Mugs and Kisses: A Contemporary, Sweet Romance Novel

By Harlow Adair

Don't miss Harlow Adair's sweet romance novella in which a psych-student and a down on his luck barista brew up a robust romance. Ryne is almost halfway through his twenties with nothing to show for it. Everyday consists of lugging himself into his dead-end job at the Rise N Grind Coffee Shop. Every night, he drives home in his barely street-legal rust bucket to his studio apartment. Ryne's only escape is fantasizing about the latest sci-fi flick as he froths milk or grinds beans.

 

That is, until Lizzie shows up.  Lizzie has her life together. She's bookish and smart. She's a natural leader. And soon, she'll have a degree in psychology. Ryne's life is like bitter, dark, and intense. Lizzie is like vanilla-bean ice sweet, light, and satisfying. Ryne is convinced that together, they could make the perfect blend...like his signature drink, the affogato.

 

But can he convince her that a romance is percolating?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlow Adair
• Release date: Feb 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224412242

Harlow Adair

My name is Harlow Adair. I write contemporary romance novels.  My raison d'etre for writing couldn't be simpler: every profound book is a relationship between the reader and the writer. Think about it. When you're flipping through the pages of a novel that's really sucked you in, you're co-creating that universe with whatever author set it to pen. The writer might have started the work, filling pages with ink that describe her ideals. But unless a reader comes along and allows the vision to come to fruition in his brain, it is all for naught. My highest ideal through writing is to embark on this process of co-creation as deeply and as widely as possible. This is why I value the feedback of my readers so greatly: I view them as an equally important partner in the molding of my written word. This precious feedback from my readers allows my writing process to become a dynamic, living thing. Check out my author's website, which I update all the time with new content!  https://harlowadair.com

Book preview

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; there is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.

-Henry David Thoreau

Chapter One:

Lizzie

Heat pulsated down my spine. Hot tears welled up in my eyes. I could feel my pulse quickening; my jugular vein literally pounding as I bunched up my fists. 

"You know absolutely nothing about him, I blurted out, a lump building in my throat. If you knew him like I knew him, you’d never say the things you just said!"

My voice must’ve crescendoed to a higher decibel-level than I intended, because every pair of eyes in the classroom instantly landed on me. I shrunk in my seat beneath the weight of all their staring.

If this were a movie, the screen would pause here. I’d appear and say I bet you’re wondering what led me to this point. Why am I shaking and crying? Who am I vehemently defending? 

Well, I’m defending a guy named Henry. It all started in my junior year at Indiana University, when I accidentally fell in love with him. But lest you think this is a sweet, cloying tale about two co-eds that find true love, let me clarify: I fell in love with Henry David Thoreau. That’s right. The Transcendentalist that died 150 years ago.

The trouble with me is that I’m always falling for dead writers. In my senior year of high school, I had a thing for Jack Kerouac. In the summer of my freshman year in college, I was all aboard the J.D. Salinger train. Last year, it was Oscar Wilde. Now? Thoreau.

My roommate Meg says that’s just the risk you run when you’re an English Minor. I’m always quick to point out that I’m a Psychology Major, though, and that fact hasn’t caused me to fall head over heels with Sigmund Freud (who died in 1939) or B.F. Skinner (who died in 1990.) She says it’s not the same.

Anyways. I digress.

I fell in love with Henry David Thoreau quite by accident. (You’d hope, right? Who falls in love with dead writers on purpose?) Meg asked me to sign up for American Literature 1 with her this semester. She needed an English credit. 

If we share the class, we can do homework together! she reasoned. It sounded sensible enough, so I agreed. Our first major assignment entailed a group paper on a figurehead of the Transcendentalist movement.

Meg and I paired up with two other students. The first was Korey. He was a red-headed jock who towered above us at an impressive 6’3" and had a thing for Meg. The second was Brayden. He was a smarmy, bearded, smarty-pants, who thought he was too cool for our group.

