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

by Courtney Walsh

Mack has always been a hothead. Me? I avoid conflict like I avoid running.

“Mack—” “Hi, Mackenzie.” Lindsay’s tone is so chipper, even I want to smack her. “No, sorry,” Mack says, glaring, finger pointing. “You don’t get to say anything. Owen, what are you doing? Have you forgotten what this snake did to you?” “Mack, hey, come on, let’s go sit,” I say, trying—failing—to pull her to a table. Owen’s eyes find mine. I want to know what he’s thinking, but I can’t read him. “No, I haven’t forgotten, but—” “But nothing. She doesn’t get access to you, or us, or anyone, anymore.” Lindsay tries to interject. “I get why you’re mad, and we’ve. . .” Mackenzie holds up one finger to shut her up. “Sorry, the adults are talking. Maybe you should just leave.” Owen shifts his weight. He doesn’t like this any more than I do. “You shouldn’t even be here, Lindsay,” Mack says. “I can’t believe you think you can come in here and act like—” she shakes her hand between Owen and Lindsay, stopping mid-sentence. “You know what? No. On no planet do you get to get all buddy-buddy with my brother. Not after what you did.” Lindsay turns on her stool and stands. “I’ll talk to y’all later.” She looks at me. “Bye, Emmy.” “You will absolutely not talk to us all later,” Mack spits. “How about you go slither back under whatever rock you’re living under now and leave the rest of us alone?” “Mack, enough.” Owen moves around his sister and nods at Lindsay, like they have an unspoken code or something.

“I’m not an idiot. Will you give me a little credit?” he snaps back. “If you’re talking to Lindsay, then you are an idiot,” she says, causing him to roll his eyes and turn away. “Because now that you’re back and you’re doing well for yourself, she’s going to try and weasel her way back in. That’s what she does. You know she got married right? And he left her? Shocker.” “I don’t care.” Owen shrugs. “I haven’t cared or wasted one minute thinking about her for eight years.” I’m quietly happy about that.

“He’s my brother. I love him. I want him to succeed. But man, did he make some idiotic choices in life. Enter, Lindsay.” I look down. I hope I’m not one of those idiotic choices.

I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything that I’m thinking about how pretty she looks in the dim light of the streetlamp overhead. It’s a perfectly natural thing to think about any woman. Emmy’s always cute, but sometimes, like right now, it’s more than that. Sometimes, she’s downright beautiful. Why have I never noticed that before?

Before I obey, I glance at her display case. There are leftover pastries from yesterday inside, and my eyes scan through what she has to offer. “You’ve got oatmeal butterscotch.” She smiles, and taps the chalkboard display behind her. I’m confused for a moment. It just reads: OL’ BUTTERSCOTCH COOKIES. . .$2.25. “They’re still your favorite, right?” I look at the display again. OL’ BUTTERSCOTCH. OL. Owen Larabee. Or maybe just ol’ as in “old” as in why am I trying to make a thing out of cookies?

I watch her and wonder if it still stings for her to think about me and Lindsay. All those times I talked to her about my feelings, Emmy listened, like a friend. But once I found out that she had similar feelings for me, I felt like a first-class jerk. I was hurting her, daily, and she didn’t say a word.

I’m suddenly aware that this is how Emmy and I became friends in the first place. She’s looking at me now like she did then, like she actually cares what I’m thinking. And she did that at a time when nobody else really did. It’s nice to see some things between us haven’t changed.

She hands me the bag. I look at it, then look at her. “What am I supposed to do with this, eat it?” She laughs. “No, although you could probably eat the whole thing and not gain a pound. Stupid men.” I smile. “You’re going to help me frost them.” “I have no idea how to do that,” I say. “Have you held a fire hose before?” “Of course.” “This is nothing like that.” Now I laugh. I’m comfortable. Relaxed. Totally the opposite of an hour ago at the bar. She smiles with her eyes. “I’ll show you.”

She does a little dance, and I wonder how many people in the world get to see this side of her.

“I told her about us being friends.” “Oh yeah?” She nods. “I hope that’s okay.” “Why wouldn’t it be?” She shrugs. “Not sure you wanted her to know.” I see a twinkle in her eyes. “Might ruin your street cred.”

