I couldn't believe it. Wiping down one of the tables at the diner, putting the salt and pepper, the catsup and mustard bottles back into their metal holder, I couldn't help but shake my head. Every time I thought about it, I shook my head. What had I done? If it wasn't so humiliating, I might have laughed about it, but I couldn't. Just the thought of it made me feel sick to my stomach. I could hardly bring myself to think what I must've been thinking. What he must've thought when I made the proposal. His blank expression had left me with no indication of what he thought about my proposal. In abject embarrassment, I had left his office like a subdued dog.

He said he would get back to me, but he hadn't. Was he laughing at me? Had he told all his friends? Did everyone at the bank know? If my mom or dad found out… I couldn't bear the thought of it. Once again, my head shaking, I couldn't imagine why I thought such a proposition would go over well. Who did I think I was, trying to tempt a guy like Wyatt Cross? The guy was a playboy, a billionaire! He could have anything and anybody he wanted. In the news, in the papers, and on social media, wherever he went, there was always a woman on his arm. Gorgeous, voluptuous, high-class women. And me?

I had offered him my virginity. Maybe after I left his office, he had started laughing so hard I could just picture him rolling on the floor, holding his stomach, roaring with laughter. I couldn't hold a match to half of the women hanging on his arms. Not putting myself down, because I wasn't. I found myself pleasant enough to look at, but I didn't have the body those women had either, and I didn't care whether they were plastic, fillers, plumped with Botox or slimmed with suction. I didn't own a little black dress that I'd spent thousands of dollars on without a thought. I didn't go to the beauty shop to get my hair done every other week. Rather, my hands were often red and dried from long hours at work grasping onto hot plates, burning from spilled coffee, and when needed, stepping behind the swinging doors to help Ralphie with the dishes.

I wasn't embarrassed to get my hands dirty, to simply pull my blonde hair back into a ponytail, and wait on tables. I didn't have a fancy college education, even though I wanted to. I didn't have a master's degree, or Ph.D., and I wasn't born rich. So, what in the hell had made me think I could prance into Wyatt Cross' office and offer him me in exchange for a loan? If I didn't feel so pathetic at the moment, I might have laughed at my own audacity.

Well, there was nothing I could do take it back. I would do my best not to enter TC Corp. Financial for quite some time. What if the tellers knew? I think I'd be able to tell, wouldn't I? I sighed again, trying to tamp down to my regret. I had meant to help my family, and it certainly hadn't been an easy decision. The fact that I actually expected him to consider my proposition only proves how naïve I am. I'm such an idiot. I felt so stupid for spending the last couple of days thinking that he would call me.

I piled dishes dripping with egg yolks and remnants of hash browns into the plastic tub that I would take back to the dishwasher, calling myself all kinds of an idiot. I lifted the gray plastic tub in my hands and headed for the kitchen. Just as I nudged my hip to open the swinging door between the diner portion of the diner and the kitchen, I felt my cell phone vibrating in my back pocket. I set the tub down on the counter just inside the door and reached for my phone, hoping it wasn't my mom needing me to come home right away. Or maybe even my dad, asking if I could bring him a book after work so that he could read while sitting in his jail cell waiting for his trial. Nausea rose in my throat. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. My dad, my mom, my horrible proposition, which would shame both of them to death if they ever got wind of it. And yet—

I glanced at the phone and saw that it was a call from TC Corp. Financial. My heart skipped a beat. Oh my God. I rushed through the kitchen, the steam from the dishwasher, the food cooking and sizzling on the grill, prompting an immediate and fine sheen of sweat on my cheeks as I walked through toward the back door and the screen allowing a bit of cool morning air to make its way into the humidity of the kitchen. I answered the call and lift up the phone to my ear, my heart pounding.

"Hello?"

"Is this Riley? Riley Hunt?"

I recognized his voice and my heart pounded even harder. "Yes, it is," I replied, hoping to sound nonchalant and that he couldn't hear the tremor in my voice.

"Can you meet for coffee this afternoon? What time are you off work?"

He knew where I worked? I mean he knew my hours? "Yes, I finish at one o'clock."

"Two o'clock all right with you? At the coffee shop around the corner from my bank?"

I knew which coffee shop he was talking about. Not a chain, but a mom-and-pop coffee shop that also sold baked goods. I had often stopped in there on my way home for their mouthwatering donuts, and on occasion, their decadent chocolate chip and blueberry muffins.

"Ms. Hunt?"

"Yes, yes I can meet you there at two o'clock. Look, Mister Cross, I was wondering—"

The call disconnected and I lowered my phone and stared at it, thinking that I had dropped the call, but I still had four bars, so I hadn't lost it. He'd hung up.

"Arrogant bastard," I muttered.

"Everything okay?" Ralphie turned from the grill to ask, a long-handled spatula in one hand, a plate in the other as he skillfully flipped an omelet and then slid it onto the plate he held. Two pieces of bacon, a slab of hash browns, and two buttered slices of toast completed the plate and he gestured toward the pass-through window. "Table six is ready."

I slid the phone back into my pocket, my heart pounding, my hand trembling as I returned to the diner portion, reached through the opening, and grasped the plate, taking it to the old gentleman at table six. A regular client. "Here you go, Mister Flanagan," I said, setting the plate down in front of him.

"Thanks, doll," he said, winking, as he always did.

I offered him a smile, then turned, a panicked surge of emotion rushing through my body. My heart felt like a stone in the middle of my chest. Why did he want to meet me? Was he going to take me up on my offer? Or was he going to tell me I was an idiot and to never come into his office again? Would he cancel or transfer our loan to another bank? Had I just made matters worse?

