1. Chapter One

Chapter One

My brain is going to explode.

And advanced calculus is the dynamite.

I cast a final glance over the notes that I took during class today, and then I power down my laptop and slip it into my bag. I look out the windows of the city bus, watching as it comes to an idling stop at the curb. Its doors open with a hiss. I sling my bag's strap over my shoulder, pop up from my seat, and scurry off the bus to reach the sidewalk.

The bus roars away, and I take in the scene before me with a smile. It's the first day of October, and autumn has burst forth in all its glory here in the Lakewood region. The maple trees lining the sidewalks are swaying in the gentle breeze, their leaves glowing with vibrant hues of red, orange, and yellow. The afternoon sun is golden and bright in the cloudless sky. The air is invigoratingly crisp. Even the beautiful, turn-of-the-century brick buildings that line both sides of the road appear especially charming, thanks to the fall decorations that adorn their windows and entryways. As I finish absorbing the idyllic view, I sigh contentedly. Having lived in the Lakewood area for my entire twenty-two years of existence, this quaint part of town has always been my favorite, particularly this time of year.

My phone pings with a new text. I pull the phone from a pocket of my coat and check the message. It's from Savannah Drake, my best friend whom I've known since junior high:

Be sure to stop by the Coffee Loft on your way home. We have a new autumn drink that you'll love!

I smile again. The Coffee Loft is a coffee shop that's only about a block away, and I love going there for a study break, a late breakfast on the weekends, or whenever I need a change of scenery while pouring over the notes from my pre-med classes. Savannah has worked as a barista at the Coffee Loft since our freshman year of college, so over these past three-plus years, she has been my trusted Coffee-Loft informant, always letting me know when there are new menu items I need to try.

My mouth is watering in anticipation of a pumpkin scone and the new autumn drink, but when I notice the time on my phone, my smile droops into a disappointed frown. It's so late in the afternoon that I actually can't go to the Coffee Loft. I need to head home to the apartment I share with Savannah so I can resume studying for the big calculus exam we have tomorrow.

I permit myself to wallow in my disappointment for another second or so, and then I shove aside my remorse. Ignoring regret is something I've gotten good at over the years. I have to be good at it. After all, I chose the pre-med route, and when I made that choice, I knew it would mean long hours of studying and missing out on other things―both big and small―that I might want to do. There's simply no way around it. I must prioritize getting top grades, shadowing physicians, attending pre-med meetings, working as a tutor on campus, and doing everything else necessary to be a competitive, top-tier med school applicant. It's just the way it is.

I refocus on my phone and text a reply to Savannah:

I wish I could stop by, but I need to head home to study for the calculus test.

I swear that I don't even have a chance to blink before Savannah responds:

Earth to Danielle Gillespie: I'm pre-med like you, and I'm taking the same exam. You've studied way more than I have, so I know you can swing by here for a short break. (P.S. The new autumn drink is soooooo good!)

I snort a laugh. Savannah is not only brilliant and equipped with a fantastic sense of humor, she also knows me far too well. She knows precisely how to make a visit to the Coffee Loft sound too tempting to pass up.

I check the time again. The study-o-holic in me insists that I should go directly home. However, the part of me that yearns for a break is insisting that taking a little time to refuel at the Coffee Loft would actually be a wise idea because it'll give me the energy I need to study better later. It doesn't take long for me to be convinced. I send Savannah my answer:

Okay, I'll head over, but I can only stay for a couple of minutes.

Savannah answers with approximately one billion thumbs-up emojis. I put my phone back into my pocket and begin strolling toward the Coffee Loft while admiring the fall displays in the shops' windows. When I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in one of the windows, I slow my pace. Thankfully―miraculously, really―though I've been up especially late these past few nights to study, I don't appear nearly as frazzled or exhausted as I feel. My curly, dark red hair is pulled back into a ponytail that's reasonably tidy. The makeup around my green eyes hasn't gotten smeared despite the many times I've wearily rubbed my face today. My brown pea coat, cranberry-colored sweater, jeans, and ankle boots make for a rather cute outfit, which is a small wonder in and of itself, since looking cute during the week of an exam—when one's head is crammed with information like how to define uniform convergence for real-valued functions—is no guarantee.

