Something about summer and coffee makes me nostalgic. The smell in the air, the taste on my tongue, and the reminder of days gone by. The way the two spells out good memories has to do with my childhood, I think.

Schools are out, kids play in the street, and I have only one assignment for college. I'm procrastinating. I'm not in the mood to sit at my desk in my apartment and study.

I'm sitting in a Starbucks just a few blocks away from my place, looking out the window facing the street. I watch New York City walk by, and the sense that I'm part of something bigger overwhelms me. The people in the coffee shop mutter to each other, and the hissing of the coffee machines interrupt them after every order. Every time the door opens, the smell of summer clings to whoever walks in.

I sip my coffee and page through Sigmund Freud’s On Dreams. It's recommended reading for my program. At least I'm doing something. No one else in the third year of Psychology reads what's on the recommended list, only what's on the compulsory one. I'm not like the rest of the students. I don't want to become a psychologist for the money.

I want to help people. I'm still far away from that, but I'll get there, eventually.

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention away from the book, and I watch a young man cross the road. His hair is ruffled and wind-blown, like he’s just come from a run on a beach somewhere. His pale skin tells me that's not the case, but it doesn't detract from his looks. He walks past the window right in front of me.

He glances sideways and catches my eye. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips. I turn my attention back to my book. I'm not going to stare.

A moment later, the door opens, letting in another burst of summer. I look up and freeze. He enters the shop. I watch him as he walks to the counter. He moves like he belongs here, like he's right where he needs to be.

I envy that kind of confidence.

He walks to the line. While he stands there, he turns a little and looks over his shoulder, right at me. I flush and turn back to my book. I feel like an idiot for getting caught staring. The first time he walked past, anyone could look up and watch a stranger passing by. This time, it's obvious.

I try to focus on my book, but his eyes burn my skin. I glance up at him. He stands with his hands hanging loosely by his sides, body slightly turned, staring at me. I shift in my seat and rake my hair back with my fingers. I read two pages without taking in a single word.

He's still staring at me. Every time I look up, my eyes meet his dead on. He isn't even ashamed about it. His stare is disconcerting. He looks like he has every right to stare, like whatever I'm doing is exactly his business. It makes me uncomfortable. But I guess I started it.

I read two more pages without seeing a single word. My attention is on the stranger with the dangerous eyes. I'm not looking at him, but I know exactly where he's standing when he steps forward along with the line that is waiting to order. I know what he looks like without having to look again. He's handsome, I can tell, even when I'm not glancing up at him, that his easy confidence is well earned. He has nothing to hide with his careless blond hair and smoldering dark eyes.

What's his problem? Surely, we are square now? He’s made his point. I turn around in my chair so that my back is to him and faced the other way. I'm not going to look at him, and he has no reason to look at anything other than my back, either.

I manage to focus on my book again. Freud is going into depth about dream analysis. I reread the same two pages, concentrating on what I'm reading this time. Someone sits down right next to me. When I look up, I look right into his eyes.

I drown in the deep, dark depths of them. I shudder.

"The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life." His voice is deep and smooth like velvet.

"What?" I ask.

He nods to my book. "Freud."

Did he just quote the father of psychology to me?

"Are you a fan?" I ask.

"Of doing things rather than dreaming?"

I shake my head. "Of Freud."

He shakes his head and smiles. His teeth are too white to be real.

"Only when his theories suit me."

I raise my eyebrows. "That’s a glib way of living."

His smile doesn't fade. He sits sideways in the chair, one hand resting on his leg, fingers relaxed. The other hand is on the table, holding loosely onto the cup of coffee he just ordered.

He doesn't respond. He doesn't leave. He sits next to me as if he’s been invited, looking at me with a stare that makes me feel naked.

"Don’t you think Freud’s theories are outdated?" he asks.

One sentence, and I have my back up. "If he was outdated, the field of psychology wouldn’t be based on his findings."

The stranger shrugs. "He suggests that we’re all programmed to function a certain way, and that’s it. We have to play the hand we’ve been dealt."

I ought to tell him off. I should tell him to leave. He's rude and invasive.

"You don’t believe that we're all put together in a way that can be understood?"

"I believe in free will," he says.

I can't tell him off. He's so comfortable in his own skin; it makes me uncomfortable in mine. How do you tell someone they're wrong when their existence screams that they believe they're right?

Yes, he's probably using all the right cues. He knows his body. He’s mastered the language of speaking without words. It doesn't mean anything.

He is also incredibly hot. I see men often, but I rarely want to look twice. He smiles at me as if he knows what I'm thinking. His eyes make me uncomfortable, like they're looking into my soul.

I clear my throat. "Was there something you meant to tell me?" I ask. "A reason why you’re sitting here?"

He shakes his head. His eyes never stray. He doesn't look out the window, or at his hands, or at the floor. His gaze is unfaltering.

"The chair was empty."

"So, you invited yourself to join me?"

