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Back The Falling in Love Montage
Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1.
  4. 2.
  5. 3.
  6. 4.
  7. 5.
  8. 6.
  9. 7.
  10. 8.
  11. 9.
  12. 10.
  13. 11.
  14. 12.
  15. 13.
  16. 14.
  17. 15.
  18. 16.
  19. 17.
  20. 18.
  21. 19.
  22. 20.
  23. 21.
  24. 22.
  25. 23.
  26. 24.
  27. 25.
  28. 26.
  29. 27.
  30. 28.
  31. 29.
  32. 30.
  33. 31.
  34. 32.
  35. 33.
  36. 34.
  37. 35.
  38. 36.
  39. 37.
  40. 38.
  41. Acknowledgments
  42. About the Author
  43. Books by Ciara Smyth
  44. Back Ad
  45. About the Publisher

“Ladies.” Oliver jumped out of his Jeep and tipped an imaginary hat. “I hear there are damsels in distress?”

“Oh, bugger off.” I knew I’d have to listen to his nonsense if I called, but honestly, the boy never let up.

“I’m here to rescue you like the manly man I am.” He used a voice that was at least an octave lower than his normal voice and swung a set of jump leads seductively.

“Why are you doing a man voice? You are, in fact, a man.” I rolled my eyes.

Oliver shrugged. Ruby got out of the car and our eyes met. I tried to apologize again with a smile.

“Any idea how to jump-start the car?” She directed her conversation at Oliver only.

“Obviously not, but that’s what YouTube is for.”

Ruby’s smile was full of gratitude and relief. It made her a little less scary. I’d talk to her on the way home, I decided. Once the stress of being stranded had passed, she might be in better form.

Between the three of us, we managed to figure it out. I nearly wept with joy when the engine started making proper engine noises again.

“Want a lift home?” Oliver nodded at Ruby.

She hesitated. I tried to communicate via telepathy that I was really sorry for being a dick and that I wanted her to come with me. Going back to my place was obviously off the table. I didn’t want it to happen like this anyway (“it” is sex, you know that by now, right? I don’t have to keep saying it?). If it was going to happen, it should be on a perfect day.

“Saoirse’s going to drive me home,” Ruby said.

Apparently, I did have the power of psychic thought transmission. Would I use it for good or evil?

It was only when I dropped her off with a good-night kiss (and a good-night hand on the boob—high five!) that a terrible thought occurred to me.

Did that count as a fight? And if it counted as a fight, did we make up? Had I invited one of the harbingers of doom?

No. Surely not. It wasn’t a fight. It was so tiny. It was barely even an f. A fight would be like a big disagreement about something important. A screaming match. Horrible words exchanged and tears shed. That’s obviously what I’d meant when I said fight. Everyone has little tiffs. That’s normal, even for a montage. It’s all part of the antagonistic nature of the chemistry.

It didn’t count.

Shut up.

15.