The scents of cinnamon, pumpkin, and chocolate pull me out of my thoughts. I've reached the Coffee Loft, which is located in what I think is the prettiest building on the street. This three-story structure was constructed in the early nineteen-hundreds like all the others in this lovely area of town. It has an awning over its tall front door, symmetrically spaced windows, and stunning woodwork. It's a gem of vintage craftsmanship.

I open the door and step into the shop, becoming fully immersed in the delicious aromas of the foods and drinks that are served here. The shop is laid out as one large room, which features a vaulted ceiling and chandeliers, exposed brick walls, ornate millwork, and the original hardwood floor with its decorative tile border. Sunshine is pouring in through the windows while sconces on the walls add additional light. A fire is crackling merrily in a fireplace that's far to my right. Straight ahead, about halfway back from the front door, is the huge order counter with its built-in display case. Several feet behind the counter is a swinging door that leads into the kitchen. Tables for customers are spread throughout the front half of the room. Over by the left wall is the spiral staircase that leads to the second and third floors, which are where the offices and staff break rooms are located. Currently, the shop's cozy ambience is being enhanced by the big band music that's playing over the sound system. And as usual, though the shop is busy, it doesn't feel busy. I swear there's magic here that makes one want to stay all day while sipping a hot drink and reading a novel.

"Hey, Miss Study Queen," someone says with amusement in her tone.

I snicker and face Savannah, who's behind the counter. She's grinning, and her blue eyes are dancing with a humorous gleam. Today, she has her brown hair tucked away in a low braid, she's wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and she has on over her outfit a maroon apron that's embroidered with the logo of the Coffee Loft.

I approach the counter. "I was tricked into coming here. You knew I would never be able to turn down a new autumn drink."

"Perhaps." Savannah shrugs. "However, I also knew you needed a study break. You could take that exam right now and ace it."

"You'll ace it for sure, but I don't know about me." I lean against the counter, suddenly aware of how tired I am. "I still feel like I have a lot of studying to do."

Savannah's brow furrows momentarily as she observes me, and then she readopts her smile. "Well, either way, you've come to the right place. This drink will be the perfect pick-me-up before you hit the books again. It's hot apple cider with cinnamon, caramel drizzle, and whipping cream."

"That sounds absolutely delicious," I tell her, sensing myself perking up already.

"Good. I'll make one for you right now." Savannah moves down the counter. She pauses and glances at me again. "A big one."

Savannah reaches past the towering stacks of small, medium, and large to-go cups, and she grabs an enormous cup off the top of the lofty-sized stack. As she does so, however, her shoulder bumps the cups, causing the whole stack to topple over. Savanna yelps and hops back as the avalanche of cups lands on the floor with a loud clatter. Immediately, all the customers pause what they're doing and look over.

Savannah is clearly holding back a laugh as she scans the mess. "I suppose this means I need to get some new cups from the back."

"That would probably be a good idea." I chuckle and move behind the counter. I motion to the cups on the floor. "In the meantime, I'll start putting these in the recycle bin."

"Thanks. I'll be back as soon as I can." Savannah gives me an appreciative look before she dashes through the swinging door that leads into the kitchen.

As the customers go back to enjoying their drinks and pastries, I tuck my bag under the counter and start gathering up as many cups as I can hold. I hear a jingle from the bell above the front door, but since I'm bent down and balancing approximately a gazillion cups in my arms, I can't see if the sound means another customer has arrived or someone has left the shop. A few strands of my hair fall into my eyes as I use my pinky finger to grab one more cup. With my arms overly full, I finally stand up straight again. And I freeze.

