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

by Courtney Walsh

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.

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.

Why do the things that are most precious have to be the most flammable?

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.

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.

Don’t you deserve someone who occasionally cooks you dinner and brings you flowers—or better yet, coffee—just because?

I also briefly think that, if trees were alive like people, how horrified they’d be that humans basically rake their hair into piles and burn it.

told me to “just relax and be natural.” I don’t think she realized that for me, those two things were in direct opposition to each other.

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

this is what they do. They jaunt. They’re jaunty. Jaunters? Jauntpersons? Jauntalopes?

“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.”

He opens the picnic basket. It’s overflowing with all my favorite candy.