Hustled (Beautiful Players #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I’m about to get played.

Toyed with.

But I don’t know it yet.

I have no clue my life is about to change. In a very big way.

But isn’t that how it always goes?

The extraordinary wrapped up in the ordinary. You never see it coming.

I wipe down the counter, scrubbing at a stubborn spot of dried egg while rocking along to AC/DC. The kitchen smells like bacon and coffee, comforting despite the huge pile of dishes in the sink. Just as the song is about to get good, my headphones cut out mid-headbang.

The battery light blinks red, mocking me. In the headphones' defence, they did warn me ten minutes ago that the battery was low.

I toss the scrub sponge into the sink and head toward the office where my charger lives. As I near closer, Reeves’s voice drifts into the hallway, low and tense.

"I'll get it," he says, his tone sharper than usual. "No, I'm not full of shit this time. I'm good for it."

I slow my steps, hovering outside the door.

"No... don't... I promise I'll get it to you by tomorrow. Later.”

The sound of something crashing against the wall startles me. My stomach tightens as I push the door slowly open and find Reeves hunched over the desk, head cradled in his large hands.

"What… was that about?" I ask tentatively.

He startles, then forces a smile. "Just Greg asking about an advance. Baby coming and all."

I cross my arms. "We can't afford advances. We just let Lucy go, and I liked her."

“I know… it sucks.”

“You threw your phone again… I see. You’re lucky it’s still in one piece.”

He shakes his head as he stands to go get it. “I know.”

The phone rings again. Reeves snatches it up. "Yeah," he barks into it. "I told you I'd call you tomorrow." His face darkens. "I know... I fucking know." He slams the phone down on his desk. I’ve seen my husband mad before, but this one is intense. And I have no clue what it’s all about.

A small gasp draws our attention to the doorway. Liam stands there, eyes wide, his little hands covering his mouth.

Reeves’s expression instantly softens. He lunges towards him, and drops to his knees. "Hey buddy, I'm sorry." He wraps our son in a hug. "I'm sorry you saw that. Daddy was just being cranky.”

Liam stands there, confused again. He’s seen this scene before, but he never seems to get used to it. My heart breaks a little every time.

"Wait right here," Reeves says, jumping up. "I have something special for you."

He disappears down to the basement, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy steps. I hear rustling, a thud, and some muffled cursing.

All the while, Liam and I are just standing in the office, staring at each other with curious eyes, both of us a little excited. Every time I look at him, already four years old, I see his dad in those big, beautiful eyes of his.

Reeves returns moments later, slightly out of breath.

In his hands is a glossy model car, still sealed in its plastic packaging—one of those collector's items that cost way more than we can afford right now.

The price tag is still visible, though he tries to subtly peel it off with his thumbnail as he inches closer.

Liam takes it hesitantly, his small fingers wrapping around the edges of the box.

His big brown eyes look more confused than excited as he examines the unfamiliar toy.

I watch his delicate face scrunch up slightly as he turns the package over, trying to understand why this is supposed to make everything better.

I want to press my husband—he's been acting weird for weeks—but what's the point? Between bartending at the pool hall since Lucy left, taking care of Liam, and managing the house while Reeves is off doing who-knows-what, I just don't have the energy.

Liza greets me at the hall—my co-bartender, my best friend, my partner in crime.

“Hey, girl.”

I smile. “Hey.”

“You look tired again.”

I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“Still beautiful, but tired. I worry about you.”

“No need to worry.”

She’s chipper as usual. We’re both twenty-five, but she looks it and acts like it. Me, on the other hand…

It’s only past noon, and the place is dead as usual. That’s okay because I’ll be busy calling suppliers and going over the bills for the next hour.

Once I get the dreaded office stuff out of the way, I’m back in my favorite spot—the bar.

I wipe the last glass and tuck it neatly into the refrigerator, the cool air brushing against my face.

The quiet hum of the pool hall feels comforting, a refuge from the chaos of life outside.

Just me and Liza, a few flickering neon signs, and the faint echoes of classic rock.

The door chimes jingle, pulling me from my thoughts. I look up, expecting one of our daytime regulars, but my breath catches.

He steps in—tall, confident, and dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that somehow feels out of place here. He glides rather than walks.