The most handsome man I have ever seen is waiting to order.

The man's brown eyes promptly meet mine. For one instant, I'm rendered unable to move, speak, or even breathe as I soak in the sight of him. He appears to be about my age. He's tall. He has sandy blond hair. His chiseled facial features are perfectly proportioned. And although he's dressed casually in a dark green sweatshirt and jeans, it's obvious that he's built like Hercules.

A few cups fall from my grip.

"Um, hello." I work down a swallow and find my voice. "Um, welcome to the Coffee Loft."

The man adjusts the strap of the computer bag that's hanging from one of his broad shoulders. His attention shifts to the cups in my arms.

"Do you need help with those?" he asks, his deep voice sending heat rippling down my back.

"No, but, um, thanks for asking." I drop several more cups. "So, um, anyway, I'm sure you want to place an order."

The man's expression is impossible to read. "That would be preferable, yes."

"Great." I clear my throat. "And you definitely can order, of course. That is, you'll be able to order as soon as―"

"As soon as I start cleaning up the mess that I made, so you can resume taking orders," I hear Savannah interject with exaggerated professionalism.

I snap my head over my shoulder. Savannah has reemerged from the kitchen. She has propped on one hip a big cardboard box that's filled with new, packaged cups. In her other hand, she's holding a box that's empty. Her eyes are shifting fast between Hercules and me, and I can tell she's fighting to keep another grin contained. When she reaches my side, she sets the box of new cups on the counter and holds out the empty box to me.

"Feel free to place those discarded cups in here." Savannah is still speaking in an over-the-top businesslike manner. "I'll get them into the recycle bin while you take this gentleman's order."

I give Savannah a fast, wide-eyed look that I know she'll understand. What is she doing? I don't work here! I don't have a clue how to take orders!

In the periphery of my vision, I notice the man glance at Savannah and return his attention to me. And he waits. Savannah waits, too, blinking at me with feigned innocence. All I can do is mirror her excessively polite demeanor and dump the cups into the empty box, fully aware that the sexiest man in the Universe is watching.

"Thanks," I mutter to her.

"Oh, it's my pleasure. Trust me. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I'll take these away." Savannah flashes a mischievous smile before she darts back into the kitchen and disappears.

I stare after her. There's a pause.

"So may I order now?" I hear the man inquire.

I slowly shift toward him. "Um, certainly." I step up to the old-fashioned register and mimic what I've heard Savannah say a thousand times. "So, um, what drink can I get started for you?"

The man's expression remains impossible to decipher. "What would you recommend?"

What am I supposed to do now? Recommend a drink of polynomials? It's like all the hours I've spent pouring over calculus have made it impossible to think about anything else. I gawk at the man for another panicked moment before I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind:

"We have a new autumn drink."

The man scratches the facial scruff on his chin, the motion drawing far too much of my attention to his sculpted jaw line. "Okay, I'll try that."

"You will?" My eyebrows shoot up. "I mean, um, great."

I lower my eyes to the register, which has been modified to include a high-tech keypad. I have absolutely no idea what button to push, so I tap a bunch of them all at once. The register emits a strange noise, and the keypad displays the purchase total on its screen.

"That will be three hundred dollars and seventy-four cents," I announce.

The man does a double take. "I'm sorry? What kind of drink is this, exactly?"

A flush starts rising from my neck into my face as I force a laugh. "Whoops. I forgot that this register isn't working. Please take a seat, and I'll get that drink made for you. No charge."

The man doesn't reply at first. Instead, he checks behind him. I glance past him to see what he's looking at, and I'm shocked to discover that several customers are staring at him, taking his picture, and chatting excitedly amongst themselves. And if I'm not mistaken, a guy seated by the window just whispered to his friend that he's going to ask Hercules for his autograph.

His autograph?

What is going on?

The man sighs and faces me again. "Okay, I'll go sit down. Thanks."

He takes a step away from the counter.

