Adeline Nixon POV:
Bridgette's bar, "The Ember & Rye," was a masterpiece of industrial chic, all exposed brick, velvet banquettes, and a dazzling array of bottles glinting under soft, strategic lighting. It was buzzing, even on a Tuesday night. She' d built it from the ground up, a testament to her fierce independence and sharp business sense.
"Table for the queen!" Bridgette declared, sweeping an arm through the crowded room. Heads turned, and a few patrons politely parted ways. She led me to a plush, secluded corner booth, already laden with a platter of artisanal cheeses and a sparkling flute of champagne.
"Tonight, my dear," she announced, "you are royalty. Anything you want, anything at all, is on the house, and I mean anything." She winked at a passing bartender. "Lucas! Make sure Adeline has everything she desires. And if anyone so much as looks at her wrong, you know the drill."
Lucas, a handsome, tattooed man with a kind smile, nodded gravely. "Understood, Ms. Moran. Consider her guarded."
I laughed, feeling a genuine lightness I hadn't experienced in years. Bridgette always knew how to make me feel special. It was so different from Ethan's world, where I was always just background noise.
"This place is amazing, Bridge," I said, sipping my champagne. "You've really outdone yourself."
"Just wait until you try the new menu," she said, practically glowing. "But enough about me. Tonight is about you. Celebrating your freedom, your new beginning."
The music was a vibrant mix of indie pop and soulful R&B, loud enough to feel lively but soft enough for conversation. I found myself scanning the crowd, for the first time in a long time, not with anxiety, but with a flicker of genuine curiosity. There was a handsome man across the room, leaning casually against the bar, his dark hair falling over intense eyes. He looked like he' d stepped out of a classic novel – all brooding intelligence and quiet strength. He was nothing like Ethan. No flashy clothes, no performative charm. Just a quiet magnetism.
Wow, I thought, a blush creeping up my neck. Portland definitely has its perks.
Lucas brought me another glass of champagne, his smile warm. "Anything else, Adeline?"
"Just enjoying the view," I said, glancing back at the man at the bar, who suddenly turned and met my gaze. My breath hitched. His eyes were a startling shade of hazel, and they seemed to hold a universe of stories.
Bridgette, ever perceptive, followed my gaze. "Ooh, who's caught your eye, girl?" she teased, nudging me.
"Just… admiring the decor," I mumbled, trying to be casual, but my heart was doing a frantic little dance.
The man, sensing perhaps that he was being watched, picked up his drink and began to walk towards the restrooms, which were down a quiet hallway to the left of our booth.
"I need a refill," Bridgette said suddenly, standing up. "Come with me, I need to tell you about this new cocktail I'm developing."
We walked down the hallway together, Bridgette chattering about obscure liqueurs. I waited for her outside the ladies' room, trying to pretend I wasn't just hoping for another glimpse of the handsome stranger.
He emerged from the men' s room, just as I was pretending to examine a framed print on the wall. He paused, seeing me, a flicker of surprise in his hazel eyes.
"Excuse me," I blurted out, my voice a little too loud, a little too eager. "Are you… real?"
He blinked, a slow, elegant blink, and a faint smile touched his lips. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, melodic rumble, like warm honey. "I believe so. Unless this is a very elaborate dream."
My cheeks flushed. "No, no, I just meant… you' re very handsome. I haven't seen someone like you in... well, a really long time." Especially not after living with Ethan's inflated ego for so long, a small voice in my head added.
He chuckled softly, a deep, pleasant sound. "Thank you. I suppose I should take that as a compliment."
"You absolutely should," I assured him, feeling a sudden surge of confidence. "So, what' s your story? Are you a mysterious artist? A reclusive writer? Don't tell me you' re an actor, because I swear to God, I will scream."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "None of the above. I' m a professor."
My jaw dropped. "A professor? Like, a college professor? Seriously? With those eyes? And that… voice?" I mentally kicked myself. Adeline, pull it together!
"Indeed," he said, a hint of humor in his tone. "Literature, specifically."
"Literature?" I repeated, my mind reeling. "Wow. What kind of literature?"
"Nineteenth-century British novels," he replied. "Among other things."
"Nineteenth-century British novels," I mused, trying to sound sophisticated. "Fascinating. Can I buy you a drink, Professor…?"
"Dawson. Dawson Roach." He extended a hand, his touch warm and firm.
"Adeline Nixon," I replied, my fingers tingling from his touch. "And yes, I insist. Come, Bridgette has a booth, and she makes the best cocktails in Portland." Before he could object, I took his hand and practically dragged him towards our booth, a spark of genuine excitement igniting in my chest. What a night.
