You don’t particularly like Americans. It isn’t so much their nationality than it is their customs, but either way, they’re not at the top of your list of favorites. In fact, you rank them pretty low. It could very well be that their reputation has been tarnished by a few bad eggs. But a national crisis every year doesn’t seem to be much of an inviting factor.

So you hate Americans. Great. You’re not the first.

Upon arriving at the ski camp in Germany for a program you’re running — introducing young children to the joys of ski jumping — every staff member seems relatively agreeable. They’re all polite German people, or at least not outright horrible, and they’re rather hospitable. The leading lady, Petra, calls for a man in her native German to come help you get settled in your lodge.

The man that appears in the bar is the most captivating you’ve ever seen. Tight jeans, worn and washed from years of labor and exposure. A black button-up loosely tucked into his waistband, sleeves rolled to at the elbow. Sleek black boots reminiscent of a western cowboy’s but with a bit more refined charm. His short hair seems to naturally stick straight up at the front of his hairline. His amber eyes glow with a sort of reserved cautiousness. But he is undeniably gorgeous, and you are suddenly ten times as glad that you agreed to come here.

“Nice meetin’ you. Let me show you where you’re staying.”

Your heart instantly drops. He’s American.