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

by Courtney Walsh

Green Gables. She’s blunt and assuming and in everybody’s business. I’m still looking for her redeemable qualities.

don’t prescribe to a lot of those broad-brush strokes when it comes to generation bashing, but the last three I hired who were her age had some pretty out-of-whack job expectations—and couldn’t put their phones down. Gosh, I’m turning into an old lady.

“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.

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.

Emmy’s face doesn’t move except for a quick fake smile. Lindsay won’t be able to tell, but I can. Funny. I still know her smiles.

“Oh, I just needed a minute.” I think I’m going to need more than that, like maybe a box of wine and a therapist.

The logical pragmatist in me (the little traitor) reminds me that he left without saying goodbye, that he hasn’t changed, and that history has a way of repeating itself.

The cab of the truck fills with a scent that is so very Owen, equal parts sandalwood and juniper. I’m basically high right now. And Owen is the drug.

My customers mean well, but by the time the interview rolls around and Lindsay shows up, I want to crawl into a hole and stay hidden until hell freezes over or Leonardo DiCaprio dates someone his own age, whichever comes first. Probably the hell thing.