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.

I have an alter ego. Like Batman, but not Batman.

Like the Bat Cave, but not the Bat Cave. I’m basically a superhero. My superpower? Romance. More accurately, romance novels.

I put the cover of The Notebook in my “People Almost Kissing” category, along with The Last Song and Nights in Rodanthe. If only my own love life looked like that. I’d kill to be almost kissed. In the rain. By a guy with a beard.

Fictional men are always better than the real ones. Always. Probably because they’re written by women.

I want Mr. Darcy clenching his hand after helping Elizabeth into the carriage. Or Ryan Reynolds bursting into my workplace to profess his love for me after faking our engagement. Or Harry telling Sally that he wants the rest of their lives to start as soon as possible.

Holding out for that is the only way to keep myself from getting hurt. Because being the one who loves first or who loves more is not going to happen again. I learned that lesson the hard way.

I’m coughing, trying to remember what you’re supposed to do if there’s a fire in your house. Do I run up the stairs? Is there another exit? Should I stop, drop, and roll? No. My house, not me, is on fire.

“You need to come with me,” the firefighter shouts. “Now!” To the ends of the earth, I think, because I’m convinced that this man is not only my savior, he’s my soulmate. Here to carry me to safety.

I’ve never been carried by another human before. At least not as an adult. In other circumstances, I might like it. Being saved has its perks.

The man who saved my life is a grown-up version of the boy who broke my heart.

“Hey, Em. You okay?” He’s got his helmet tucked under his arm, and he’s looking at me so intently, I might as well be a wet blob of clay on a potter’s wheel, his hands shaping me, molding me, caressing. . .

“Is she okay?” He’s asking about me? Why does he look so concerned? Did they forget to tell me that I’m dying or something?

My mind is a jumble of questions. When did he get back to Harvest Hollow? Why didn’t his sister tell me he was back? When did he grow facial hair? Does he workout every day or just most days? Does he look at everyone that intensely?

I wish I had a Tardis or a DeLorean or a hot tub that could transport me away from this place. Time travel is not a huge trope in romance, but I see the benefits.

My books. Oh my gosh, my BOOKS. My entire classic romance collection. Gone. Why do the things that are most precious have to be the most flammable?

My pulse quickens under the weight of his gaze. Suddenly, I’m Elizabeth Bennett, feeling the passionate stare of Mr. Darcy.

A part of me does know that getting caught in the rain, even with Mr. Darcy, would not feel very romantic. I’d be sopping wet with mascara streaking down my face like a villain in a Tim Burton movie. But in the novels? Totally swoony.

Odds are good that he fell asleep in his recliner watching old reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger. Dad is in a Chuck Norris phase. Again.

I wish I could rush off and search for Owen and have him pick me up in his strong arms again. Maybe without the burning destruction all around us this time.

If Owen was out of my league back then, he’s in a whole other solar system now.

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

Emmy Smart. Not the kind of girl who should get under my skin, but for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about her house and. . .her.

He pushes the newspaper toward me, and there, on the front page, is a photo of just what the captain described. Me, carrying Emmy out of her house. Her arms are wrapped up around my neck, and at the sight of it, something inside me rises. She looks so small and vulnerable. I want to hold her and keep her safe. From everything.

I am not in love with Owen. Let me repeat that in hopes my heart hears me. I am not in love with Owen. I had a momentary lapse in the wake of the fire, where I fantasized (for way too long) about his strong arms whisking me out of the burning house.

I don’t want to be the center of anyone’s attention.” Although, it occurs to me at that moment that I wouldn’t mind having Owen’s undivided attention. At least for a little while. Nope. He is a leaver. A walker out-er. Who cares if he saved my life? I’m still supposed to be annoyed with him. Saving my life should get him a pass, though, shouldn’t it?

“This isn’t a romance novel, Meg,” Peggy says. “Owen Larrabee is not the kind of guy our Emmy needs.” Our Emmy? Was I adopted by Peg and Meg and someone forgot to tell me?

“You guys are way off-base. I’m not catching feelings for Owen, whatever that means. The guy’s been gone for eight years. I’m not falling in love with some savior, no matter how photogenic he may be.” I can practically hear the safety deposit box around my feelings slamming shut, and I picture myself throwing the key off a cliff. “Well, that’s a relief.” A male voice stuns us all silent. At that precise moment, Mack shifts on her stool, and when she does, I see Owen standing directly behind her. I mentally feel the life drain from my body as I melt into a puddle of goo like the drenched Wicked Witch of the West.

“Owen,” I say his name on an exhale and wish I could suck it back in. Owen Larrabee is here, in my shop. He’s wearing black Nike joggers, a gray Appies hoodie in honor of Harvest Hollow’s beloved minor league hockey team, and a pair of black cross trainers. And he looks so good. Holy heck. My insides start to hum.

