Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I swallow hard and approach him. "Nice to see you again," I say, a little breathless. "Would you like a table?"
A soft grin stretches across his face. "That would be great."
I lead him to an empty table near the bar where we send the hooligans — the young kids we need to keep an eye on. All the better to keep a closer eye on him — I'm shameless.
I try not to be too obvious as I watch him set up his game. Liza is not so subtle.
"Stop staring," I scold her quietly.
She grins mischievously and turns her attention back to her customers.
Reeves notices Caine eventually. He frowns slightly as he watches him sink shot after shot with effortless precision.
"Who’s that?" Reeves asks, curious.
"His name's Caine," I say casually. "I’ve seen him here before."
Reeves narrows his eyes. "He looks familiar."
As we go about our work and the usual routine, I try not to stare. Honestly, I don’t want Reeves to catch me ogling this man. Actually, Reeves is the one ogling—he keeps watching him intently, and I figure it’s him appreciating Caine’s game — the guy can shoot.
Then, like a stroke of lightning, it finally clicks for Reeves. He leans in close and whispers urgently, "Do you know who that is?"
"No," I admit, curious as a cat. "Am I supposed to?"
"That's Caine Hall. He’s one of the best pro players in the world," Reeves says with awe in his voice. "He’s won the US Open twice."
I blink in surprise. "Really? He looks more like a business guy—a lawyer or something."
Reeves gives me a weird look but then nods thoughtfully. "Well, he actually is a business guy," he reveals. "He owns this building."
My jaw drops. "He’s our landlord?"
Reeves wastes no time walking over to introduce himself and invites him to play a game of eight-ball. They set up quickly and lag for the break. Reeves has always been an excellent lagger. His speed control is spot-on. I'm not surprised when his ball hugs the rail, and he wins the break.
Liza and I watch them intensely. Liza manages to serve a guy while simultaneously not taking her eyes off the game; it's a skill she's developed so she can watch hot guys shooting while she remains efficient. It's quite impressive, actually.
Reeves pockets two balls on the break, one solid and one stripe.
He has options, and he studies the table intently while Caine sits comfortably, completely unbothered.
When he turns his gaze to the bar, my heart jumps, and I instantly turn my head away.
Real smooth. I'm sad, really. There's no other way to describe me.
I venture another look quickly — I just can't help myself. I'm hopeless, almost as bad as Liza.
"Reeves is gonna kick his gorgeous ass," Liza whispers, unaware of who Caine is.
I'm not a great player, just average. I can pocket balls, but I can't control the cue ball to save my life. I also can't break a rack properly. But… I can read a table, and this table is all set for a run if Reeves picks the stripes.
And he does. Of course he does. I'm excited about the possibility of him winning. And with each ball he pockets, the excitement builds. A young group of kids rudely interrupt when they ask for a table. I manage to do my job while still keeping an eye on the game.
Reeves has pocketed six balls. Only one more to go, then he's on the eight ball. I watch him as he bends down to take his shot.
Caine's demeanor has changed a little — he seems impressed.
But then… Reeves chokes. He pots the ball, but leaves his cue ball tucked against one of the solids, and totally hooks himself. He throws his head down — the disappointment is palpable, and I ache for him.
He sends the cue ball to the rail and back, hitting the eight ball successfully, and avoids a foul, but he's left a wide-open table for Caine.
Caine does his thing. Caine's intensity is insane; watching him play for real is unexpectedly thrilling. Every shot is calculated with precision. He clears the table and wins. As expected.
"Fuck, that was hot," Liza whispers. "I wonder if he's single, because I'd let him do anything to me… and I mean anything."
I shake my head.
Caine and Reeves shake hands. I can tell Reeves is secretly pissed, but is holding his emotions in check. As he should. I mean, the guy is our landlord.
Afterward, Caine slowly makes his way to the bar, leaning casually against the counter.
Just the sight of him sitting at the bar makes me uncomfortable. My heart is beating a mile a minute, and I don’t understand why I’m reacting this way.
"So," he begins, eyes locking onto mine. "How long have you been working here?" His words are obvious, yet they don't come off as a come-on somehow. Not sure how he does that.
"Well…" I say, a little breathless, doing the math in my head.
I realized I wasn't cut out for college when I was twenty-one and got knocked up. I quit the program, and Reeves being who he is, helped me get my bartender's license and gave me a job at the hall.
“About four years. I think I mentioned before… my husband owns the place. Well, he and I own it, I guess.”