“Emmy, I didn’t say anything to her because you didn’t want me to. Not because I cared if she knew.” Emmy frowns. “Really?” “Yes, geez. How shallow do you think I am?” She shrugs. “You did get engaged to Lindsay.” She waits a second before busting out in laughter. I raise a brow. “Are you finished?”

Would you really choose a guy who dances with you in the street or kisses you in the rain over a guy who takes out the garbage or helps you clean up the house? What about a guy who’s working on getting on his feet but who would do anything for you? Or maybe just someone who’ll listen when you’ve had a bad day? Thoughtfulness in a relationship doesn’t always have to look like a romantic gesture, and don’t you think it’s more important in the long run?

Wow, this guy sounds miserable.

I don’t know how to respond, so I just type a thumbs-up emoji. Sigh. I’m a winner.

“Let’s not read into it, okay?” Because my heart can’t handle it. “I’m just saying, it’s awfully nice for him to do something so helpful for you during this really hard time.” I have no idea why, but this makes me think of Practical in Poughkeepsie.

The words from that stupid comment creep back into my mind: Thoughtfulness in a relationship doesn’t always have to look like a romantic gesture, and don’t you think it’s more important in the long run? In this case, thoughtfulness does feel a little like romance. Isn’t the difference between “nice” and “romantic” the motivation? So, Mr. Larrabee, what’s the motivation here?

I can’t be sure, but I think that might be a group of Appies hockey players over there. . . I squint for a better look. Like everyone else in town, I’m a fan of the Appies. And I’m absolutely positive that their goaltender, Felix Jamison is standing in my front yard. Helping clean-up my house. Owen recruited hockey players for this? No, they aren’t in the big time yet, but around here, they might as well be. Harvest Hollow is very proud of its minor league hockey team. Last season, I waited too long, and I never did get tickets to see them. But they’re here. At my house. Cleaning. Because of Owen.

I take a second to survey the scene, and I’m overwhelmed for a moment. They’re all here for me. The weight of that doesn’t escape me.

Owen spots me and separates from the others. His expression is stoic, as usual, and he’s all business. He stops in front of me, and I have to take a moment to right myself. His nearness, as of late, does a number on my nerves, but it’s the concern etched in his forehead that I’m really struggling with. For me, it’s not a leap to think behind “concern” is “care,” and not far away from “care” is “love.” I snap open the “Friend Box” and stuff all of that inside.

If the captain doesn’t know, then he didn’t assign this task to Owen. And if he’s not doing this because it’s his job, then. . . Concern to care to love to. . .

Owen moves toward me, takes my hand, and pulls me around to the side of the house. He positions me with my back against the side of the house and stands directly in front of me, leaning down so his eyes are level with mine. Through the blackness of my vision, I can only see the center of his face, his eyes, and I’m trying to catch my breath, but I can’t. I can’t breathe, and I’m trying to see him through my tears, but it’s all a jumbled up mess, and I’m afraid I might actually suffocate. Through the haze I hear, “Slow, long, deep breaths.”

“Now three body parts.” At that, my eyes fling wide, and I feel my cheeks flush. Because my instant reaction is: your lips, your biceps, and your backside.

“That is not what it looked like.” I look away. “I had a little. . .episode.” She frowns. “What kind of episode?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Like a. . .I guess it was like a. . .panic attack?” She drops her arms to her sides. “What? Oh my gosh, Em, are you okay?” “I’m fine now,” I say. “Owen helped me.” “Helped you with a panic attack?” “Like I told you. He’s good at his job.” “Yeah, his job is fighting fires,” she says. “Not coaching people through anxiety.” I shrug and start walking toward the front of the house. “Well, he learned that too, I guess. You should start paying attention. Your brother is a great guy.”

I really hope that one day, you know the magic of a slow dance or a kiss in the rain or maybe even fall so head over heels in love with someone that a grand gesture is the only way to let her know. Stay hopeful!

