Page 1 of Meeting Me, Loving You (Hearts of Maple Lake #1)

JULIET

T he world is a cold and frozen wasteland, and I just busted my pride on the ice.

I look around expectantly, my hopes rising when I realize no one is nearby.

Maybe nobody saw my fall and I can pretend it never happened.

I’m sitting on the ground outside of Le Fou, my favorite coffee shop in town, in the slush .

The snow is grey and full of pebbles now, which makes it feel like I’m sitting in an Oreo milkshake.

When I feel the chill soaking through my pants, I cringe, taking note that I may never look at an Oreo milkshake the same way again.

To add to this wonderful start of my day, the large cup of hot white chocolate mocha I was carrying out the door is no longer hot. Or in the cup. Some of it is in this slushy mess that dares to call itself snow, while the rest covers the front of my white coat and nicest jeans.

Groaning, I roll my eyes, taking another quick glance around to determine if I have any eyewitnesses. My gaze catches on the sign hanging over the café door. The cute little jester painted beside the words “Le Fou” is laughing at me as if he’s saying, who’s the fool now ?

I take in a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the scent of dark coffee and white chocolate as it wafts off my clothes. Thankfully I wasn’t burned. But honestly, I think I’d welcome the heat during these cold months.

I hate winter. Sure, Christmas is fun and cozy, and you get to see all your loved ones for the holidays.

It’s a beautiful sight when fresh snow covers the trees and rooftops in this little Pennsylvania mountain town.

But winter is not for the faint of heart; it’s soul-crushing and it laughs in the face of those who fall prey to its evil ways.

Like myself—I have fallen hard, and I’m bound to have a bruise later.

It’s January, Christmas is over, and winter can officially go away, thank you very much.

Regardless of it being only eight in the morning, I debate lying down and declaring this day over.

A work-free Saturday should not begin this way.

Clenching my jaw, I brace my feet under me and begin to stand, but the shoes I chose for today are not helping my case.

The watery slush on the sidewalk squishes under the three-inch heels of my boots, making it difficult to find a good foot placement as my ankle wobbles.

Just as I’m about to fall back into the snowdrift once again, a large hand firmly grips mine and I’m effortlessly lifted to my feet in one swift movement.

My eyes skate down to see a man’s hand engulfing mine. My gaze follows the path up what seems to be a solid forearm covered in a thick brown plaid jacket, over a tight bicep, past a boulder of a shoulder, and onto a scruffy brown beard before they land on light eyes with thick lashes.

A girl would pay a high price for lashes like that.

I must tilt my head back to see the man’s face, even with my heels adding height to my five-foot-nine frame. He’s tall, easily reaching close to six and a half feet .

His body is close enough to mine that I can smell his cologne.

He smells like one of the manly scented candles I have in my apartment that are labeled “leather” and “sandalwood.” Just one whiff has me feeling heady.

I’m unsure if my body is reacting to the chill seeping through my coffee-drenched clothes or my proximity to him, but a shiver runs down my spine.

His eyes are a beautiful deep green, the color of pine trees, while his hair hides under his winter beanie, leaving me curious about its color.

His beard is dark brown, with little hints of red shining through as the sun reflects off the snow, while his eyebrows are lighter brown, yet not quite blonde.

He could literally be a blond, a redhead, or a brunette under his hat.

Those beautiful eyes are looking back at me, and only then do I realize I have been blatantly staring at this stranger. I don’t think I’ve blinked, and I have to remember to breathe. His warm hand is still holding mine, and my eyes are glued to him like they’ve never seen muscles or a man before.

“Thank you for your help,” I breathe, attempting to laugh it off as I take my hand from his and begin brushing the snow off my rear. “I can’t believe I did that. I’m not usually the kind of person who just falls. I’m a lot more coordinated than you’d expect, given the evidence.”

I can’t believe an attractive man is seeing me like this, and now I’m rambling.

I’m more than a little off my game right now, having worked extra shifts at the hospital this week on top of my four typical ten-hour long shifts. I’m drained mentally, emotionally, and, clearly , physically.