Who is this guy? My heart races a little as I take him in—dark wavy hair, olive skin, large eyes scanning the room with a lazy charm. He has this energy that feels electric and pulls me in instantly.

“Hey there,” I manage to say as he approaches. My voice trembles slightly, and I’m momentarily shaken by my reaction to this stranger. I mentally kick myself for being so ridiculous. But in my defence, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen a man this hot — we’re talking movie star hot.

He pauses just a few feet away, an amused smile spreading across his lips. “Hello there.” His voice is smooth, low—a velvety whisper that curls around my senses.

“Uh... hello.” I’ve got nothing else. I’ve been rendered speechless.

He extends his hand with a slow grace that makes me feel like I’m caught in a moment too surreal to be real. “I’m Caine… Caine Hall.”

I shake his hand too quickly. “I’m Jenna.

Jenna Sullivan.” I’m not sure why we’re being so formal, with the last names and all, but I’m rolling with it.

It’s definitely a first, though. Usually, the patrons at the hall lazily set their oversized asses on one of the stools and flash me a smile with a ‘I’ll have a Coors Original’ or some variation of that.

I fumble for the tray of billiard balls below the bar. “Looking to play?” I ask while trying to sound casual, but feeling like I’m stumbling over every word.

He raises a brow, clearly intrigued. “Sure. I’ve got some time to kill.”

As I hand him the tray, my fingers brush against his, and I don’t hate it. What in the hell is wrong with me?

“Any table you wish,” I say. “The place is dead right now.”

He smiles as his gaze dances around the space. God, the man has the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. “Nice setup you have here,” he remarks casually.

“Thanks,” I mumble, trying to regain composure but feeling more flustered with each passing second.

I am pathetic with a capital P. Here I am—nervous and awkward in front of this man who seems completely at ease.

I feel like an utter fool. I am an utter fool.

He probably gets this a lot. I’m sure I’m not the only one who reacts to him this way.

When he picks the closest table to play, my heart does a little dance — this means I can ogle him better. I vow to be discreet about it. I certainly don’t want to come off as creepy… though I am.

I wipe another glass, holding it up to catch the dim light filtering through the blinds.

Get it together, I scold myself. He's just another customer.

A devastatingly handsome, magnetic customer who moves like a dancer and speaks like honey...

but still just a customer. I try to focus on arranging the glasses behind the bar, anything to pull myself away from his very distracting presence.

I watch him play. He moves with a slow, calculated grace that makes it impossible to look away. His long fingers cradle the cue, and he lines up his shot with an intense focus that sends a shiver down my spine. Every movement is precise, almost like a choreographed dance.

He takes the shot, and the ball rolls smoothly across the green felt before sinking into the pocket with a satisfying clink.

A small, confident smile plays on his lips as he straightens up, eyes briefly flicking in my direction.

I quickly avert my gaze, pretending to busy myself with cleaning a spot on the counter that doesn't exist.

I sneak another glance. He's perfection. The way his light brown hair curls just right at the ends, how his dress shirt stretches across his shoulders when he leans over the table. (Yes, he’s removed his suit jacket, and damn…

.) The slight arch of his back as he lines up another shot sends heat rushing to my cheeks.

I know I’m overreacting, but it's been a long time since we've had such a hottie in the hall. Most of our regulars are rough around the edges, but this guy...he's in a league of his own. I shake my head and smile to myself, feeling like a teenager with a crush.

I shouldn't even be watching, shouldn't be ogling. What would Reeves think? The thought sobers me for a moment. Reeves, with his strong presence and husky build, and sweet smile. My heart aches with guilt, but I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the stranger on table One.

He pauses, chalking his cue. His eyes catch mine again, and this time I don't look away fast enough. He smirks knowingly, like he's used to being watched.

My stomach flips again, and I swallow hard, trying to focus on something—anything—else. But it's no use. His smooth movements draw me back in every time.

"Enjoying the show?" His voice breaks through my thoughts, soft yet laced with amusement.

I feel my face flush deeper. "Just making sure you're all set," I manage to reply, trying for casual but sounding breathless instead.

He laughs softly before turning back to his game. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, and return to wiping down the bar with renewed energy — that bartop has never been so clean and shiny.

Despite my best efforts to stay focused on work, my eyes keep drifting back to him as he plays on, each shot more amazing than the last.

