Chapter One - Stranger at the Bar
POV: Bella Hayes
The first thing I did after submitting my university project was scream.
The second thing I did was order a cocktail.
The third thing I did was promise myself that I would never, under any circumstances, allow another professor to convince me that a forty-page research paper was a reasonable thing to expect from a human being with a functioning social life.
“Forty-seven pages,” Chloe announced, holding up three fingers as though she were delivering a eulogy. “Forty-seven pages of legal analysis, footnotes, and enough references to kill a small forest.”
“Forty-nine,” I corrected.
She stared at me.
“I included the appendix.”
Chloe dropped her forehead onto the table.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I love you when you aren’t reminding me that you wrote more than I did.”
I grinned and lifted my cocktail.
“To surviving university.”
“To never opening another textbook.”
“To the fact that I have absolutely nothing due tomorrow.”
Chloe raised her glass. “And to finding you a man who can distract you from your ridiculous obsession with academic excellence.”
I nearly choked on my drink.
“Please. I need a vacation, not a man.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“They are when men are involved.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t had a decent date in six months.”
“Five.”
“Oh, forgive me. Five entire months. How have you survived?”
“Pure spite.”
We dissolved into laughter.
The bar around us was beautiful in the sort of way that made me suddenly conscious of the fact that my usual Friday-night attire consisted of leggings, an oversized university sweatshirt, and whatever shoes I could find near the front door.
The hotel was expensive. Not the sort of place where students typically celebrated surviving a deadline, unless their parents were paying the bill or they had made a terrible decision about their bank accounts.
In our case, Chloe had found a discount online, and I had decided that the end of my project deserved something more glamorous than cheap pizza and a bottle of wine in our apartment.
The lighting was warm and golden. Crystal glasses glittered beneath the bar lights. Soft music drifted through the room, and beyond the tall windows, the city shimmered beneath a fine curtain of rain.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t thinking about case studies, deadlines, or whether my final argument was strong enough to impress a lecturer who appeared to consider happiness a character flaw.
I was simply Bella.
Twenty-one years old. Exhausted. Slightly tipsy.
And gloriously, wonderfully free.
Chloe checked her phone and groaned.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
“My boyfriend has arrived.”
I blinked. “Your boyfriend? The one who was supposed to be picking you up an hour ago?”
“The very same.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m concerned. Maybe he was abducted by aliens and they’ve returned him with a defective personality.”
She threw a napkin at me.
“You’re horrible.”
“I’m honest.”
She stood, grabbed her handbag, and leaned down to kiss my cheek.
“Come home soon, okay?”
“I will.”
“And don’t drink too much.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And don’t go home with a stranger.”
I looked at her innocently.
“Define stranger.”
“Bella.”
“Fine. Fine. I promise not to make any life-altering decisions tonight.”
“That’s what worries me. Your definition of life-altering is apparently submitting an appendix.”
She shook her head, laughing, and disappeared toward the entrance.
I watched her go before turning back to my drink.
I had every intention of finishing my cocktail, paying the bill, and returning to my apartment. I would shower, climb into bed, and sleep for twelve hours.
That was the plan.
Then I noticed the man sitting alone at the far end of the bar.
And suddenly, my plans became considerably less interesting.
He was difficult not to notice.
Not because he was loud. He wasn’t.
Not because he was trying to attract attention. If anything, he looked like a man who would prefer the entire room to disappear.
It was the stillness.
He sat on a leather barstool with one hand resting beside a glass of amber liquor, his broad shoulders outlined by a perfectly tailored black suit. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had run his fingers through it one too many times. A hint of silver marked his temples.
His tie was loosened.
His sleeves were buttoned neatly at his wrists.
His expression suggested that someone had personally offended him by allowing the world to continue existing.
He looked older than the men I usually encountered at university. Not old, exactly. Just unmistakably mature.
Thirty-something, perhaps.
The kind of man who knew what he wanted, had enough money to get it, and had long ago stopped pretending to enjoy things that bored him.
He was also, quite frankly, devastatingly attractive.
I took another sip of my cocktail.
Then another.
I was not staring.
I was observing.
There was a difference.
He lifted his glass, took a drink, and glanced in my direction.
Our eyes met.
Oh.
His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light, and there was something unnervingly direct about his gaze. He didn’t immediately look away when I caught him watching me.
Neither did I.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched one corner of his mouth.
My stomach did something deeply inconvenient.
