Chapter 17 #2
“Do I want to know how the priest fits into the story?” I lean against the bar, resisting the urge to look at the man bending over the pool table wearing jeans that hug his legs in a way that should be illegal. “Wait, don’t tell me. He’s the submissive?”
“I won’t spoil it. But let’s say he spends a lot of time wrestling with his… inner conflict.”
“Inner conflict is such a tasteful way to say horny guilt.” Ivy retorts.
And I’m so caught off guard by her joke, a rogue snort erupts—loud, feral, and utterly undignified.
The kind that sends your drink flying and rings throughout the room.
The kind that causes every head to turn and gape at you.
“I’ve never heard that noise come out of you before, Syd.” Jules raises her glass. “But I like it.”
My face burns tomato red, and because I’m not sufficiently embarrassed, I glance at the pool table. Mason looks horrified. Tom grins. James just stares, eyes wide as he lifts his beer and swallows hard.
But damn him and his utterly lovely words: Now I know my goal for the week. To make you laugh like that again. My anger flares, and I look away.
“Are you serious about reading a book like that?” Ivy’s voice drops, her cheeks flushing. Her earlier bravado evaporates. “I mean, I guess I thought you were joking about it. Doesn’t it make you feel… I don’t know... like you’re doing something you shouldn’t?”
“My dear.” Jules sets down her glass with deliberate care. “I’m ordering you this series right now. There’s nothing wrong with reading erotica. Or sometimes, grabbing your vibrator after a particularly good scene.” Jules’s cackle carries across the room. “And Tom certainly doesn’t mind.”
“What’s happening over there, ladies?” Tom calls. “I’m just over here watching James give us a thorough smackdown.”
Mason’s voice carries. “Come on, James, at least give us a fighting chance.”
“I am. I’m using my non-dominant hand.” The crack of the cue ball echoes.
“Brutal, man,” Tom laughs.
“That’s what happens when you get soft, Mason,” James adds, chalking his cue. “Too much time behind a desk, not enough life.”
“Some of us have real jobs.”
“Real jobs?” James straightens, eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t aware architecture was fake.”
I catch myself before I smile. I always appreciate his ability to put Mason in his place. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me affected. I won’t let him see me watching.
But Jules has no such limits. “Oh good, nothing says ‘family bonding’ like a dick-measuring contest over a pool table. Should we get popcorn for this testosterone parade?”
“I don’t know what has gotten into them,” Ivy laughs, soft and delicate. She smooths the ivory silk blouse, tucked into the waist of her tailored slacks, pausing as her ring catches in the light. A tightness sets at the corners of her lips.
“Good question. Any thoughts, Syd?” Jules asks innocently.
I glare before pivoting. “Ivy, did you bring your camera? I was hoping you might take some pictures of Anna?”
“No, I don’t do that anymore.”
The shift is jarring. Ivy’s voice turns clipped as she looks off toward the moon-filled night. The woman who was giggling about erotica has vanished completely, as if she looked down at a script and remembered that laughter and photography no longer fit this version of herself.
“So, Ives,” Jules says, swirling her wine, “what’s the engagement story? We haven’t gotten the full romance yet.”
Ivy stretches her hand out under the lights, and I take a long sip of wine, the acid burning all the way down. My skin itches. I need to move. To do something. To remind myself I’m not some delicate thing wilting on the sidelines.
Because I don’t have to listen to this story.
I drain the rest of my glass, set it down with a neat little clink, and stride toward the pool table. I know what I’m about to do, but can’t stop myself.
“All right, boys,” I say, flashing a grin. “I’ve got the winner.”
Mason raises a brow, Tom chuckles. And James... He leans against the wall, confident and relaxed, beer in hand, arms folded, one ankle crossed lazily over the other. His head tilts, taking me in.
“Worried about getting your asses handed to you by a girl?” I flutter my eyelashes.
“We wouldn’t dream of underestimating you, Sydney.” James lifts an eyebrow, that maddening smirk tugging at his mouth.
A wave of heat crashes through me. My name in that voice, wrapped in low rumble and pure challenge, slides under my skin. I bite my lower lip, trying to suppress the way my body responds.
“James wiped the floor with us. Are you sure you want to take him on?” Mason asks, his tone tinged with curiosity.
“Don’t worry, babe. I can handle him.”
Taking my place at the table, I feel their eyes on me.
Assessing. Appraising. None of them knows the kinds of bars I used to haunt on weekends away from boarding school.
Escaping the brats I was forced to smile at all week, I found solace in dimly lit dive bars across Europe.
My first glimpse of freedom, making that choice and leaving the curated life of boarding school for one with real people.
It led to the nights in college and the beginning of law school, where I found another kind of comfort in those same bars.
The sharp crack of the break echoes with a clean, satisfying sound. I sink the first ball with a no-nonsense shot, and surprise moves through the group. I examine the options, lazily move around the table, casual but deliberate, closing the distance with James.
I tell myself it’s strategy, but I know better.
With my eyes on the felt, I ask in a tone low enough only he can hear: “The real question is...can you handle me?”
He keeps chalking his cue, rhythmic circling, never stopping or faltering. I wouldn’t even know he heard me, until his voice like gravel says, “I would fucking love to try.”