"May I get your name?" I call after him.

The man stops and puts his gaze back on mine.

I gesture to the register. "For your order."

"It's Joel," he tells me in a low voice. "My name is Joel."

"Joel," I echo. For no explainable reason, a little tingle zips from my head down to my toes. "Got it."

Joel strides to the back corner and sits at a small table that's tucked into an alcove and partly hidden from the view of the other customers. From my vantage point, I see him pull a laptop out of his bag and set it on the table. Without warning, he looks over at me. I blush harder and avert my attention to the wall. I have no idea what to do next. Mercifully, Savannah reappears from the kitchen and hustles to my side. While she starts rebuilding the tower of to-go cups, she asks me in a whisper:

"What did he order?"

"I recommended the new autumn drink." I pretend like I'm fixing the not-actually-broken register. "I told him it would be free of charge, and don't you dare ask me any questions about that."

"Fair enough." Savannah's shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. "So you're going to make him what we're calling our Autumn Cider Swirl. I'll guide you through it." She's barely moving her lips as she talks. I had no idea that she possesses ventriloquist skills. "Grab a lofty-sized cup."

I'm rapidly running out of ways to appear fascinated by the register. "Can't you just make the drink for him?"

"And be the reason that you miss out on interacting again with the only man I've seen you crush on in years?" Savannah adds more cups to the stack. "Absolutely not."

"I'm not crushing on him!" I barely keep my voice to a whisper.

"Of course you're not." Savannah shoots me a side-glance that makes it clear she's not fooled. "Either way, though, you should probably start making his drink since he's watching you."

"He's what?"

I make the mistake of looking Joel's direction once more. My heart skids when I discover that he is indeed watching me again―with a rather perturbed expression. I can't blame him for being irritated; instead of making his drink, I'm standing here like . . . well, like someone who isn't really a barista. If he figures out I'm a fraud, he might complain to the manager. And a complaint might get Savannah in trouble.

I roll back my shoulders. I guess I'm making Joel a drink.

I pull a lofty-sized cup off the newly built tower. Savannah conveniently makes herself busy cleaning the nearest countertop while she discreetly continues giving me directions. Under her guidance, I heat up a hefty serving of apple cider and pour it into the cup. I next add cinnamon.

Savannah moves to the sink to wash her hands. "Get the whipping cream out of the fridge."

I do as instructed and slather a bunch of whipping cream on top of the beverage. The end result doesn't look at all like the cute drinks Savannah makes, however. Instead, it just looks like a massive blob of white goo floating aimlessly on an apple-cider sea.

"Now finish with the caramel drizzle." Savannah pointedly shifts her eyes to a row of bottles that are on a shelf.

I whirl toward the shelf, locate the bottle that I need, and coat the top of the drink with about seventeen gallons of caramel.

"Okay, you're set." Savannah opens the display case, dons a pair of food-preparation gloves, and proceeds to rearrange the already arranged pastries. "Put a lid and a sleeve on the cup, and take it over to Joel."

"Wait a sec. How did you know Joel's name?" I hit her with a curious look. "You were in the back when he told me what it was."

Savannah meets my perplexed stare with one of her own. "Do you mean to say that you don't know who he is?"

"Should I?"

"Oh, this is good." The humorous gleam returns to Savannah's eyes. "Take Joel his drink, and then I'll fill you in."

The drink. Right.

I return my attention to the massive cup, which is nearly overflowing with scorching apple cider and pounds of whipping cream. As I anticipate talking with Mr. Muscles again, my stomach seizes with nerves. Talking to guys is not something I excel at. My skills are more in the realm of . . . well, studying. (And I mean studying textbooks and online course curriculums, not studying the otherworldly hotness of the man who's currently sitting in the corner and occasionally shooting questioning glances my way.) I don't have that natural ability to act both attractively confident and coy around guys. I'm only naturally good at academics. So I read. I study. I memorize. I score highly on exams. I tutor others on their coursework. And I avoid conversing with handsome men because I'm always an awkward disaster.

