward to focus on the words. And it’s happening to me. He walks up to me, slowly coming into focus. There, standing on my front lawn, is Owen Larrabee. I blink. The man who saved my life is a grown-up version of the boy who broke my heart.

Owen Larrabee saved me. Now all I have to do is not fall in love with him. Again.

I’m not her. All head-turning make-up and great posture. I’m the weirdo. I’m the girl who is more likely to spend a Friday night on my couch, engrossed up in a romance novel than going out to the bars. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went out on the weekend. That’s not something I’m looking to change. Even if it does solidify my future as a spinster.

Even though I’m addicted to romance novels, and a part of me yearns to be swept off my feet, the truth is another part of me wants what they have. To feel this at ease with another person? Yes, please.

That’s me. I understand how relationships work. I can even troubleshoot how to make them better. But for whatever reason, I haven’t quite figured out how to make one work for me.

“Honey, he is speaking my language. Being thoughtful. Doing things that will show me he loves me. It doesn’t matter what the gesture is, if the intent behind it is to show someone you care, then it can be romantic.”

My mother was right about his thoughtfulness. It’s in a romantic class all its own.

“But why?” The words are out before I can stop them. “I mean. . .” oh, boy “. . .why do you care?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down. I’m expecting a shrug and a grunt, but he looks back up at me. “Because it’s you, Emmy.” That phrase cartwheels straight into my heart.