Adeline Nixon POV:
The next morning, I woke with a jolt, a smile already on my face. Dawson. He felt like a breath of fresh air, a complete antidote to the toxic fumes of my past relationship.
Bridgette came over later, bearing coffee and a mischievous grin. "So," she began, dropping onto my couch, "Professor Dawson Roach, huh? Not exactly your usual type."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, feigning indignation as I handed her a pastry from my test batch.
"Oh, you know," she said, waving a hand vaguely. "No six-pack abs, no Hollywood glow, probably reads books for fun."
"And that's exactly why he's perfect," I shot back, taking a bite of my croissant. "He's real, Bridgette. And he doesn't need an audience to feel important."
We spent the morning discussing my bakery plans. The space was small, but charming, in a bustling neighborhood. I wanted it to be a place of warmth and comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile environment of Ethan' s world.
A week later, I was elbows deep in renovations, covered in dust and plaster, when Bridgette called. "Are you free for lunch? I'm starving, and I need to tell you about this new cocktail idea."
"Can't," I grumbled, wiping sweat from my brow. "I'm fighting a stubborn patch of wallpaper that clearly has a vendetta against me."
"Nonsense," she declared. "You need a break. Besides, I have a surprise."
She picked me up, and to my astonishment, drove us to the university campus. "Bridgette, what are we doing here?" I asked, suddenly nervous.
"Lunch," she said simply. "They have an incredible food truck scene, and I figured you, a connoisseur of all things delicious, might appreciate it."
We were navigating the busy campus quad when I saw him. Dawson. He was walking with a group of students, his head bowed, listening intently to one of them. He was wearing a tweed jacket, elbow patches and all, looking every inch the distinguished academic.
Before I could duck behind a tree, Bridgette, with a wicked grin, practically shoved me forward. "Addy! Look! Isn't that… Professor Roach?" she stage-whispered, loud enough for him to hear.
Dawson looked up, his hazel eyes widening slightly as he saw me, covered in dust and paint splatters, looking thoroughly disheveled. His students also turned, their young faces registering surprise.
"Bridgette! What are you doing?!" I hissed, mortified, trying to subtly wipe a streak of paint from my cheek.
Bridgette, ignoring my mortification, beamed at Dawson. "Professor! What a coincidence! This is my best friend, Adeline Nixon. She' s just moved back to Portland. She's a baker, an amazing baker, actually. She's opening her own artisanal bakery right near the arts district." She was practically singing my praises, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. The horror of meeting him again, looking like a disheveled construction worker, was palpable. Thanks, Bridge. Really subtle.
Dawson, however, seemed unfazed. He smiled, a genuine, warm smile. "Adeline. What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to see you here."
His students, a gaggle of bright-eyed young men and women, were now openly staring at me. Bridgette, sensing her work was done, gave me another knowing wink. "Well, I'm going to grab us some tacos. Don't be shy, Professor, get to know my fabulous friend." She dragged me forward with a playful shove. Then, she and Lucas, who had mysteriously appeared from nowhere, winked at me and then left.
I felt a blush creep up my neck. "I'm so sorry," I mumbled to Dawson, gesturing vaguely at my paint-splattered clothes. "Bridgette is… enthusiastic."
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "She seems like a very good friend. And there's nothing to apologize for. You look… industrious." His eyes crinkled at the corners, a hint of amusement there. "So, the bakery is coming along, then?"
"Yes," I said, feeling a little more at ease. "It's a lot of work, but it's exciting. It' s called 'The Flour Patch'." I paused, then remembered my previous blunder. "And I promise, I don't usually ask strangers if they're real. Or question their career choices."
He laughed again. "I believe you. And 'The Flour Patch' sounds delightful. I expect to be a regular customer."
"You absolutely will be," I said, a smile finally blooming on my face. "And for being so understanding of my… eccentric friend, and my paint-splattered self, your first loaf is on the house."
He smiled, a genuine, dazzling smile that made my heart do a little flip. "I look forward to it, Adeline."
"Are you still the literature professor, Dawson Roach?" I asked, a tiny flicker of hope, of curiosity, lighting up inside me.
"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze intense. "But there' s more to that story, which I' ll gladly tell you over a cup of coffee at your new bakery. When it opens." He gave a slight, mischievous nod. "Until then."
He then bought a small bouquet of wildflowers from a student who was selling them for a charity fundraiser, and walked away, leaving me standing there, my heart thrumming. He hadn' t told me anything more about his background, but he had promised to. He was playing the long game, and I was utterly, delightfully, captivated.