I raised my glass to him.
It was a small gesture. Casual. Harmless.
His eyebrows lifted.
Then he returned the toast.
I smiled into my drink.
There. Done.
I had acknowledged an attractive stranger. I could now return to my evening without allowing a pair of dark eyes to interfere with my perfectly sensible plans.
Three seconds later, I looked at him again.
He was still watching me.
I set my glass down.
Oh, this is going to be a problem.
He rose from his stool.
And walked toward me.
“Is this seat taken?”
His voice was lower than I expected.
Smooth, controlled, with just enough roughness around the edges to make me wonder what it would sound like if he ever lost that composure.
I glanced at the empty stool beside me.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re going to complain about the state of the world for the next hour.”
He paused.
Then he laughed.
It was brief, surprised, and genuine enough to change his entire face.
“No promises.”
“Then I suppose you can sit. But I’m charging by the complaint.”
He settled onto the stool beside me.
Up close, he was even more distracting.
I could smell his cologne, something warm and expensive with notes of cedar and spice. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes, and the breadth of his shoulders made the barstool look absurdly small.
He extended a hand.
“Adrian.”
I placed my hand in his.
“Bella.”
His fingers closed around mine in a firm, warm handshake.
Neither of us immediately let go.
I noticed.
Judging by the way his gaze dropped briefly to our joined hands before returning to my face, so did he.
“Bella,” he repeated.
There was something about the way he said my name that made it sound like a private thought.
“Adrian,” I replied.
His mouth curved.
“Are we going to spend the entire evening repeating each other’s names?”
“Depends. Is yours the only thing about you worth knowing?”
He leaned back slightly, studying me.
“You always this direct?”
“Only when I’m tired.”
“And you’re tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Long day?”
“Long month. University has apparently decided that students shouldn’t experience joy until they’ve earned it.”
“An interesting educational philosophy.”
“You sound like you disagree.”
“I believe education should be challenging.”
“Challenging is fine. Being assigned enough work to question the meaning of existence is excessive.”
He smiled into his drink.
“What are you studying?”
“Something that has convinced me to seriously consider becoming a person who lives on a beach and sells handmade jewellery.”
“That sounds like a significant career change.”
“I have transferable skills.”
“Such as?”
“Complaining. Critical thinking. An excellent ability to identify when someone is being unnecessarily difficult.”
He looked at me over the rim of his glass.
“I’m beginning to think that last skill is your strongest.”
“I’m beginning to think you need it.”
He laughed again.
And I discovered that I liked being the reason for it.
“So,” he said, turning toward me, “do you always insult men who buy you drinks?”
“You haven’t bought me a drink.”
“Would you like one?”
I pretended to consider the question.
“What are you offering?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“That’s a dangerous answer. I have expensive taste.”
“Do you?”
His eyes flicked briefly over my face, then settled on my mouth.
“I’m beginning to suspect it.”
Heat crept up my neck.
I hated that he noticed.
I hated even more that he looked pleased about it.
“Careful,” I warned. “I might start thinking you’re flirting with me.”
“I am flirting with you.”
The words were delivered so calmly that I nearly forgot how to breathe.
“Oh.”
His smile deepened.
“Did you expect me to deny it?”
“Most men do.”
“Most men are cowards.”
I laughed.
He signalled the bartender and ordered another cocktail for me, then a fresh drink for himself. When my glass arrived, I lifted it toward him.
“To honesty.”
He touched his glass to mine.
“To knowing what you want.”
I held his gaze.
“And do you?”
“Usually.”
“Usually?”
His eyes darkened with amusement.
“I’m still deciding what I want from you.”
The answer should have irritated me.
Instead, it sent a delicious little shiver down my spine.
I leaned closer.
“Take your time. I charge extra for indecision.”
His gaze dropped to my lips again.
“Something tells me you charge extra for everything.”
“Only the interesting things.”
“And am I interesting?”
I pretended to study him.
The loosened tie. The expensive watch. The strong line of his jaw. The way he watched me as if the conversation had become the only thing worth his attention.
“Potentially.”
“Potentially?”
“You haven’t impressed me yet.”
He placed his glass on the bar.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to try harder.”
I lost track of time.
That was the first warning sign.
The second was that I stopped checking my phone.
The third was that I had begun to enjoy the silence between our conversations as much as the conversations themselves.
Adrian was not what I had expected.
He was confident without being obnoxious, intelligent without making a performance of it, and dryly funny in a way that kept catching me off guard.
