I notice him just as he pulls into our little dusty parking lot with his Bentley. That car costs more money than I’ll make in a decade. There are five guys in it, all equally attractive and cocky, but he is the only one who catches my attention.

Tall, handsome, tan. Blue eyes and dark sandy hair that made him look like a brooding dark stranger and a surfer boy depending on the light.

He strolled into my café with a confident and laid back swagger that would make male models jealous. There’s a carefree nature to his demeanor and yet, at the same time, there’s something very intense about him.

I like the way that he says my name. I like the way that he’s impressed with my ability to deal with annoying pestering old men. What he doesn’t know is that, unfortunately, I’m used to unwanted sexual advances from gross strangers. What that trucker did was one of the least offensive things, frankly. The men who come in the middle of the night try worse things.

Wyatt wants to take me out for a drink. Yes, yes, yes, I say to myself. Say yes. You deserve this. But I reject him. I want to say yes, more than anything, but I can’t. I’m too fragile to have my heart broken by the likes of him. Of course, it would happen. He’s cocky and rich and arrogant, and guys like that only want one thing. The thing that I certainly want to have with him, but not now. Not considering everything else I have that’s going on.

The following day, just as the sun throws its harshest rays on our dusty part of the world, my mind drifts back to Wyatt. If only he would walk back into this place. If only he would ask me again. Then maybe I would say yes. But it’s all a daydream.

My mind drifts from one part of his body to another. He’s got the kind of veins lining his forearms that make me wet in my panties. I want to pull off that $200 t-shirt and run my fingers over his chiseled abs. I want to grab both of his butt cheeks at the same time and get down on my knees before him.

“Brielle?”

A familiar voice startles me and brings me back down to earth. It’s Wyatt. He’s casually leaning on the countertop and tapping his fingers.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

I’m at a loss for words. My mouth gets parched.

“So I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by.”

“Oh, okay,” I smile. “Can I get you a menu?”

“You can, but I’ll just get whatever you recommend anyway.”

His cockiness is oozing out of him. I look around. His friends are nowhere to be found, but the Bentley is parked in the first available non-handicapped parking spot.

“Where are your friends?” I ask.

“Not here,” he smiles.

“Why are you?”

He takes a breath. “Like I said, I was passing through the neighborhood.”

I roll my eyes.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No,” I shake my head. This guy is dangerous. In a good way. No, in a bad way.

“Well, take a seat. Anywhere you want,” I say.

He looks around the café. There are three other people here. The lunch ‘rush’ just left, meaning the four other people who typically pop in for lunch. Wyatt chooses the seat at the counter. Right in front of me.

I grab a rag to pick up the few crumbs left over by the last customer and notice that my book is still in my hand.

“Jane Eyre,” he nods. I hide the book behind the counter and wipe the counter around him. He doesn’t move his arms and I stop to see if he will. He takes a moment before lifting his arms.

“You were reading that yesterday,” he says. I nod and get my pad out. I can’t find my pen and frantically look for it at the cash register. I can feel his gaze burning a hole in the back of my jeans. He’s checking out my ass. I don’t want to admit it, but I like it. A lot.

“Yes, I’m not done yet. Have you read it?”

“Yes, in school. It’s got a good story. Love and tension. Lots of awkward situations.

It just needs something.”

“You think a classic of English literature needs something? Seriously?” My tongue often gets away from me, but this is one of those situations where I don’t really care. I love talking about literature, and he was the one who brought it up.

“Yes, so what?” he shrugs.

I shake my head at his arrogance. He’s an asshole, and he knows it. He also knows that in some situations, like this one, it’s ridiculously hot.

“So what does Jane Eyre need? How would you improve on Emily Brontë’s masterpiece?”

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just saying that it’s missing something that would really make it complete.”

I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to answer my question. This should be good!

“It needs sex. Lots of sex.”

I stare at him.

“They have so much sexual tension. They are cooped up in this house together. They have all of these feelings developing for one another. We, as the audience, need a release. We need them to have sex. And lots of it.”

I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

“That’s crazy,” I shake my head. “Jane Eyre doesn’t need sex.”

“Oh yes, she does. C’mon, aren’t you just aching to read about them doing it?”

“Doing it? In Jane Eyre? Tempting, but no,” I say definitively. How crude and vulgar and insulting can he be?

“Okay, it doesn’t have to actually use those words. It can be much more poetic than that. But still as graphic.”

“Like what, for example?”

He takes a moment to think about it. I wonder if he’s going to choose a metaphor or go straight for a direct and honest description.

“How about this?” Wyatt leans back from the counter tilting his head back. He lifts up his hand in the pose I’ve only seen professors do in movies.

“He slid his big cock into that heavenly place between her legs.”

The words dangle in the air between us as if they are suspended by a string. I don’t say anything for a moment. I’m speechless. I want to be embarrassed, but I’m more turned on than anything.

“So both graphic and romantic is your suggestion?” I finally say.

He nods. “I thought that struck an interesting tension between the two, depicting both his masculinity and her femininity in just the right way.”

I smile and blush. I think so, too.

“You know you can’t really talk like this in a public place,” I say.

“Well, I’d love to go somewhere private,” he leans closer to me.

His confidence is exuberant. I want to say yes. More than anything I want to say, yes. I want him to take me somewhere private and have his way with me.

“I’m sorry,” I start.

“Aw, why?” he leans even closer and runs his fingers over my hand. I want to grab it and pull him close to me. I want to kiss his luscious lips and suck his tongue into my mouth.

But I pull my hand away.

“I just can’t, not now.”

“When? Why?” At that moment, Wyatt’s deep set eyes resemble those I’ve seen in photographs of the Great Depression. Lost. Forgotten. Broken.

I can’t explain. He’s a stranger, and I feel like if I say it out loud to someone, I will burst out crying and never stop.