He looks around for the first time, taking in the other patrons.

"I wasn’t interested in anyone else."

I can't help myself. I blush. Heat creeps up from my collar, and I know my cheeks are bright red. To confirm my suspicions, he grins broadly.

"Who are you?" I ask. Anything to get the attention away from me.

"Thomas," he says. Such a classic name. "Thomas Silber."

Classic and foreign.

"Nicole," I say. "Shoemaker."

"That’s German, you know."

I nod. I was aware that I had German blood somewhere in my lineage. "Everyone in America was someone else, once, before they became Americans."

Thomas shrugs. It's a beautiful shrug, confident without being offensive.

"What is a beautiful woman like you doing indoors on a day like this?" he asks, gesturing toward the window.

I laugh. "Did you just use a line?" I ask.

"Yes," Thomas says. "I did. No good?"

I shake my head. "Ordinary men use lines."

"And I’m not ordinary?" he asks with the ghost of a smile lingering around his lips.

I shake my head. "You’re not."

Thomas nods and shifts in his seat, sipping the coffee he bought.

"You choose your words carefully," he says.

"Why use many words when only a few will do?"

Thomas smiles. "Did you just use a line?" he asks, mimicking me. I shake my head.

He has a beautiful smile. It spreads slowly across his face. It makes me feel like it's because of me. I know the tactic.

"I'm doing recommended reading for my course, if you must know," I say. "I’m studying psychology."

Thomas nods. "That explains why you’re a fan of Freud."

"I’m not a fan of Freud. He’s the father of psychology, the first person to really analyze the relationship between the conscious and subconscious mind. Saying I’m a fan suggests there are those who have an aversion to him."

Thomas’s eyes are on me, and they're intense. "Aren’t there?" he asks.

I shake my head. "That’s like saying you’re a fan or a hater of Florence Nightingale when today’s healthcare is largely due to her efforts. It’s not something people disagree with."

"But healthcare doesn’t suggest who you are. Psychology does."

I narrow my eyes at him. "I think your ‘aversion’ isn’t for Freud. It’s for anyone who might tell you who you should or shouldn’t be."

Thomas sips his coffee. I'm starting to think he’s only come into the coffee shop to stare at me, and he’s only joined me to pick a fight.

"You’re very observant, Miss Shoemaker."

"Nicole, please."

"Nicole," Thomas says. I like the way he rounds his lips to say my name, and I like the way it sounds in his mouth. He says it like it isn't just an ordinary name but something exotic.

"What do you do?" I ask.

"I just finished my MBA at Columbia. This summer, I'm a free man."

"This is the second time you’ve mentioned freedom," I say.

"Are you counting my words? Freedom isn’t noticed enough these days."

I chuckle. "We’re the freest country in the world. We have rights and equality and choices. If that’s not free, what is?"

Thomas nods slowly. His eyes are on his coffee cup now. He turns it around and around.

"Choices," he says. I wait for him to carry on talking and finish the sentence he started.

He doesn't.

I closes the book I'm reading.

"Do you believe that?" Thomas asks, nodding toward the book.

"What?"

"That your dreams are a product of your subconscious?"

I nod. "It makes sense."

"So, how does it work when someone is the man of your dreams?"

This guy is smooth, I have to give him that. I smile. "I don’t know. How does it work? I don’t think such a man exists."

He laughs. It's unashamed, carefree, and genuine. "You’re something else, Nicole."

I don't know why that makes me blush again. I know I'm different than everyone else, from the way I see my studies to the way I see men. When Thomas says it, though, he makes it sound like a compliment.

I hook my hair behind my ears with my fingers. His eyes are on me again, intense as before, and I feel self-conscious.

"Where do you study?" he asks.

"NYU," I say. "I’m moving into clinical psychology now. You know, hospital work."

"Why?" he asks. There's no double meaning, no pretense or judgment behind that question. He wants to know.

"There are too many people that need help and not enough who want to help them."

"Help them with what?" he asks.

"With what they’re struggling with. Their pasts, their minds. With being trapped. I believe you understand that."

He nods and his expression changes to something I don't understand.

"I do," he says in a soft voice.

What is it about this man? He's intriguing beyond anyone I’ve ever met. He's straightforward but also a riddle, all at the same time.

He stretches his arm out and bends it at the elbow to look at the time.

"I have to go," he says and stands up.

My stomach sinks. I hadn’t wanted him to sit next to me. Now, I don't want him to leave.

"Can I get your number?" he asks. "If you’ll let me, I can take you out somewhere, and we can argue the reasons for our existence."

I smile. He's insufferable and irresistible.

"All right," I say. I reach for a napkin and write my name and number on it. I hand it to him. He grins again, a smile that can mean a thousand things.

He folds it and puts it in his pocket.

"Nice to meet you, Nicole, the psychologist," he says and walks away. I watch him all the way to the door. He doesn't look over his shoulder once before he disappears.