He asked questions and actually listened to the answers.
When I mentioned my project, he asked what I had argued and why. When I explained, he challenged one of my conclusions.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Are you disagreeing with me?”
“I’m asking you to defend your position.”
“That’s a very academic way of saying you’re disagreeing with me.”
“Perhaps you should convince me otherwise.”
I set down my glass.
“Oh, you have made a terrible mistake.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Have I?”
“You’ve challenged me after two cocktails. I am extremely persuasive after two cocktails.”
“And after three?”
“Dangerous.”
He laughed, leaning closer.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I explained my argument. He listened without interrupting, then asked another question.
I answered.
He considered it.
Finally, he nodded.
“Fair point.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Your argument is sound.”
“You’re admitting I’m right?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
I grinned triumphantly.
“This is the best evening of my life.”
“Your standards are alarmingly low.”
“You have no idea.”
For a moment, he simply watched me.
The humour softened in his expression, revealing something quieter beneath it.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s an observation.”
“About?”
“You’re not what I expected.”
I tilted my head.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone who would be impressed by my suit.”
I looked pointedly at his jacket.
“It is a very nice suit.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’ve seen nicer.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
His laugh was immediate.
I laughed with him, and something in my chest loosened.
I didn’t know him.
I didn’t know where he worked, whether he had a girlfriend, or why he had arrived at an expensive hotel bar looking like a man who had spent the evening contemplating murder.
But I wanted to know more.
That was the problem.
I wanted to know more.
And the way he was looking at me suggested the feeling was mutual.
“Dance with me.”
I blinked.
Adrian had stood and extended a hand.
I glanced toward the small dance floor near the windows. A slow song had begun playing, the singer’s voice low and intimate beneath the murmur of conversation.
“Is that an invitation or an instruction?”
“An invitation.”
“Good answer.”
I placed my hand in his.
He led me onto the dance floor, his other hand settling at my waist.
The moment he drew me closer, I became acutely aware of the difference in our heights, the warmth of his body, and the steady pressure of his hand against my back.
I placed one hand on his shoulder.
He looked down at me.
“Still deciding whether I’m interesting?”
“I’m gathering additional evidence.”
“And your findings?”
“Preliminary.”
His mouth curved.
“Perhaps I should provide more data.”
I laughed softly.
“Is that your idea of flirting?”
“Is it working?”
I looked at him.
At the man who had approached me without hesitation, who had challenged me without belittling me, and who now held me as though he had nowhere else he needed to be.
“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “yes.”
His smile faded into something more serious.
“Unfortunately?”
“This is where I remind myself that you’re a stranger.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
The question was quiet.
There was no challenge in it, no attempt to corner me into an answer.
I appreciated that more than I expected.
“No.”
His hand remained at my waist.
“Then I’ll stay.”
The simplicity of his answer made my heart beat faster.
We moved slowly with the music.
I could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of my dress. His thumb moved once against my waist, a small, absent gesture that made me look up at him.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“You’re staring, Bella.”
“So are you.”
“I have an excuse.”
“Which is?”
“I’m trying to decide whether kissing you would be a very good idea or a very bad one.”
My breath caught.
I could have made a joke.
I could have stepped back.
Instead, I looked directly into his eyes.
“Why does it have to be one or the other?”
His expression changed.
The humour remained, but something more intense moved beneath it.
“Because I have a feeling,” he said quietly, “that if I kiss you, I’m going to want to do it again.”
My fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder.
“That’s a terrible reason not to.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
“Bella.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me if you don’t want this.”
I held his gaze.
“I want this.”
He gave me a moment to change my mind.
I didn’t.
Then he kissed me.
The first kiss was slow.
Not hesitant, exactly, but deliberate.
His hand rose from my waist to my cheek, his fingers resting lightly against my skin as he tilted my face toward his. His mouth touched mine with a restraint that lasted approximately three seconds before I decided I had no interest in being restrained by a man I had been wanting to kiss for the better part of an hour.
I rose onto my toes and kissed him back.
He made a low sound of surprise.
I smiled against his mouth.
“What was that?” I whispered.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Bella.”
I loved the way he said my name when he was trying not to smile.
I kissed him again.
This time, there was no mistaking the response.
His arm tightened around my waist, drawing me closer, and I curled my fingers into the fabric of his jacket. The music continued around us, the world carrying on with its ordinary business while mine narrowed to the warmth of his mouth and the steady hand at my back.