Fortunately for me, my social clumsiness doesn't matter. I'm not interested in pursuing romance at this point in my life, anyway. Correction: I can't pursue romance. I have to stay focused on getting into med school . . . and once I'm in med school, I'll be consumed by four years of brutally hard classes and clinical rotations . . . and after med school, I'll get swallowed up by four years of an OBGYN residency. Only after that, once I become an attending physician, will I have time for love. In other words, though I dream of finding my soulmate, it's going to be a long time before love can be part of my life.

I experience another potent sting of regret. I cast off the sensation, though, like I always do. I'm truly happy to be on the path that I am. I love scholastics. I love medicine, and I'm ecstatic at the prospect of going to med . . .

The drink. I need to take Joel his drink.

I pick up the beverage, slip out from behind the counter, and start weaving past the other tables to reach the back corner. The cup is becoming exponentially hotter against my skin, reminding me that I forgot both a lid and a sleeve, but it's not like I'm going to turn back now. Instead, I pick up my pace while exuding my best I-totally-work-here attitude. When I reach the table, Joel stops typing on his laptop and lifts his eyes to mine.

His gaze is mesmerizing.

"H-here you are," I sputter. "This is a lofty-sized Autumn Cider Swirl."

My hand is shaking so badly that I set down the cup too hard. Whipping cream and boiling-lava-hot apple cider slosh over the brim and hit my fingers. I yank back my hand, accidentally smacking the cup as I do so. The gigantic cup teeters . . . and then in one horrible, slow-motion moment, it finishes tipping over, flinging Autumn Cider Swirl everywhere. Everywhere .

"Whoa!" Joel springs to his feet.

"Your laptop!" I cry out at the same time.

I dive forward, arms outstretched, to save his laptop from the sugar apocalypse, but my foot slips on the puddle of cider that's now collecting on the floor. I release a goat-like bleat as I start to fall.

Joel catches me in his arms.

Every single person in the shop turns and gapes at Joel and me. The room has become totally silent except for the music, the crackling of the fire, and the sound of the cider dripping off the table. The stunned stillness isn't broken until a woman uses her phone to take a picture of Joel while not-quietly informing her companion that she would love to "nearly die from apple cider and have Joel catch her, too."

I slowly raise my eyes to Joel's.

His gaze is intense as he holds me. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." I gather my footing. My face is seriously on fire. It's a face inferno. "Thank you."

Joel keeps one arm around my waist until I've fully regained my balance. He then lets me go. Before either of us can say anything else, Savannah appears at my side. She has a mop in one hand, and in the other hand she's carrying a bright yellow sandwich-board sign that says, Caution! Wet Floor! Below the writing, there's a stick-figure person falling in a way that's disturbingly similar to how I must have just looked. Savannah shoots me a glance before putting the sign on the floor and commencing with mopping up the mess.

I suddenly remember that Joel's laptop remains in the path of Lake Cider, which is still creeping across the tabletop. I make another move to rescue the device, but Joel steps in front of me and picks it up himself. I could be wrong here, but I get the sense that he doesn't want me anywhere near his electronic devices. I can't fault him.

"I'm so sorry about all of this." I push wayward strands of my hair from my overheated face. "I'll get you another drink."

"Thanks, but you don't need to do that." Joel puts his laptop into his bag. His eyes drift to the staring customers while he goes on saying to me, "I should probably clear out, anyway."

Joel drapes his bag strap over his shoulder and walks off. I watch him go. When he reaches the front door, he briefly looks back at me and then exits the shop.

"So that didn't go quite as expected," I hear Savannah remark.

I moan and turn toward her. "No, it definitely did not."

"I'm sorry." Savannah makes the final swipe with the mop. "This was my fault."

