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.

Adeline Nixon POV:

A professor! I wanted to slap myself. Nineteenth-century British novels! And I' d asked him if he was an artist or a writer, then practically begged him not to be an actor. I must have sounded like a complete idiot, a star-struck fool.

No, Adeline, I reminded myself, you were trying to avoid exactly what you just escaped. You were cautious. But still, 'Are you real?' Really? My face burned with embarrassment. I could practically hear Bridgette' s cackles already.

I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting Dawson to have made his escape, maybe even called the police. But he was still there, a soft smile playing on his lips, following me towards the booth. He wasn' t running. He was intrigued. A small wave of relief washed over me.

Bridgette emerged from the restroom, saw me with Dawson, and her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in playful amusement. She took in his elegant, understated attire, his intelligent gaze, and then me, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"Well, well, well," she purred, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, who Adeline dragged in."

I shot her a glare. "Bridgette, this is Dawson Roach. He's a literature professor. Dawson, this is Bridgette, my best friend, and the owner of this amazing place."

Dawson offered Bridgette a polite smile. "It's a pleasure, Bridgette. And yes, it is a very impressive establishment."

Bridgette practically preened. "He's got good taste, Addy. I approve." She winked at me, then leaned in conspiratorially. "So, a professor, huh? I thought you were done with the 'unavailable, too-busy-for-you' type."

My cheeks flushed again. "Bridgette!"

Dawson, sensing my discomfort, chuckled softly. "It's quite alright. I assure you, my schedule is far less demanding than a certain celebrity's, and my primary focus is the intellectual development of my students, not chasing paparazzi." His words were delivered with a dry wit that made me laugh. He was subtly acknowledging Ethan without being crude.

Bridgette, always quick on the uptake, caught his meaning and grinned. "See, Addy? A man who knows how to prioritize. Now, what can I get you, Professor? On the house, of course. Any friend of Adeline's who isn't a narcissistic, gaslighting actor is a friend of mine."

I groaned. "Bridgette, please!"

Dawson laughed outright, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the space. "A single malt, if you have one," he requested, his eyes twinkling. "And thank you, Bridgette. Adeline truly is a wonderful friend."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. Dawson was intelligent, witty, and surprisingly down-to-earth. He listened intently when I spoke about my plans for the bakery, asking insightful questions that made me feel seen and valued. It was a stark contrast to Ethan, who would often interrupt me to talk about himself, or simply nod vaguely while scrolling on his phone.

I found myself drawn to Dawson' s calm demeanor, his steady gaze. He didn' t try to dominate the conversation, but when he spoke, his words were thoughtful and engaging. He even made a few self-deprecating jokes about the stereotypes of literature professors, which I found incredibly charming.

By the end of the night, when Bridgette was calling last orders, Dawson insisted on walking me home, despite my protests. We lingered on my doorstep, the Portland night air cool and crisp.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Adeline," he said, his voice soft. "It was truly unexpected, and thoroughly enjoyable."

"Thank you, Dawson," I replied, a genuine smile on my face. "I haven't had this much fun in… well, a long, long time."

He smiled, that slow, captivating smile that reached his hazel eyes. "Perhaps we could do it again sometime?"

"I' d like that very much," I said, my heart fluttering.

As he turned to leave, he paused, then looked back at me. "And Adeline, about that 'are you real?' question…" he said, a playful glint in his eye. "I promise, I am. And I'm looking forward to proving it to you." He gave a slight nod, then walked away, leaving me standing on my porch, a giddy smile on my face.

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.