When we finally separated, I was breathless.
Adrian rested his forehead briefly against mine.
“Well,” I whispered.
“Well,” he agreed.
“Are you going to tell me that was a mistake?”
His eyes searched my face.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
I kissed him once more, just because I could.
He laughed softly when I drew back.
“You’re trouble.”
“You say that as if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
“I’m enjoying myself far too much.”
“Then we have something in common.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek.
“Would you like to get out of here?”
The question was direct.
So was the answer.
“Yes.”
He didn’t immediately move.
“I want to be clear about something,” he said. “I want to leave with you. I want to spend more time with you. But I don’t want you to feel that you owe me anything because we’ve been flirting or because I’ve bought you a drink.”
My expression softened.
“I don’t.”
“And if you change your mind at any point, you tell me.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
I slipped my hand into his.
“And Adrian?”
“Yes?”
“If we stay here much longer, I’m going to kiss you again in front of everyone.”
His eyes darkened with amusement.
“Then we’d better leave.”
The lift seemed determined to move at the speed of an elderly tortoise.
I stood beside Adrian, watching the illuminated numbers change above the doors.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then I glanced at him.
“So.”
“So,” he echoed.
“This is the part where we discover whether we’re capable of having a normal conversation without flirting.”
“Do you want to?”
“Not particularly.”
“Neither do I.”
I laughed.
He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine.
The gesture was unexpectedly intimate.
Not because it was dramatic. It wasn’t.
Because it was easy.
As if holding my hand was something he had already decided he liked doing.
The lift doors opened.
We stepped into the corridor.
Adrian stopped outside his suite and turned toward me.
For the first time that evening, I felt a small flutter of nerves.
Not regret.
Not uncertainty about whether I wanted to be there.
Just the awareness that we were about to make a decision that would take us beyond the safe, flirtatious world of cocktails and clever remarks.
He seemed to understand.
“We can stop here,” he said. “We can get another drink, talk until sunrise, or say goodnight. You don’t have to decide anything because we came this far.”
I studied his face.
“You’re very determined to make sure I have a choice.”
“Yes.”
“Is that because you think I’m going to regret you?”
“No.” His expression softened. “It’s because I want you to choose me.”
The words settled between us.
I reached up, straightened his loosened tie, and smiled.
“Then stop talking and kiss me.”
He did.
And when the suite door closed behind us, I knew exactly what I wanted.
The suite door closed behind them with a soft click. Adrian turned, and Bella was already rising onto her toes, pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was nothing like the careful one on the dance floor. This one was open, hungry, the accumulated tension of the evening spilling out the moment privacy surrounded them. His hands framed her face, then slid into her hair, tilting her head so he could deepen it. She answered by pressing closer, fingers working at the knot of his loosened tie until it came free.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at her.
“Bella.” His voice was rougher than it had been downstairs. “I need to hear it. You’re sure. Right now. Not because of the drinks, not because the night feels good. Because you want this.”
She was tipsy—warm, floating, every nerve lit—but the edges of the room were sharp and her thoughts were clear. She met his eyes without hesitation.
“I’m sure. I’m alert. I’m choosing this. If either of us starts to feel otherwise, we stop. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
She smiled, wicked and bright, and pushed his jacket off his shoulders. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this suit since you walked over to my stool.”
Something dark and pleased flashed through his expression. He let the jacket fall, then backed her toward the wide bed while she unbuttoned his shirt with impatient fingers. When the last button gave, she shoved the fabric aside and pressed her mouth to the warm skin of his chest. He made a low sound—half surprise, half hunger—and the polished control he had worn all evening cracked.
“Christ, Bella—”
She nipped lightly, then soothed with her tongue. “You talk too much for a man who’s about to fuck me.”
He laughed once, rough, and spun her so her back met the edge of the mattress. His hands found the zipper of her dress and drew it down in one smooth pull. The fabric pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and stood in nothing but lace and heels, watching his gaze darken as it raked over her.
“On the bed,” he said, voice low. “Now.”
She climbed on, deliberately slow, and looked back over her shoulder. “Still deciding what you want from me?”
“No.” He stripped the rest of his clothes with efficient movements, then followed her down, covering her body with his. “I’ve decided.”
He kissed her again—harder this time—while his hand slid between her thighs. She was already wet; the first stroke of his fingers drew a soft, startled sound from her throat. He worked her with slow, deliberate pressure, circling, pressing, until her hips lifted and her fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Adrian—”
“I know.” He added a second finger, curling them just right. “Let me feel you come first.”