He seems to be in his late twenties, a few years older than me, and he has a kind smile. I find no hint of criticism on his face, which I’m grateful for. His eyes stay on mine for a second, but then drift over my coffee-stained peacoat and my soggy bell-bottom jeans, taking in my disarray.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” His voice is deep and rough as if he’s only just woken up.

Slightly surprised at his concern, my cheeks warm out of embarrassment at how wildly unattractive I must look right now, especially in comparison to him.

I wasn’t heading anywhere important, but on Saturdays, I like to be productive, and to be productive, I like to dress up.

Dress for success, right? But now, my outfit is covered in white mocha and a chill is seeping through the back of my jeans.

I hurry to say, “I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t realize I was at the edge of the sidewalk since all the snow was covering it and I just…” I make a motion with my hand that looks like a person falling over.

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” he says as he continues looking me over. His lips twitch with the hint of what might be a laugh.

Okay, now comes the judgment.

Did I splash coffee on my face as well? Feeling self-conscious, I wipe my chin with the back of my hand.

“Can I buy you another coffee?” he asks, gesturing toward the coffee shop.

The shock that this man just offered to buy me coffee while I look like this has me momentarily stunned. I was sure that he’d be turned off by how I look and by the fact that I can’t walk without falling down. This whole encounter has me reeling.

“Oh,” I stammer, not knowing what to say. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll probably just forgo my coffee fix this time after the trouble it’s caused me. Guess it wasn’t meant to be today.” I shrug out a forceful laugh.

I’m trying desperately not to stare at him. My stomach fills with so many butterflies I fear they might fly out of my mouth. Why is he so attractive? And why does he look slightly familiar?

Maybe he’s a movie star. Maybe he’s been on a TV show I’ve seen! I’m internally fangirling at even the possibility of meeting a big-time actor.

His mouth pulls into a lopsided grin, and his smiling evergreen eyes seem to see right through me, catching me in my bluff. “Are you sure? If this is how your day is starting, I’d hate to see how it goes from here without your morning coffee.”

My shoulders sag and I let out an exasperated sigh.

I did want coffee, and I still do . I was heading to the library for my usual Saturday morning routine.

I typically check my emails and work on school—today I’ll be writing a paper for my Pediatric Development class—but every week, I stop at my favorite coffee shop first to pick up the very best white chocolate mocha that I’ve been able to find anywhere .

Maple Lake isn’t large by any means, so there’s only one coffee shop in town.

Besides the coffee I make for myself at home, theirs is the only coffee I’ve had that I like.

Actually, the white mocha at Le Fou is the only coffee I’ve been willing to taste.

I’m not really the “branch out of my comfort zone” type of girl.

Blinking, I reply with the most confident voice I can muster through my growing wave of discomfort.

“I do really need my daily coffee… but I can go back in for myself and get another. You don’t need to do that for me.” I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a whimper as I swipe once more at the unfortunate mess I’ve made on myself.

His smile widens, his brows arch upward, and I think for a second that he’s laughing at me.

His eyes trail down my coffee-covered body, making a show of his perusal.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to dispel the heated feeling I get from his stare. Then his eyes meet mine again .

“What?” I say, feeling a rush of defensiveness.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says quickly, his words stumbling over one another.

His hands raise, palms out in a show of surrender.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking that if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to go in there looking like…

” he cuts off, simply gesturing toward my clothing.

I realize that he doesn’t want to say anything that would offend me, which makes me feel a little more at ease, so I finish the sentence for him.

“Like a freaking mess?” I say, throwing my hands in the air and gesturing to myself.

“Yeah, like that.”

I brush my hands down the front of my jeans and then turn my upper body halfway around to look at my backside.

My peacoat is long enough to cover my rear, so I pull it up to check how bad my pants look.

My beautiful white coat is no longer white on both the front and the back.

It’s difficult to see behind me, but the cold continues to seep through my jeans into my skin and I just know that my entire rear end looks like I sat in mud. Because, quite literally, I did.

When I look up at the helpful stranger I realize that he, too, is looking down at the back of my wet jeans.