3. Jane
Amelia clears her throat. “Mr. Brooks, meet Jane.”
Mr. Brooks? As in billionaire Bryan Brooks?
He turns around, and my heart skips a beat when his brown eyes meet my own. The man looks exactly like he does on QuickStar—well, except that he’s wearing a shirt, which is open two buttons down, showing a hint of his world-class, world-famous chest.
You’d think that with him living on the hill overlooking our little town, I’d have seen him in person, but the man likes to keep a low profile. That or he hangs out in Moose Falls down the south side of Mansion Mountain. Why couldn’t he have given them the library robot instead of us?
He smirks when he sees me gawking. “Jane, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He extends his arm toward me. “I’m Bryan?—”
“No.” I shake my head and start backing away. “No, no, no, no, no.”
“What—” Bryan’s eyes narrow.
I spin away from him and rush out of Amelia’s office. I’m glad for my flats as I speed-walk across the library lobby.
“Jane, wait,” the bastard billionaire shouts, showing zero consideration that he’s in a library. His decibels and mine are from two different worlds, just like we are. But what else can I expect from the creator of Byron 1.0? Pardon me. Bryan 1.0.
I break into a run.
So does the asshole billionaire chasing me. His dress shoes pound against the marble floor in time with my flats.
I burst outside at breakneck speed. I’m lucky that I don’t mow down some poor person on the sidewalk in my panic to get away.
The street is relatively empty for 10:15 on a Monday morning. I’ve always loved working the ten-to-six shift. Mornings in Maple Valley are slow and lazy, and the walk to work is peaceful. But I guess that’s all gone now. The walk to work, I mean. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of slow, lazy mornings on my living room couch once I’m unemployed.
“Jane!” Bryan shouts from directly behind me.
I spin around to face him. “Why are you following me? Haven’t you done enough?”
“I just saw your QuickStar reel. You can’t just quit.”
“I’m not quitting. I got fired.”
“I mean your Book Talk with Byron videos. You can’t stop posting. Please tell me you’re not just giving up.”
We stare at each other for several seconds. Half of my brain is concentrating on not letting my body be sucked into his sexy vortex, while the other half plays his words on a loop. Why does he care about my posts on QuickStar?
Then, it hits me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry if me losing my job interferes with you getting free publicity for your robot empire!” I don’t use my librarian voice. In fact, Sandra and Mike, two locals sitting inside the restaurant on the other side of the street, look up and stare at us.
Bryan shakes his head. “That’s not it at all. Look, I’ll do what I have to in order to make sure you keep posting ‘Book Talk with Bryan’—”
I don’t know what overcomes me. Actually, I do. It’s rage.
“Book Talk with Byron. By-ron.” I poke his hard, muscular chest with my index finger several times—just below the open collar of his dress shirt—as if trying to find his off button. And it seems to work since he stops talking.
The couples at all three tables in the restaurant window across the street are now focused on Bryan and me. I decide to give them a show.
I’ve just lost my job, why not my dignity, too?
I quote Jane Eyre in a decidedly unladylike volume. “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!” And then I add my own quote, too. “Robots don’t have dreams, but library assistants do. We dream of being able to pay our mortgage and electricity bill!”
I shout the last part as I storm off and turn the corner onto my street. I own a two-story townhouse, with a friendly family of three on one side and a lovely old couple on the other. I’ve lucked out, because both sets of neighbors are readers, and we often stop to chat about books when we cross paths.
I have a big mortgage on the house. Buying property seemed like a good idea when I put the down-payment on it last year. I really thought working at the library meant job security. Amelia always said I was a tremendous asset to the branch, and my performance reviews have been stellar. How could I anticipate I’d be replaced by a robot?
My heart sinks at the thought of having to sell my home. But what choice do I have? I’ll never find a job that has benefits and pays as well as a library assistant. There are so few job prospects for English majors. Literally, the only other job I can think of is writing a book—and that is definitely not for me.
What does that leave? Working two minimum wage jobs to pay my mortgage and bills? Selling the house? Applying to other libraries in other towns?
Even as the thought comes to me, I’m already pushing it aside. I grew up here. My entire life is in this little town. Are a robot and his egotistical inventor really going to force me to pack up and leave the life I love behind?
Tears stream down my cheeks as I try to get my key in the door. I don’t even realize someone’s behind me until a large hand grabs my shoulder.
I let out a shriek, turn, and try to jam my key into my attacker’s throat—but given how tall he is, and how uncoordinated I am, I end up grazing his rock-hard chest.
“Whoa.” Bryan raises both hands and takes a step back.
I should apologize, but I start to shout instead, “What more do you want from me? Haven’t you done enough?”
The oblivious billionaire opens his mouth to speak—probably to convince me to keep posting promo videos of his robot—but I don’t let him.
“Go away! You’ve ruined my life, and I never, ever want to see you again.”