She did—sharp and sudden, thighs trembling around his hand, a broken moan against his mouth. He stayed with her through it, easing her down, then kissed a path down her body and replaced his fingers with his mouth.
The second orgasm built slower. He licked her like he had all night to learn every sound she made, tongue flat and relentless, two fingers sliding back inside her. When she came again it was longer, deeper, her hands fisted in the sheets and his name a hoarse plea.
He rose over her, eyes nearly black, the controlled man from the bar nowhere in sight. She reached between them, wrapped her fingers around his cock, and stroked once, firm.
“Inside me,” she said. “Now.”
He didn’t make her ask twice. He rolled on a condom from the nightstand drawer, settled between her thighs, and pushed in with one long, steady thrust. The stretch pulled a gasp from both of them. He held still for a heartbeat, forehead against hers, breathing hard.
“Okay?”
“More than okay. Move.”
He did—deep, controlled strokes that quickly lost their polish when she wrapped her legs around his waist and met every thrust. The bedframe knocked softly against the wall. She raked her nails down his back; he answered by hitching her leg higher and driving deeper. The third orgasm hit her while he was buried to the hilt, her body clamping around him so tightly he had to grit his teeth and ride it out.
When she went boneless he rolled them, pulling her on top. She sank down onto him with a shaky exhale, hands braced on his chest.
“Your turn to work,” he murmured, hands spanning her hips.
She rode him hard—rolling her hips, lifting almost all the way off before slamming back down. His composure fractured further with every stroke. One hand slid up to cup her breast; the other found her clit and rubbed tight circles. The dual sensation shoved her toward a fourth climax faster than she expected. She came with her head thrown back, nails biting into his skin, and felt him surge up beneath her, chasing his own release.
He didn’t finish yet. Instead he flipped them again, hauled her to the edge of the bed, and stood between her spread thighs. The new angle let him drive deeper, harder. She locked her ankles behind his back and held on as the rhythm turned punishing. The wet sound of their bodies filled the quiet suite. Another orgasm—fifth—ripped through her with almost no warning, leaving her shaking and gasping his name.
Only then did he let go. He came with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, face buried against her neck. For a long moment neither of them moved.
Eventually he eased out, disposed of the condom, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with surprising gentleness, then climbed back into bed and pulled her against his chest. The city lights glowed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain still streaked the glass.
Bella traced idle patterns on his collarbone. “That was…”
“Yes,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “It was.”
She laughed softly. He tipped her chin up and kissed her—slower now, lingering.
They talked in quiet fragments: favorite cities, the best meal either of them had ever had, the ridiculous things people said when they were trying to impress someone at a bar. No last names. No jobs. No universities. Just the easy, post-sex drift of two people who had chosen this and were in no hurry to leave it.
At some point he pulled the duvet over them both. She settled her head on his shoulder, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart, and decided the night could last as long as it wanted.
I woke briefly sometime after three in the morning, warm beneath the hotel duvet, with the city lights glowing beyond the curtains.
Adrian was beside me.
His eyes were closed, one arm resting loosely around my waist. Without the suit and the carefully arranged expression, he looked younger somehow. Less intimidating. Almost peaceful.
I turned my head to study him.
A ridiculous thought crossed my mind.
I could get used to this.
I immediately dismissed it.
I had known the man for one evening. One evening.
I didn’t know his surname. I didn’t know whether he drank his coffee black or took it with enough sugar to qualify as dessert. I didn’t know whether he was the sort of man who left socks on the floor or had someone whose entire job was to ensure that his apartment never contained a misplaced object.
And yet I knew that he listened when I spoke.
I knew that his laughter made me want to hear it again.
I knew that when he kissed me, I forgot every clever thing I had ever intended to say.
That was enough for one night.
I settled back against the pillow.
His eyes opened.
“Are you watching me sleep?”
“Maybe.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.”
His mouth curved.
“Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
I moved toward him, smiling when his arm settled around me again.
“Bossy,” I murmured.
“Observant.”
I laughed softly.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then closed his eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, I fell asleep without thinking about university.
I fell asleep thinking about Adrian.
I had no idea that by Monday morning, the man beside me would become the one person I should probably have stayed away from.
And I had even less idea that, when I discovered who he was, staying away would be the last thing either of us wanted.
