My steps quickened.
The alley leading to the pub was as empty as ever. An odd fact given the bar’s steady stream of customers. I didn’t think twice about it as I left the biting chill of the alley in favor of the embracing warmth of the bar. I’d grown accustomed to the clinking glasses, the ambient chatter, and the low amber glow of lamps mimicking candlelight.
A frigid gust of wind nipped into the pub alongside me. Several conversations stilled and gazes darted in my direction. A chill zipped down my spine, but I wrapped my pea-coat closer and scanned the crowd.
Moth waved from a corner booth, leaning over to smile at me. Without preamble, I made my way to the table and slid into the bench beside him. Niffy and Talon had their heads bent, so deep in conversation they barely acknowledged me. I didn’t mind, not with the heat chasing the insistent cold from my limbs.
“Just in time for the first round, Blondie.” Moth slid a chilled beer into my hand. I grabbed it and he clinked my bottle with his own in a sort of salute.
Forgoing a greeting I eagerly put the bottle to my lips and tasted the pub’s advertised drink of the week; a raspberry lambic that was delightfully tart on the back of the tongue. My sip turned into a chug as thirst possessed me, and I downed half the bottle before realizing it.
“Had a rough day, Blondie?” Moth chuckled.
I almost choked, sputtering over my mouthful of fruit beer. Then I rolled my eyes and set the glass down. I huffed, “Rough couple of months.”
“Oh?” He arched a brow, leaning closer to whisper. “More family drama?”
I fiddled with the bottle, staring at the swirling font on the label. A corner of the sticker stuck out from the glass, and I found myself picking at it.
“Not really.” In fact, my dad had stopped trying to reach out. As if he realized I didn’t want to hear from him or decided space and time was for the best. Mom still called when she wasn’t swimming in tequila, but those chats were short. “Just focusing on coursework.”
An easy lie from one senior to another. Moth would understand the language of pushing through a thesis.
“Fair enough!” Moth agreed before taking a drink. “Speaking of rough,” he drawled in a voice so low I involuntarilyshivered, “how is your assistant work going with Professor Quinn?”
The front doors opened again, another bout of preternaturally cold air sweeping into the pub. Except this time conversation continued from every shrouded corner of the pub. Like all the patrons knew not to glance up at the figure striding toward the bar counter. My stomach dropped then hitched into my chest while a prickling awareness spread across the back of my neck.
“Well, speak of the devil.” Moth grinned, mouth a little too wide, eyes gleaming golden in the light.
The professor was there. In the same bar. On the same day. At the same time. Leaning as casually as anyone else on the wooden counter and ordering a drink from the bartender. I’d been going there nearly a month without running into him once. Why was he there now?
“Things are…” I cleared my throat and licked my bottom lip. “Yeah, things are fine. What about you? How are things coming along?”
Moth cut his eyes between me and the history professor before rambling on about his least favorite teachers and their asinine policies around bringing technology to class. A topic he had complained about before, but a buzzing in my ears stopped me from hearing a word of it.
My eyes were locked on the man sitting in a high-top stool at the bar.
Watching the way his white oxford shirt clung to the expanse of his broad shoulders like a second skin. Staring at the dark hairs on the back of his toned forearms and wondering how much of it covered his chest. Almost drooling over the way he gripped his drink in his hand, long, calloused fingers and prominent knuckles flexing against the glass. Internally quivering as he pressed the rim to his full, sensual lips andswallowed the Old Fashioned, and the way he licked a stray drop from the corner of his mouth. Crossing my legs under the table and ogling the way he spread his thighs and the way his trousers creased on his toned legs.
Professor Quinn always came across as stiff, unbending, stern. Tonight, I observed a loosening of the tension in his shoulders and spine. The way he moved with careless grace as if his movements were fluid yet powerful. He was always captivating to watch.
Another drink was passed into my hand. My eyes snapped across the crowded, haze-drenched pub as if magnetized to his location.
The ocean crashed into me when his head lifted.
My lips twisted around the straw of my second drink, face blanching and air freezing in my lungs.
He reached up and ran a large hand through the waves of his raven-feather hair. The corner of his mouth twitched so briefly I might have imagined it.
I looked away, pink creeping up my neck to my cheeks and burning. That heat boiled under my skin and turned my insides molten. Red-hot coils went taut low in my belly.
Four rounds went by, lambics turning into cocktails and conversation varying from classes, to students, to events coming in October. Everyone seemed excited for Halloween and the decorations and functions the university hosted.
Every time I looked away, I felt his presence. The same searing sensation that left me hot and bothered after the hours spent in his office. As if hyperaware of his gaze, but unable to meet it at the same time. Fleeting glances where one of us was always looking across the bar at the other, but neither could prove it. My awareness of him never faltered, no matter how much I drank. The sight of my professor was as intoxicating as the liquor humming in my veins.
Pleasantly buzzed and treading water in a sea of erotic thoughts, I felt high-strung and devastatingly desperate. I had to get out of there before I lost my head.
After exchanging goodbyes with the trio, I slipped through the crowd to the bathroom in the back of the bar. I couldn’t drive home without splashing cold water on my face and shaking the sensual red fog from my head first. The drinks had me feeling warm and loose and I was passively glad the bathroom was vacant. Just as I was dabbing a cold, wet napkin on my cheeks the door swung open, nearly hitting me.