I’m horribly aware that my busy little shop has gotten very, very quiet. A quick scan of the tables and armchairs tells me what I need to know—everyone is watching this interaction. Everyone is invested in the firefighter and the helpless girl whose life he saved. What, do you want us to pose!? I yell at them in my mind. Wait. Do you? Because I will. My cheeks flush. And then Mack laughs. “Oh man, Peggy is out of her mind. She obviously doesn’t know anything about your dating life.”

I can do this. He’s just a guy, right? I’ll give him a coffee and the key to my heart. I’ll jump off the cliff to go find it. No big deal.

So, I often made my way to the dock so I could just be alone with my thoughts. It was quiet there, and there were no people to impress (or not). Just me, the pond and my books. Always romance novels. I’d been coming to the pond for almost a year and had never seen another person there, and then one day, I came through the trees into the clearing and spotted Mack’s older brother sitting on the dock. My dock. My spot.

Owen was, by all accounts, trouble. But seeing him sitting there, writing or drawing or whatever he was doing in that journal, he looked different somehow. Quieter. Less scary. Approachable. Still, I froze in place, not sure what to do. I had thinking to do, and this was my spot. I walked over to the dock, aware of him watching me, and I sat down on the edge, opposite where he sat. I slowly pulled my book out of the small bag I brought with me, along with a can of Coke and a Twix bar. I opened the candy, pulled out one of the bars and offered the rest to Owen. He stared at it for a three-count, and then, reached out and took it. We didn’t say a word to each other for the rest of the afternoon. We just. . .sat. We sat and let each other exist in the quiet of the summer evening, in a safe place with no judgment, no rules, and no one to impress. But that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

There’s no trace of that foolish girl in the person I am today. There’s no dock. No pond. No Twix. And definitely no feelings. So, can someone please explain to me why my pulse is racing just being in the same room as him?

I don’t know why I’m more attracted to a brooding Heathcliff rather than a posh Edgar. Then again, it’s not every day a woman compares her high school crush to the characters in Wuthering Heights.

“Can I get a coffee?” he asks. “Oh! Right, of course.” If he sits there, casually drinking coffee, my entire body might catch on fire, and he’d have to save me all over again.

Owen got into a lot of trouble back then. I wish I could get into trouble with Owen right now.

The men return to their table, and once again, I’m left standing in front of Owen, wishing we were back at the dock.

Out there, in the space where the yards of our childhood homes met, we weren’t “rotten apple” and “bookworm.” We were just two people with big feelings, trying to figure out who we were going to be.

As much as he’s changed, he’s still the same Owen. There’s still a quiet intensity behind his eyes that is uniquely him. I wonder if he’s still the same misunderstood deep thinker that he was all those years ago. And then, I casually wonder who he’s sharing his deep thoughts with nowadays. . .does he miss our talks as much as I do?

“Did you want that in a to-go cup?” I ask. “I just realized I gave you a mug and maybe—” “Are you trying to get rid of me?” My face heats. Yes. I am. There is no “zen” when Owen is in my orbit. There is only me, seemingly destined to repeat my wonderful history of humiliating myself.

“So, what are you, um, doing here? Now?” I ask, as if English is my second language. “Here like in Harvest Hollow?” he asks. “Or here like in your place?” My place. Hoo boy. My hands are cold and clammy. Unholdable. I inadvertently wipe them on my jeans. “Both,” I offer.

I attempt to mentally summon the version of myself that is unmoved by a man’s kindness, or general good-looking-ness, but she must be off for the day.

I think about what Mr. Ridgemont said and wonder if it’s true that people can change. The only issue is that this Owen is exactly like the old Owen. And I liked him then, too.

But I got to know a different version of him. The version he didn’t show people. The one who told me about his struggles, his failures, his fear, his shame. Did he remember?

She’s all hard edges, the opposite of me. I can’t help it if I’m a bit gooey on the inside. If hopeless romance were a physical thing, I’m sure there would be marshmallows in it.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you back in Harvest Hollow,” Lindsay says. “Funny, I didn’t think I’d see you again, ever,” the words are out before I can stop them.

There were other issues in our relationship too, which I was too stupid to realize at the time. For example, I had no interest in a desk job, but Lindsay was intent on me working for her father after the wedding. It didn’t matter to her that a 9-5 office job would suck the life right out of me. But Lindsay had this savior complex, and she was convinced she could turn me into someone “respectable.” She may as well have tried to make the pope eat a ham sandwich on a Friday in March.

But Lindsay had this savior complex, and she was convinced she could turn me into someone “respectable.” She may as well have tried to make the pope eat a ham sandwich on a Friday in March.

It’s like the jocks and the band guys got invited to the same party. No, not exactly. More like two exes. Why does it feel like that? I know why. Emmy knew me better than anyone, even better than Lindsay, which is strange since Lindsay was the one I was going to marry. I never found talking to Emmy difficult. She never judged me.