Absolutely Not in Love (Sweater Weather, #7; Appies, #2)

by Jenny Proctor

“Gracie? What’s wrong? Are you okay? I heard you yell.”

“I was getting dressed when you banged, and then I just…ran. I thought you were hurt.”

There’s a hint of something in his voice that almost sounds like disappointment, and I half-wonder if I’m imagining it.

If I yield to my first impulse, I’ll go home to my empty apartment, eat in silence, then spend the night reading and relaxing on my own.

I definitely haven’t mentioned that Gracie is talented and beautiful and basically everything I’ve ever desired in a woman.

She’s always been more practical than she has been emotional about things like relationships.

“Thank you. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why were you there? And why did you bring me my mail, and

he looks like a dark-haired Thor.

It’s an unfortunate conundrum that the sport I’ve sworn out of my life forever is actually the one I know the most about. After so many years watching my brother play, I can talk the talk as well as the most diehard fan.

I FEEL THIS!!!!!!!!!

I’m steady. I’m focused. No one controls me but me.

As long as Gracie is playing, I plan on sitting right here to listen.

Acting on instinct, I grab her hands, holding them inside mine, rubbing my palms over the backs of her hands to warm them up.

The water is running inside the bathroom, and I try not to think about Gracie on the other side of that door, in my shower. Or about the fact that the next time I see her, she’ll be wearing my clothes. It’s the sexiest thought I’ve had all day,

but I am a woman who loves a good hoodie,

I wrap my fingers around her wrist, and pull her hand to my mouth, stealing the chip she’s holding in her fingers.

Still, as we talk about music and books and so many other things we have in common, I can’t fully suppress the hope that this is the start of something great.

But knowing I’m attractive generally and knowing you find me attractive are not the same thing.”

She’s a professional musician. I know it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s probably going to figure out the piece just by looking at it. But damn if it’s not sexy to think about her doing just that.

“It means you’re both a ridiculously hot hockey stud and a music nerd. How is that even possible?”

Like her touch woke up a part of me that was dormant, and now everything is brighter, sharper, more intense.

Felix: This is hard. I feel dumb. I don’t want to come on too strong. Logan: Have you strewn your apartment with flower petals? If you have, ABANDON SHIP.

I don’t know what it means. I’m not young enough or hip enough to know how to interpret emojis beyond knowing that I should never, under any circumstances, send anyone an eggplant or a peach.

Smart man

He plays professional freaking hockey, and I still like him.

He bought me pastries. He. bought. me. pastries.

There is nothing quite like the feel of a brand-new book.

Felix: Wait. Maybe that was too much. Felix: Sorry. Filter is broken. Felix: I’m not in my underwear. I’m in my full hockey pads.

I send him a winking emoji because he’s adorable and I love that he’s so flustered.

I would love that. Nothing like embarrassing myself in front of the woman I’m trying to impress.

But honestly, you could invite me to try competitive duck herding and I’d still want to go if you were going to be there.

Is she sad I’m leaving? I’m definitely sad I’m leaving.

When Gracie returns to the kitchen barefoot, in black leggings that hug her curves, an oversized sweatshirt that’s already fallen off of one of her shoulders, and glasses, her hair piled on top of her head, I give up. There is no way I’m keeping my cool tonight. This deconstructed version of Gracie—I didn’t even know she wore glasses—is incredibly sexy.

Warmth spills from my midsection out to my limbs, which is silly. I made food, and she likes it. Why does that feel so good?

But now, it just…I don’t know. It defined my existence for so long, I just wanted to get away from it all. To occupy a space where dinner conversation wasn’t always about shooting percentages or the draft lottery or even the quality of the hotdogs they serve at the Summit. I’m not kidding you, Felix. It is literally all they talk about.”

I feel this so hard

I don’t like the idea of anything hurting Gracie’s feelings, but she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “If it matters,” I say slowly, my eyes lifting to hers, “I love to hear you play.”

It doesn’t take long to realize that Eli has a very specific purpose. Every question he asks Gracie somehow leads back to me.

When she mentions her favorite food—barbecue chicken pizza, and yes, I’m taking notes—he claims my homemade pizza is the best he’s ever had. I’ve never made homemade pizza at all, much less made it for Eli, but I appreciate his efforts anyway.

“Is there something you need to confess, Eli?” Nathan asks, his deep baritone rumbling across the table. “Cause it sounds like you got a thing for Felix.”

If he tried to kiss me, I’d let him. And I don’t think he’d stop me if I made the first move.

Keep stroking my ego, and you’ll get book recommendations for life.

Honestly, I’ll take a slapshot to the palm any day if it means her touching me like this.

“The only thing that matters to me is that you’re at the table with me.”

“Hi. Is this too fancy?” She looks down at her dress. “I’ve been freaking out for the past ten minutes because I want to wear something perfect because I want our date to be perfect, and I couldn’t decide between this one and a black dress that I really love, but honestly, I wear black all the freaking time, so do I really want to wear black when I’m not on stage? But the lace on this one feels fancier than the black and I don’t want to be too fancy.” She finally takes a breath. “So I’m asking you.” It takes me a minute to respond. Because she’s adorable. And her dress is stunning.

“Yeah, Parker’s last viral video went bigger than the norm. Who knew Alec in a bikini would get such a response?

always amazes me how quickly women can connect—

But if she thinks she’s going to play for me, looking as beautiful as she looks right now, without me kissing her senseless, she’s got another thing coming.

I thought I loved watching Gracie all dressed up, playing on stage with the rest of the Harvest Hollow Symphony. But here, in my living room, playing for me—only me—I just hope she doesn’t need me to talk. Because my words are gone. Disappeared. Or maybe there just aren’t any words. Not for this. Not for how she’s making me feel right now.

She’s playing Bach’s first violin sonata—my grandmother’s favorite piece. My favorite piece.

“Gracie, any man who doesn’t listen isn’t worth a look, much less a single minute of your time.”

“That’s quite a track record. Your entire family with their minds blown?” He presses me up against the wall, and I let out a little gasp. “What’s it going to take for you to lose your mind, Gracie?”

“It wasn’t any trouble. I see my teammates every day. I just threw a few things on the table in the locker room, put my goalie pads on, then blocked the door until they gave me what I wanted.”