I shake my head, and rush to the washrooms where Liza is cleaning the sinks. We both hate this job, but I won the coin toss today, so she's stuck with it.

“You have to come see this,” I whisper, barely able to contain my excitement.

“What’s got you all worked up?” she asks, looking up with curiosity.

“There’s this guy. He’s playing pool, and Liza, he’s like... wow.”

She raises a brow, a little skeptical, but follows me out. We tiptoe back to the bar, trying to be subtle but failing miserably as we giggle like schoolgirls. I can’t remember the last time work felt this fun.

“There he is,” I whisper, nodding towards Caine.

Liza’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of him. “Hot damn, Jenna. You weren’t kidding.”

“I know, right?” I feel a rush of excitement just sharing this moment with her.

“He moves like he owns the place,” Liza observes, her eyes glued to him as he lines up another shot.

“And he’s good,” I add. “I’ve been watching him play nine-ball against himself for a while now. He doesn’t miss.”

Liza laughs softly. “Well, you shouldn’t be looking too hard, Mrs. Sullivan. But since I’m single, I’ll ogle all I want.”

I feel a twinge of guilt but quickly push it aside. It’s harmless fun, after all. “You’re right. I shouldn’t look too much.”

“Exactly,” Liza says with a wink.

I glance at Liza and admire her outfit—leopard print leggings paired with a form-fitting black work-issue golf shirt that hugs her curves just right.

Her gold heart earrings dangle and catch the light as she moves.

Hot pink Doc Martens complete her look. She’s unapologetically herself and radiates confidence that I envy.

“By the way, I love the outfit,” I say, trying not to sound envious.

“Thanks,” she replies with a grin. “It’s all about feeling like a boss… you know.”

I laugh. "I wouldn't know."

We return our focus to Caine, who continues to play with a really sexy intensity.

Damn.

“Think he’d give me some tips?” Liza wonders aloud.

“Maybe,” I reply, watching him pocket another ball effortlessly.

For now, we enjoy our shared moment of innocent admiration and return to work with a little more pep in our step than usual.

An hour later, I'm restocking the bar fridge when I feel a presence behind me. I look up and there he is, standing right in front of me, those green eyes meeting mine directly.

“Nice tables.” His voice is smooth and unhurried. "All done…" he says, his gaze lingering on mine. "For now." He shoots me a wink as he places the rack of balls on the counter with deliberate care.

I reach for them, our fingers almost touching. "Thanks."

He slowly takes a seat on one of the stools. The pause before he speaks is noticeable, like he's measuring each word. “I love what they’ve done with the place."

I notice his long fingers, perfect for shooting over a ball—or playing an instrument, maybe.

“Thanks.” My voice comes out softer than intended. "My husband and I own it. His dad retired a few years back and passed it down to us.”

"Husband," he repeats, a slight smile playing at his lips.

Liza materializes beside me, practically vibrating with energy. "And I'm Liza, the single one." She reaches across the bar, grasping his hand. "Where have you been all my life?"

Caine laughs—a warm sound that fills the quiet bar. "Originally from around here," he tells us. "Relocated to Portland for a development project quite a few years back."

"Developer, huh?" Liza leans forward. "What kind of development?"

"Mixed-use properties." He turns his attention back to me. "This building has wonderful bones. Historic textile factory, isn't it?"

I nod, surprised by his knowledge. "How did you know?"

"The architectural details." He gestures toward the exposed beams. "I notice these things."

Liza jumps in with more questions, and Caine answers each one with unhurried charm. They chat about Portland, his move, and how he discovered our little pool hall a long time ago. He's a little evasive, but playful with Liza, yet his eyes keep finding their way back to me.

When he finally prepares to leave, he pulls out his wallet and leaves a generous tip.

"Will we see you again?" Liza asks boldly.

Caine's gaze shifts to me, lingering long enough that I feel warmth creep into my cheeks.

"Most definitely." He speaks directly to me, though the question came from Liza. "I've found something worth coming back for."

Damn.

After he leaves, I stand frozen, feeling the ghost of his gaze like a physical touch.

"Well," Liza whispers, fanning herself dramatically. "That man is trouble with a capital T."

I nod silently, knowing she's right—and knowing, somehow, that Caine Hall is about to become a regular fixture in my life.