"Don't be sorry. You were trying to do me a favor . . . a weird favor, but still a favor." I grab the package of cleaning wipes from the pocket of her apron and use them to dry off the table. "Besides, it's not like I'll ever see Joel again, so it's all good."

An entertained-looking smile reappears on Savannah's lips.

"What's so funny?" I demand.

Savannah makes a move with her hand to indicate that I should follow her to the order counter. "It's time to chat."

Curiosity piqued, I trail Savannah back behind the counter. She puts away the cleaning supplies and rinses her hands. She then starts expertly making another Autumn Cider Swirl while she asks me:

"Okay, we've attended tons of school sporting events since we started college, correct?"

I hesitate. This feels like a trick question.

"Correct," I eventually reply, drawing out the word.

Savannah pours the heated apple cider into a cup. "This has included attending lots of men's basketball games in the late fall and winter, as well as attending men's volleyball matches in the spring, right?"

"I guess so."

Savannah stirs cinnamon into the drink. "Now I realize that you hate athletics, and you only attend sporting events with me because you're a fabulously supportive best friend. Still, though, are you seriously telling me that despite all the volleyball matches and basketball games we've attended, you've never once noticed Joel?"

"Not once. Why would I have noticed him?"

Savannah laughs. "Considering Joel Lambert is the most famous athlete who has ever attended the university, and he's one of the best college athletes in the nation, I figured you might have at least noticed him."

"He's an athlete ?" I say the word with unmasked disdain.

If I needed another reason to forget about Joel, I certainly have it now. Joel is an athlete . He's one of those arrogant guys who thinks the world revolves around him because he plays a game. I'm all-too-familiar with his type. I grew up surrounded by jocks because my older brother, Dylan, was a multi-sport athlete himself; he even played college football before he went on to med school. Though Dylan and his friends were great, they were definitely the exceptions to the rule. The rest of the athletes usually looked down their noses at little, bookish me. Unfortunately, in more recent years, my experiences while working as a tutor on campus have only reinforced the jock stereotype. I've tutored plenty of guys who happen to be athletes, and many of them have been patronizing, dismissive, or intolerably self-absorbed.

"Yep, Joel is most definitely an athlete," Savannah goes on while putting whipping cream on the drink. "He's the starting point guard on the basketball team and the starting libero on the volleyball team."

"Wow. That's a big deal," I say with genuine admiration. I may find sports terribly boring, but I also know enough about athletics to appreciate the magnitude of Joel's accomplishments.

"Exactly. Joel is unquestionably a big deal . . . a two-sport, all-star, nationally recognized, potentially-going-to-play- professionally big deal." Savannah adds caramel drizzle to the beverage. "So I can't believe you didn't recognize him. What in the heck have you been doing during all the games we've attended?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Checking my phone. Clapping whenever you clap. Watching random people in the crowd. Waving my arms along with the cheerleaders. The usual stuff. After years of attending Dylan's games, I've gotten good at passing the time."

"Apparently so." Savannah slides a sleeve over the cup, puts a lid on top, and hands the drink to me. "Okay, here you go. You definitely earned this today."

"Thanks." I take a sip. It's delicious. "All right, now it's my turn to ask a question: if Joel is as popular as you say, why haven't I heard you talk about him before?"

Savannah goes back to cleaning the counters. "Though he's undeniably hot and athletic, Joel isn't my type. And trust me: ever since Travis and I broke up, I've devoted plenty of thought to the type of guy I want to be with one day."

"Oh, I know." I smile. "You want the classic tall, handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes."

"Precisely. Is that too much to ask for?" Savannah looks away to give a friendly wave to customers who are leaving the shop, and then she refocuses on me. "However, while Joel isn't my type, he certainly caught your eye."

"No, he most certainly did not." I tip up my chin. "An athlete is pretty much the last guy I would ever be attracted to. Besides, you know I'm not looking for romance right now anyway." I take another sip of my drink. "So it doesn't matter if I do come face-to-face with Joel again. I'm definitely not interested."