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

by Courtney Walsh

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

The leaves have started to turn, and I’m struck by how the earth beautifully lets go of the things that need to be reborn.

There’s something refreshing about a woman who likes herself.

If people tell you something often enough, especially people in authority, you start to believe it. You’re not smart. You make bad choices. You’re not living up to your potential. That’s what he’s been told his whole life, by pretty much everyone with varying degrees of tact. How hard would it be to try to live in a world that’s not set up to help you succeed?

I plow ahead with the conversational deftness of an eggplant.

He’s no James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, that’s for sure. But let’s be honest, who really is?

“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.”

Dickenson told us the heart wants what the heart wants, or else it does not care.