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

by Courtney Walsh

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. But it doesn’t happen for me. No beards. No rain. No kisses.

Real

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

And maybe it’s not realistic, but this kind of sweep me off my feet romance is what I’m waiting for. I won’t settle. I learned a long time ago that there’s no sense in giving my heart away. I’m waiting for the guy who will convince me to take a risk on him, and that guy is only going to convince me with grand romantic gestures.

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.

My eyes follow his gaze to the firefighter, still wearing his mask, but it’s flipped up, tilted back. His face. I can’t focus through my watery eyes and the flashing red and blue of the emergency vehicles. He gives the paramedic a nod, then walks straight over to where I’m lying. My romance-fueled mind is filling in every blank. It’s like he’s walking in slow motion. He’s about to reveal himself to me. My real-life hero. And I’m about to rethink my position on fictional men being better than real ones. He starts to pull his helmet all the way off. My heart is pounding in my chest, a literal drum. 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.

My pulse quickens under the weight of his gaze. Suddenly, I’m Elizabeth Bennett, feeling the passionate stare of Mr. Darcy. I am not the kind of girl who is accustomed to attention from the opposite sex. And I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted it. Although, I wouldn’t complain if some guy swept me off my feet and professed his undying love for me in a gazebo in the rain. 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.

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

Guys in books who restore houses is such a cliché. And yet. . .I’m a sucker for it every time.

Same girl

I like who I am. I like spending my time the way I want to spend my time. I like my pajamas and my books. And I like helping people via my podcast. I’m comfortable with who I am, and I’m not going to let this trip down memory lane change that.

The folks of Harvest Hollow really know how to do disaster relief. 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.

“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.”

“And you’re right, one could argue that romance will fade. But. . .” she points a butter knife at me, “if a person is thoughtful, that sticks. Doesn’t that matter more? Just because someone is good at being sappy or thinking up romantic gestures, that doesn’t mean they’re worthy of your love.” She levels my gaze. “And just because they aren’t good at those things doesn’t mean they aren’t.”

“He was being friendly.” “He was being thoughtful.” She nods. “And I don’t know about you, but to me, that reads a lot like romance.”

Owen Larrabee, the least romantic person I’ve ever known, is giving me the most romantic moment of my entire life.

She rests her head on my chest, and we dance in the rain, right in the middle of Maple Street. And even I can admit, there’s something to it. Something sort of magical. So, while she may not need romance, I’m still going to find ways to give it to her. Because love really does make fools of us all. And I’ll be happy to be a fool for Emmy for the rest of my life.