But then, I turn back toward the door and see Emmy standing there. I like the plain, simple version of Emmy. She’s my friend, and she probably still knows me better than everyone (at least according to Lindsay). But the version standing in front of me right now is having a completely different effect on me. Let’s just say long talks aren’t what’s on my mind. I stand up and try not to stare. I absolutely fail. Emmy is. . .stunning.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. She’s beautiful.” At that, she looks back at me, a trace of surprise on her face, but then she looks away. “Okay, I’m told you two are old friends, so you won’t mind if you have to get up close and personal, right?” Emmy’s eyes dart to mine and widen. I’m not upset at all anymore about having to be here.

Did that really just happen? I’m Elphaba when Madame Morrible tells her that one day she might get to work with the Wizard. And while the soundtrack from Wicked plays on repeat in the back of my mind, I try desperately not to read into Owen’s reaction or his words. She’s beautiful. How in the world am I even supposed to react to that? I’m not beautiful. I know it. He knows it. So, what the French toast?

I’m also still reeling over the “up close and personal” comment because What Does That Mean and are they going to give me free reign to explore Owen Larrabee? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve got a map. . .

Owen’s wearing his uniform. A pair of navy blue pants with a tucked in navy T-shirt and red suspenders. I’m guessing this is what Liz told him to wear, and it summons all kinds of feelings inside me. Not because of how he looks in it, but because it reminds me of his job—which reminds me of the way he saved me—which reminds me of the cleanup day he organized just to be kind. And also because of how he looks in it. Well, crap. There’s no way around it. The crush is back. Full force. Which means I not only lied to Mack about it, I lied to myself. It not only feels like it never went away, it feels like it intensified. Back then, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. . .

Once we’re in the aisle, I realize these shelves are very close together. Too close. Someone should fix that immediately. Who owns this place, anyway? I stand so close to the thriller section I might as well be the girl loosely draped on one of these Harlan Coben novel covers. Owen seems to be doing the same on the opposite side. And it isn’t hard to picture him as a Jane Austen hero.

“Now, take her in your arms, like you’re going to slow dance.” “Slow dance?” Owen asks. I quirk a brow. “What, you’ve never slow danced with an overly made-up woman between shelves of romance novels in a bookstore before?” “Not lately,” he chuckles. “Doesn’t seem like something real people do.” “Oh, no,” I gasp. “What?” “Don’t tell me you’re a cynic,” I say. He gives me a look like he knows I know the answer to that question because I do. Owen is my romance opposite.

When I get nervous, I get weird. It’s kind of my thing. But I’m not prepared for how the mood immediately changes.

I glance up, and without breaking eye contact, Owen slips his right hand under and around on the small of my back and pulls me toward him. I instinctively grab around his neck with my right hand, look up into his eyes, his intense eyes, and I feel like I’m floating, or dreaming, or both. I let my other hand—and the book—slowly lower. Just before I let the book drop to the floor. . . Click! . . .and it hits the ground.

He reaches down and off to the side, and I take my hand from around his neck. His other hand is still firmly pressing against the small of my back. I reach up and touch his shoulder, completely lost in his eyes. I dare not look away, because if I do, I might actually wake up from this dream. I’m aware of the sound of a soft guitar echoing through the speakers as he pulls me a little closer. Liz must’ve found the speaker, and she’s chosen to play, of all songs, a cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” the version from Crazy Rich Asians.

Owen’s grip on my hand is firm, but loose, and we begin to sway, our bodies pulled together by an unexpected outside force. We settle into a gentle rhythm, and everything else fades away. All at once, it’s like we’re the only two people in the world as the song builds and I begin to relax in his arms. I feel like I’m floating. Owen’s gaze takes my breath away. Because he’s not looking at me like he usually does. He’s looking at me like he likes what he sees. And he isn’t looking away. His gaze pins me in place, conjuring feelings inside me that I buried a long time ago. His hand guides me in a slow circle, and I can’t help but get swept up in the romance of it. We’re held together by a single electric strand, and it sizzles and burns as the seconds tick by.

In this moment, what’s happening between us doesn’t feel like a put-on or a performance. It feels honest and raw and right. He feels right. Even though I know he is so, so wrong.