Caine stands a little taller. “Yes… I remember… your husband owns the place."
I smile. Look who's acting awkward now. "Yeah… I just said that."
He laughs. "I'm sorry… "
The man is officially at a loss for words.
"You're a pretty good shooter," Liza pipes in. "That was hot."
I shake my head yet again.
"Actually, you just met my husband," I point out. "You just kicked his ass."
"Yes… I know."
A long beat follows. We're both at a loss for words.
"What's your poison?" Liza asks him.
He smiles. "I'll have a gin and tonic."
"Coming right up," she says. It's a good thing she's around, because I'm useless as a bartender right now.
I fumble for words under his gaze, but manage to ask about his career as both a pro player and our landlord.
His smile is slow and knowing as he answers each question smoothly. Apparently, he's been shooting pool since he was just three, standing on a rolling stool.
"So you had your own pool table at home?" I ask, desperately trying to learn more about him.
Yes, we had a designated pool room on the lower level," he explains, and I immediately gather that he was a rich kid. Must be nice.
And then he tells me how he's helped grow his father's development and property ownership business. Yes, definitely rich.
"What about you?" he asks, seemingly tired of talking about himself. “tell me about yourself.”
I get distracted by the yellow glint in his green eyes. God, the man is gorgeous. "Well, I grew up poor-ish. I mean, we didn't starve, but I definitely didn't have my own pool table at home. I don't think we could have fit it in our little apartment,” I joke.
"So you don't play?" he asks.
"Oh… I play," I tell him. "I actually love the game.
I've been playing for as long as I've worked here, but I'm just not that good at it.
And lately, between taking care of my kid and working here, I don't have time to play.
" My words drift off as I think about Reeves, and how he still finds the time to play. Why is that?
“So… you have a kid," he says. "I love kids."
I smile. "Yes, Liam is four."
He grins." My nieces are eight and six. I love 'em to death. And I spoil them rotten. "
I laugh. "I bet you do."
Reeves joins us just then; his expression darkens slightly, seeing how close we’re standing.
"Thanks again for the game," Reeves says. "Everything cool with your drink?"
Caine ventures a first sip, and gently sets his glass back on the bar. "Excellent."
If someone were to ask me to use one single word to describe him, I would choose the word 'gentle'. From the way he talks softly, to the way he glides when he walks, the way he shoots, and just his whole aura — yes, he very much strikes me as a firm but gentle man.
"You're a good shooter," he tells Reeves. "And nice place you've got here."
"Family owned for thirty years," Reeves tells him proudly. “But I think you knew that already.”
Caine nods, and takes another sip of his drink. He studies the glass shelves behind me as he ponders his next words. Reeves is surprisingly quiet.
Caine studies me for a long beat, and I wonder what I’ve done or said.
“I’d like to see you at work next Tuesday at one o’clock,” he finally says, his words measured and quiet.
My eyes grow wide. I'm shocked speechless.
Reeves visibly stiffens beside me. “What?!"
"There's no reason your lovely wife should stop playing pool. I know life can sometimes get in the way, but the woman clearly needs a break."
My jaw practically drops to the floor. What in the hell is he going on about?
Liza, who's been eavesdropping this whole time, shoots me a wide-eyed look, as if to say, 'What the fuck is happening?'
"I'm sorry, but what are you saying exactly?" Reeves asks, as confused as I am.
Caine smiles softly. "I would like to reserve an hour to play with her.”
"Holy shit!" Liza whispers, but we all hear it.
"Because you believe she should be playing pool, and not working?"
"Exactly," Caine says. "I can tell you've had a lot of practice," he goes on. "But what about her?"
Reeves shakes his head in disbelief. "And if she’s not available?”
Caine shrugs lightly but keeps his eyes on me. “That’s fine,” he replies softly but firmly before adding pointedly towards Reeves: “I'd like Jenna present, and if she is, I'd be willing to overlook this month's rent. I'll take care of it on my end.”
We’re all shocked into silence, and the world around us seems to pause. The bar noise and chatter fade, and my heart pounds.
He mentions our late rent payment—the words hanging heavy between us—and suggests discussing it further over another game soon.
He drowns his drink, grabs his expensive-looking leather cue bag, and bids us farewell.
Both Reeves and I are left stunned as Caine walks away gracefully into the night crowd without another word—leaving behind only questions and simmering tension that neither of us knows how to resolve just yet...
Both Liza and I stand speechless.