Chapter 8 Riverside Bar Pickup

Stella's POV

Riverside Bar sat in one of those neighborhoods that tried too hard to look edgy—exposed brick, neon signs, craft beer menus longer than my thesis. I pushed through the heavy door and was hit by a wall of noise and warmth that made my damp hair feel even colder against my neck.

The place was packed with the usual Thursday night crowd—grad students pretending they weren't stressed about their dissertations, young professionals pretending they weren't exhausted from their jobs. I scanned the room, looking for Ethan, and spotted a raised hand waving from a corner booth.

Three men sat around a table littered with beer bottles and whiskey glasses. And there, leaning back against the leather booth with his eyes closed, was Ethan.

He looks completely wasted.

I made my way through the crowd, my sneakers squeaking on the sticky floor. The man who'd waved—tall, sandy-haired, friendly face—stood up as I approached.

"Mrs. Blackwood?" He extended his hand with a grin that was way too cheerful for midnight. "I'm Jake Miller. Thanks for coming."

Mrs. Blackwood. There it is again.

I shook his hand, forcing a smile. "No problem."

The other two men were watching me with undisguised curiosity. One was shorter with dark hair and sharp eyes, the other had that preppy look—button-down shirt, expensive watch, the kind of guy who probably played lacrosse in college.

"This is David," Jake gestured to the dark-haired one, "and Christopher." The preppy one nodded.

"Nice to finally meet you," David said, leaning forward with interest. His words were slightly slurred but his eyes were clear. "Ethan's been keeping you a secret."

Because I'm his student and this whole thing is a disaster.

"So what do you do, Mrs. Blackwood?" Christopher asked, swirling his whiskey. "Ethan's been completely tight-lipped about you."

My stomach dropped. This was it—the moment where everything could explode. If I said I was a student, if they put two and two together—

Academic misconduct. Investigation. Forced withdrawal. My entire future gone.

"I teach at Haverton," I heard myself say. The lie came out smooth, practiced, like I'd been preparing for this moment. "Music department."

"Ah, that makes sense," Christopher said, nodding like this explained everything. "Both in academia. No wonder you two clicked."

Jake turned toward Ethan, who still hadn't opened his eyes. "You sneaky bastard. You didn't even tell us your wife worked at the same school."

Ethan made a low sound—something between a grunt and a hum. His eyes stayed closed.

"How long have you two been together?" David asked.

"Not long," I said quickly. "It's still pretty new."

"Well, congratulations," Jake said, raising his beer bottle. "Ethan's a lucky guy."

I smiled and nodded, but my heart was hammering. Every word felt like another brick in a wall I was building between myself and the truth.

"We should probably get going," I said, glancing at Ethan. "It's late."

"Yeah, he's pretty far gone," Jake agreed. "Haven't seen him this drunk in years."

I moved to Ethan's side of the booth. Up close, I could smell the whiskey on him, see the way his chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths.

"Ethan," I said softly, carefully avoiding the word Professor. "Time to go home."

His eyes opened slowly, those steel-blue irises focusing on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Stella," he said, my name coming out low and rough.

"Come on," I said, offering my hand. "Let's get you home."

He took my hand—his palm was burning hot, way hotter than it should be—and pulled himself up.

"Thanks for calling," I said to Jake, who was watching us with an amused smile.

"Anytime, Mrs. Blackwood."

Stop calling me that.

Ethan's arm came around my shoulders, heavy and warm, and suddenly I was supporting most of his weight. We made our way through the bar, Ethan's body pressed against my side. I could feel every breath he took, feel the abnormal heat radiating off him through his shirt.

Why is he so hot?

The March air hit us like a slap when we stepped outside. I gasped at the cold, my wet hair immediately starting to freeze at the tips. But Ethan's arm around my shoulders was like a furnace, his breath warm against my neck.

"Are you running a fever?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "You feel really hot."

"I'm fine," he murmured against my hair, his voice rough. "Just warm."

We walked slowly toward the parking lot, my sneakers scuffing against the pavement. The street was empty, just us and the distant sound of traffic. Ethan's weight was solid against me, his height making me feel small in a way that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't.

This is the first time we've really been alone since last night.

The thought made my heart skip. I could feel his breath on my neck, regular and warm, carrying the faint scent of whiskey. His fingers were curled around my shoulder, not gripping, just resting there.

The parking lot was darker than the street, the overhead lights casting long shadows. There were three steps leading down to where I'd parked, and I was so focused on supporting Ethan that I didn't see them until it was too late.

My foot hit empty air.

"Shit—" I gasped, trying to catch myself, but Ethan's weight was pulling me forward. I grabbed at his jacket, trying to steady us both, but it was useless.

We were going down.

Everything happened in a blur. One second I was falling, the next Ethan was twisting, his arms wrapping around me tight. His back hit the concrete with a sickening thud, and I landed on top of him, my hands braced against his chest.

Oh God. Oh God, is he okay?

"Ethan—" I started to push myself up, but his arms were still around me, holding me in place.

I looked down and found him staring up at me, his eyes completely clear and focused. We were so close I could count his eyelashes. His chest was rising and falling beneath my palms, his heart beating steady and strong. One of his hands was on my waist, his thumb moving in small circles against the fabric of my jacket.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low, concerned, not slurred at all.

"I—" My voice came out breathless. "I'm fine. But you—your back—"

"I'm fine," he said, but he didn't move. Neither did I.

His hand on my waist tightened slightly, and I became acutely aware of every point where our bodies touched. My thighs were on either side of his hips, my hands pressed against his chest, my face inches from his.

"Stella," he said, my name a question and a statement all at once.

His eyes were too clear. Too focused. There was no trace of drunkenness in his gaze—just sharp awareness and something darker, something that made my stomach flip.

"You're not drunk," I whispered, realization hitting me. "Are you?"