The roughness in his voice sends electricity straight down my spine, and I have to grip the felt to keep steady.
He moves to the other side of the table, studying his options.
Studying me. His gaze holds mine for the first time all day, unflinching when I stare back.
I stand, cue in hand, feet planted. Not shrinking under the intensity.
I know how damn good I look tonight. With his back to the others, his eyes never leave me, even when he bends to take his next shot. One he badly misses.
A speaker on the bar flares to life and I look away, surveying the room. Jules casually sips her drink, and when the slow, smooth chords of "Tennessee Whiskey" kick in, her knowing smirk says it all. The song isn't random.
Lining up my next shot, my heart pounds in rhythm with the slow beat of the song.
James doesn’t move. But I still feel his eyes on me—a slow, deliberate drag while the lyrics weave between us.
My eyes shut for a second, letting the words settle.
Lyrics about finding love as salvation. Something that steadies you after a life of heartache.
But I’m still angry, and my game isn’t over.
“Jules,” I call, “turn it up. I’m really into country music these days.”
Glancing up, I smile. A smile that cuts. His gaze goes lethal, knowing exactly what I mean. That stupid fire pit conversation about music and connection, way back when this whole mess began. I turn back to the table, breathing through the searing cocktail of jealousy simmering in my chest.
“Syd, where’d you learn to play like that?” Mason cuts through it all.
They are all watching, tracking our every step. Mason and Ivy observe with sharp awareness while Jules and Tom play amused spectators. I hope they’re only seeing the pool.
“High school” is all he gets and I sink my next shot.
James plays with a quiet intensity, every movement intentional. It suits him. A game of patience. Control.
But neither of us speaks, as though last year's pain has left us unable to bridge into even pretend friendship. The air hums with everything. The words he gave me, the ones I didn’t return, are now wrapped in a proposal to another woman.
But there's no quick victory. Just two people who won't let go, each move stretching out what neither wants to finish—missing shots, sinking scratch after scratch. Anything to keep the closeness alive, even if it’s cloaked in silence.
When we’re down to the last two balls, we stand side by side. Close enough that I feel his heat, and hear the slow rise and fall of his breath. I line up my shot, hands steady, heart not.
“Don’t miss, Sydney.” He draws out my name the way he always does. Testing me. Waiting for a spark of something. A flash of gold in my eyes.
My body responds instantly, but I don’t let it show.
The ball sinks into the pocket with a clean, final sound. And because I can, because I want to—I drop into a slow, mocking curtsey.
A queen, claiming her victory.
I walk away, not bothering to meet his eyes again. Triumph in every step. When I reach my husband, I slide my hand around his waist and press a kiss to his neck. Lingering. Calculated. His fingers skim the back of my thigh, tracing circles under my skirt.
A soft whimper escapes me.
A sharp crack follows.
The room goes still.
James stands rigid, staring at the broken bottle at his feet.
Ivy startles, her ring catching the light as her hand flies to her chest. Her eyes are wide with surprise. If she questions what happened, she doesn’t let it show. “Be careful, babe! Need help cleaning it up?”
Crouching to gather the shards, he mumbles an excuse and disappears up the stairs.
As his footsteps recede, petty satisfaction curls through me.
I smirk, ruthless and unrepentant. Let him carry the same gut-wrenching ache that’s been eating me alive since I walked into the house and saw that ring on her finger.
“Wow, this floor is hard. We should warn Mom and Dad that a bottle slipping out of someone’s hand can break,” Jules laughs, her eyes cutting to mine. “Maybe they can add some area rugs.”
Tom chuckles before saying, “Totally. I think a blue one would look nice.”
I step out of Mason’s reach and sip my drink. His eyes move from me to the spot where the bottle hit the floor. His smile falters, and he rubs a hand along his jaw, analyzing me in a way that feels uncomfortable. I take another sip.
“So, Ivy,” Jules says, yanking the spotlight back. “I don’t think everyone heard the full story. James proposed completely out of the blue this morning, as you were about to drive up here?”
Her glance at me is sharp, warning me not to leave.
“Yeah!” Ivy beams, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
“We’d talked about it, casually. But when I stopped by his condo this morning, he was standing outside with the ring.
He didn’t even say anything. Just handed me the box like…
like it didn’t need words. Like we were already on the same page.
” She laughs, dreamily. “It was totally swoon-worthy.”
Jules tilts her head, lips twitching. “Totally swoon-worthy.”
Ivy doesn’t hear it. She’s already diving into wedding talk, rattling off plans lost in the fantasy.
He proposed this morning? Standing outside his condo with a ring?
My mind spins, trying to reconcile this story with the man I know. The man who remembers my coffee order. Who finds the perfect books. Who holds my baby with complete focus. That man doesn’t do things without thought. Or feeling.
This wasn’t a grand gesture. It was a calculated decision. A shield. A line drawn in the sand by someone trying to prove something or protect himself.
“Good night, everyone. I’m wiped,” I say, already making for the stairs. I pray Mason doesn’t follow; I’ve used up all my acting skills for one night.
Staring at the ceiling, my eyelids finally begin to drift shut. For the first time in weeks, sleep pulls at me. Because somewhere deep down, beneath the chaos and the lies and the pain... I don’t believe this is over.