I brace myself for his charge, my heart pumping, my blood boiling, but before I can move, I hear someone call my name from behind. I turn and there, standing just inside the doorway, is Emmy. My breath is ragged, and I have to swallow the bitter taste of shame as it crawls up the back of my throat. She locks onto my eyes and makes quick work of the space between us. When she reaches me, she stands between me and Levi, hands on my chest. “He’s not worth it.” Her eyes are so wide and focused they pull me right in.

And just like I did in the midst of her panic attack, she reaches out and takes my fisted hand between hers. “He doesn’t matter.” I look up and glare at Levi, and she takes a hand and puts it on my cheek. “Hey. . .hey,” she says, then leans in and softer, “tell me three body parts you see.” I blink, look down, and her eyes twinkle. I immediately break, relax, and feel a slight smile crawl across my face. In an instant, with one softly spoken sentence, Emmy has saved me.

Emmy is still holding my hand, and just like in her bookshop only an hour ago, it’s like the rest of the world disappears, and she is all that matters.

Emmy, still facing only me, smiles.

“You have perfect timing, you know that?” My hand is still in hers, and she pats it and lets it go. “What are you even doing here?” She shrugs, a soft smile dancing on her lips. “A girl’s gotta eat.” She’s amazing right now. “Well, I’m buying,” I tell her. “I owe you.” “You don’t,” she says. “That’s what friends are for.” Friends.

She leaves, and I turn to find Jace watching me. “What?” He holds up a hand. “I didn’t say anything.” “You’ve got a look.” “I do not,” he says. I stare at him. “Fine, I do,” he says. “What’s going on there?” “Nothing,” I say. “Well, keep her.” He takes a drink. “She’s like Black Widow with the Hulk. What did she whisper to you anyway?” I just smile and raise a hand to the bartender, asking for a napkin and a new beer. “At any rate, she makes you better.”

She does, doesn’t she? She at least makes me want to try and be better. Emmy sees me differently than other people. And her belief in me is convincing. Sometimes.

take the new bottle from the bartender and shake my head. “You’ve got the wrong idea.” “Or you’re kidding yourself.” He tips his bottle at me and takes a drink. “Time will tell.” I walk away, and as I turn the corner and spot Emmy sitting in a booth against the back wall, I realize I don’t need time to tell me anything. She’s amazing. And she always has been.

“She’s allowed to be picky.” It’s like Owen has rumbled to life, and the second the words are out, I’m holding on to them as if they’re a bouquet of balloons that have lifted me off the ground.

I narrow my eyes. “Or organizing a team of people to clean someone’s house after a fire?” He looks caught for a moment. I shouldn’t have said that. “I mean. . .yeah. Nice things. People should do nice things for. . .friends and people they care about.” Friends. Sigh. “And you think that’s better than romance.” “It doesn’t matter because I took myself off the market a long time ago.” He stops walking. I’ve never been more unhappy to see my car in my life. “There. Got you back safe,” he says. I fish around in my purse for my keys thinking about the movie Hitch and how this is me signaling to him that I want him to kiss me. He wouldn’t even have to go the ninety percent. I’d go the whole hundred.

Plus, Mack’s right. I’m too picky. Maybe she doesn’t realize it, but that’s not the reason I’m holding out for someone as hopelessly romantic as me—not entirely. The main reason is I haven’t met anyone who makes me feel the way Owen does. Er, did. Continues to do.

What if Practical in Poughkeepsie was onto something with his whole idea of what’s really important? What if I’ve been waiting for a lightning bolt when what I really needed was a cozy electric blanket that I could turn on with the flip of a switch? Maybe someone like Chad Rober. Maybe he’s exactly who I need. Smart. Stable. Dependable. Is that bad? Maybe I’ve been holding out for something that doesn’t even exist beyond the page.

I park in my sister’s driveway, walk up onto the front porch, and raise my hand to knock when the door opens. She’s standing there in gray sweatpants and a gray hoodie, blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head and no makeup on. “You look great,” I tease. “I bet that look brings all the boys to your yard.” “Shut up,” she snarks back. “It’s my day off.”