Kyle Grayson had never believed in love at first sight. It was a silly romantic fairy tale, nothing else. For the birds, really. And yet, when he saw her . . . when she got closer to him . . . How else to explain the rapid beating of his heart? The nervousness he felt? The longing, like a hunger, a desire, a need to know her?
Lust, maybe? Maybe. But he didn't think so. God knew he'd lusted after countless women, but it had never felt like this.
She wore glasses, the lenses thick, which gave her the look of a reference librarian. Fitting, then, to see her here, at the library. She was petite, maybe 5'3" or 5'4," with straight blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders and halfway down her back. It was mid-November, and she wore a winter coat, so it was hard to make out her figure. But from what he could tell, and from the delicate features of her face, he guessed she was slim. She appeared to be thirtyish, a few years older than him, and he couldn't help but notice the diamond ring and matching wedding band she wore on her left hand.
He was browsing through the Renaissance literature section. He never imagined anyone else would join him in this usually forsaken corner of the library. But the woman inched closer, closer, close enough where she gave him a shy smile. His heart felt like it would climb straight up to his throat. She was so beautiful.
"Pardon me," she said. She must have been wearing perfume; she smelled like flowers in the springtime, redolent from the morning dew. He nearly swooned. He still didn't understand. Why did she have such an effect on him? She was beautiful, yes, but so were many other women. He had never been so overwhelmed by any of them.
"I never thought anyone else cared about Renaissance literature other than me these days," he managed to say. "Except maybe balding college professors with clipped British accents."
She laughed. "Do I look that old?" she said. "I just turned thirty-five last month, and . . ." She paused, blushed. On her fair skin, the red on her cheeks stood out like a bruise. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I just said that!"
He laughed with her, though inwardly he was amazed she was thirty-five. If that's what thirty-five looked like, where could he sign up? "It's okay. I mean, I just turned twenty-five myself."
She blew a few rogue bangs out of her eyes. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?" She smiled, then moved past him, stopping in front of the Shakespeare section.
"You like Shakespeare?" he asked.
She nodded. "Weird, huh? My husband can't get through a page of the stuff. But I've always loved it."
Kyle groaned on the inside. Her husband. The bastard. He wondered if the guy knew how lucky he was.
"I keep meaning to buy his complete works on Amazon," she went on. "But I usually don't have the time to read, so I just come here when I get a chance. And this week . . ." She paused again. "Guess I must be in a talkative mood tonight," she said. "I'm telling you my life story!"
"I don't mind," he said. "It isn't every day I meet a fellow Shakespeare buff. If you're not in a hurry, maybe we could sit down over there?" He pointed to a black oval table a few feet away. Four chairs, cushioned, comfortable, were spaced around it, none of them occupied.
She eyed the table, then him. He could sense the wheels spinning in her head, the pros and cons. He was amazed at his boldness. Usually he was shy around women. Tongue-tied. Especially attractive ones. And never had he been more drawn to a woman than he was to . . . to . . .
"Um, if it's okay to ask," he said, "what's your name?"
She was still looking at the table, cradling a large, hard-backed volume in her hands: "The Complete Works of Shakespeare." She looked at him, offered a smile. He nearly swooned again. "It's perfectly okay to ask," she said. "And it's Renee."
He extended a hand, and she took it. Was that another blush that came to her cheeks when they touched? How could he have such an effect on a beautiful woman like this? "Kyle," he said. "Resident nerd of The Mill Apartments on River Street, technical writer extraordinaire."
She laughed, freely. They went to the table, sat across from each other. But before she sat down, she took off her coat, revealing a black, short-sleeved top that hugged her curves. He'd been right. She was slim . . . perfect, really. And her breasts looked full. C-cups, he guessed. But then he caught himself, worrying that he might be ogling, and looked up at her face. He loved her glasses, the scholarly mien they gave her.
They talked about Shakespeare, the plays they liked the most—her favorite was "King Lear," his "Othello." They talked about iambic pentameter and sonnets and rhymes. And then, slowly, inexorably, their conversation began to turn personal.
"My husband's out of town for the week, with the kids," she said. "I was upset when he told me about that last month, but now . . ." She shrugged . . . "I guess I look forward to some alone time. Besides, the kids haven't seen his parents in forever. They live out West. They . . ." She paused, blushed again. "Well, there I go again. Telling you my life story. We were supposed to be talking about Shakespeare, right?"
He'd hardly heard that last part. His mind had latched onto the stream of information that came before it. Her husband out of town, with the kids. For a week. She was all alone. They could . . . He stopped himself. How outrageous! She was a married woman! Whether her husband was out of town or not was beside the point. Also, and just as important, there was no way she'd possibly be interested in a guy like him. Women never were. He didn't know why, exactly. He wasn't great-looking, but he wasn't pug-ugly either. He had a pleasant enough face, a head full of thick, curly black hair. He was kind of skinny, but hey, at least he wasn't fat. He'd always been on the shy side around women, maybe that was it. Or maybe it was something simpler. . . .
He had a small dick. God, he wished it weren't so, but it was. He was five inches, fully erect. He'd taken natural supplements to increase length and girth. All they did was give him heartburn. But the thing was, women didn't normally get to know about his lack of . . . manhood. He didn't usually get that far with them. He'd gone all the way only once, back in high school. It had been a disaster. It lasted two minutes, and the girl, a nerdy sort, like him, went home crying, saying they couldn't be friends anymore because of what they'd just done. Since then, he hadn't even got to second base with anyone, let alone third or home. So what did his dick size matter? You needed to get naked with someone before something like that mattered.
"Kyle?"
He shook his head, snapping himself out of it. "Sorry," he said. "My mind kind of drifted there for a second."
"Oh, that's okay," she said, looking at her watch. That was never a good sign. Almost as bad as when your date checked her cell phone messages before the waiter even brings your order to the table. "I should be heading home anyway."
Crap. Pure, unadulterated crap. What did she need to do at home? If her husband and kids were away . . .
"Okay," he said. "I really loved talking to you, though, Renee. I come here a lot. After working at the office all day, surrounded by computer programmers, I like to come to a place where there are books on things that really matter, you know?"