When you’re like me, and you’re the lone junior in a class with sophomores and freshmen, you become the de facto leader of all group projects. Since Ralph Waldo Emerson was already taken, I decided our paper would be written on Thoreau. I assigned each member of our group a different aspect of his life: Korey would tackle his philosophy and religious views, Meg would handle his correspondence with his contemporaries, Brayden would cover his personal life, and I’d report on his political beliefs. 

Before I press play on this scene again, I should admit it: before this month, I’d never really read Thoreau. I know, I know. For an English Minor, this is something akin to the unpardonable sin, but cut me some slack. I’ve mostly stuck to English writers, and the Western Canon is getting bigger by the day. 

So in January of my junior year, I dabbled in Thoreau. And let me tell you, I fell hard. I made quick work of Walden and Civil Disobedience, and moved on to A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. I polished off Excursions, and I started working my way through an omnibus of essays he wrote. I was obsessed.

Okay. Enough background. We can rewind just a little and press play, now.

The four of us sat in red rolling chairs, huddled around a gray Formica table, under migraine-inducing fluorescent light. There I was: head up, back straight, ready to talk turkey about one of the greatest American naturalists that ever lived.

Korey, did you get a chance to research Thoreau’s religious views? I asked, a purple gel pen already uncapped and in hand, ready to jot down notes.

Yeah, he said, leaning back coolly in his chair. It’s all right here.

He pulled a tan file folder from his backpack and set it on the table. Turning to Meg, he nodded upward and gave a flirtatious smile. 

Could you, uh, sum it up? I asked, curtly. 

He let out an exasperated sigh, and started to leaf through his notes. 

So, basically, this guy believed that society sucks and individuals are awesome. He was a Romantic with a capital ‘R’ and all he cares about is nature.

His eyes fluttered over to Meg when he said the word Romantic and I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t surprising that he was crushing on her. He played basketball and she played volleyball. She looked like an Amazonian warrior princess—all tanned and tall and willowy, with long brown hair splaying across her shoulders. And he looked like some Adonis carved from marble. Maybe literally...he was pretty pale. The two would make a smart match.

Basically, Thoreau laid the groundwork for Libertarianism, Brayden chimed in with his nasally voice. He believed in the sanctity of the individual, didn’t like an overbearing government, and derided citizens who refused to call their leaders to the carpet.

Brayden smirked at Korey, who stared back blankly. 

That sounds like a bit of an oversimplification, I said. 

I didn’t actually have a fully-formed opinion on this matter, mind you. I just hated Brayden’s smug, condescending tone. For as one-dimensional as Korey might be, he was sweet and well intentioned. Brayden, on the other hand, wanted to lord his intelligence over everyone else at the table. 

Let’s just circle back to politics later, Meg said, playing peacemaker, as usual. Korey smiled at her and ran a hand through his longer-on-top hairstyle.

How about Thoreau’s personal life? I volunteered, checking my notepad. So far, I’d only managed to write today’s date and the names of each group member on the paper. I glanced at my big, round, purple letters and wondered why I even wrote that. It’s not like I’d forget who was in our group.

If you want to know about Thoreau’s personal life, it’s pretty simple, Brayden said, speaking through his nose again.

The guy was a fraud. Point, blank, period. Full-stop.

I bristled, looking up from my pad. He was reclining in his rolly-chair, his fingers laced behind his head, one leg thrown over the other. Still, he had that permanent aura of self-superiority haloing around his head. The fact that he had no papers with him irked me, as well. I briefly imagined myself questioning this. In my mind’s eye, he’d tap his temple and say It’s all up here. Blech.

Well, I don’t think it’s fair to say he was a fraud, I said, blinking hard. 

Then you haven’t researched enough, he shot back, not even bothering to sit up. When he stayed in his cabin at Walden Pond, he’d walk into town secretly. He also had his family bring him food. The man was a charlatan.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and heat flushed through my cheeks. I swallowed hard before responding.

"Thoreau never committed to some hermetic lifestyle. He didn’t say he was completely alone for two years. The fact that he had company