I counted the hours and the minutes until I finished with my shift. It would take me close to half an hour to walk from the diner where I worked to the coffee shop he'd mentioned, so I didn't have time to go home and change. Well, he would just have to deal with me as I was. What you see is what you get, I was fond of saying. My jeans, my dark blue pullover top with collar – restaurant logo of course, and my hair pulled back into a high ponytail. Well, here I was in all my glory. Either he would take me up on my offer or he wouldn't. I just wasn't sure which I wanted more.

I got to the coffee shop twelve minutes early. I was never late to anything if I could help it. I knew there were some people who could time things down to the minute, but I'd never liked to take the chance. I showed up for work ten minutes early, I showed up for appointments ten minutes early, and I showed up at this coffee shop ten minutes early. I figured that by doing so I would always maintain some semblance of control over the situation. Even if it was me sitting in a diner booth waiting on him rather than the other way around. This way, I could gauge his expression as he entered, his eyes casting about the coffee shop looking for me.

I ordered a plain black coffee, not wanting to spend four or five bucks on a macchiato or latte. If Mr. Cross wanted coffee, he could certainly afford to buy his own. I sat in a corner booth, allowing the warm sunshine of early afternoon to filter through the window, warming my back, an occasional breeze of air-conditioned air floating over me. I loved Florida, its weather, and the warmth, but I didn't, and never had, cared for the humidity. Or the bugs.

I tried to distract myself, to not stare out the window looking for Mr. Cross, anticipating that he would come around the corner and I'd be able to see him as he approached the door to the coffee shop. With every passing second, my heart began to beat a little faster, a little harder. My palms grew clammy again and I wiped them on my jeans. My pulse throbbed in my throat and a headache burgeoned behind my eyes. I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know why he wanted to meet me… well, I did, but I wasn't sure if he would be agreeing or laughing off my proposition. Come to think of it, I half expected to see him followed by a camera crew recording the entire embarrassing affair, just so that he was on record. Would he post it to social media? Would the newspapers get a hold of it and place my startled face on the social pages of the local newspaper? I could just see it now, him all striking and handsome and confident, announcing to one and all what I had propositioned. The patrons in the coffee shop would pause, glance up at him, and then turn toward me, their fingers pointed, snickering behind their hands, laughing at me. And then—

"Miss Hunt," he said, sliding easily into the booth across from me.

I blinked. I hadn't even seen him approach. Where had he come from? Why— damn, he was even more handsome wearing casual clothes and not the business suit I had seen him in at the bank the other day. He wore dark green khakis and a tan pullover polo which only emphasized his olive toned skin and those attractive eyes, perfectly arched eyebrows, a strong forehead… I yanked my gaze away from his hair even as I wondered what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.

"Thank you for meeting me here," he said. "Shall we get down to business?"

I swallowed and nodded. He spoke calmly, his voice cool and detached.

"I'm going to accept your offer." He stated simply.

What? Oh my God, what had I done? Could I take it back? No, I couldn't. I hadn't expected this. I had been leaning toward him laughing at me, ridiculing such a pathetic attempt, telling me I should be ashamed of myself, that if he wanted an easy lay, he could turn to one of the dozens of women—

I sat in stunned silence as he continued, trying to take deep breaths, trying to curtail the spinning going on in my mind, the flush of heat that rose in my cheeks. Good thing I had my hands on my lap, now so tightly clenched together I felt the tension all the way up into my forearms. He continued, speaking softly.

"This is to be a one-time thing only. Is that clear?"

I nodded, still speechless.

"I need a verbal acknowledgment, Miss Hunt."

"Yes… yes, I agree." My voice cracked. "One time only."

"There's not going to be any paperwork, nothing for you to sign, nothing for me to sign. Too risky. You're just going to have to trust me, and I'm going to have to trust you. You can't tell anyone, not your parents, not your best friend. The same goes for me. Agreed?"

Again, I nodded, then stammered a verbal affirmative.

"However, as a show of faith, I'm prepared to offer you a portion of an interest-free loan up front. This money will enable you to bail your father out of jail and take care of your mother's pass to medical bills."

I started to thank him but he lifted a hand, halting me.

"I don't want to hear about your family troubles. I don't want to get personally involved. This is a straightforward business deal and nothing more."

The relief that surged through me was palpable. I felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I suppose I should still be ashamed of myself, but I wasn't. I was doing this for my family. Besides, I convinced myself that I didn't have any other options. Now I could bail my dad out of jail, and at least he could be home to help take care of my mother. I could pick up extra hours and—

"Miss Hunt, are you listening?"

I blinked, stared into Mr. Cross' chestnut brown eyes, the realization of what I had agreed to do causing my heart to pump with an increasing sense of dread. He'd given me what I wanted, and now I was obligated to give him what he wanted. Or what I had offered, rather. I had no idea what to expect. I was afraid and I was exultant, all at the same time. I was torn between relief and horrified embarrassment.

"Yes, Mister Cross, I am—" He leaned back in the booth, the vinyl plastic of the booth squeaking slightly behind his back as he did so, crossing his arms over an impressively wide chest.

"I think, given the circumstances, that you should call me Wyatt.”

"All right, Mister…. Wyatt." I stammered. "And I'm Riley.”

Time to seal the deal. I straightened my back, wiped my hands on my jeans once more, than lifted my right hand, rested it on the table a moment before reaching across it for a handshake. I lifted my chin, looking him square in the eye. I couldn't renege, couldn't take a backsie, couldn't tell him this was all just a stupid joke. His eyes riveted to mine, I waited, and then finally, with a slight tilt of his head and a twitch of his lips, he shook my hand. My hand disappeared in his. Again, I felt it's warmth, it's strength, and the callouses.

"Deal," he said.

"Deal," I agreed, then quickly retracted my hand, not sure what was going to happen next.