Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
His fingers slip beneath the hem of my dress, exploring the contours of my thigh with a familiarity that sends shivers down my spine. I arch into him, my own hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel the warmth of his skin against mine.
"God, I've missed you," he murmurs against my neck, his beard tickling my sensitive skin. The scent of faint whiskey envelops me, so distinctly him, so comforting despite our troubles.
During these precious moments, our worries fade away—all of it dissolves under his touch.
I lose myself in the feeling of his calloused hands, strong from fixing stuff around the house, now gentle as they trace patterns on my skin.
This is the Reeves I fell for in college, passionate and present, before the weight of responsibility bent his shoulders.
"Bedroom," I murmur against his lips, but he shakes his head, a wild, untamed look in his eyes that I haven't seen in years.
"Here," he growls, and I find myself nodding, giving in to the raw, animalistic need that courses through us both.
Our clothes become a tangle of fabric and desperation, neither of us willing to break the spell that has woven itself around us. Reeves’s hands are everywhere, his touch sparking a fire within me. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back as I surrender to him.
We make love there, on the stairs of our home, the moon casting long shadows across the floor. It's reckless and frenzied, a testament to the love that still burns between us despite the secrets and the silence and the unspoken fears that hang heavy in the air.
Afterward, we move upstairs and lie entwined, our breaths slowly returning to normal, the world reduced to the steady rhythm of Reeves’s heartbeat beneath my ear. I close my eyes, allowing myself to exist in this moment, to revel in the feel of my husband's arms around me.
This. It should be enough.
I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror, my fingers hovering over my makeup bag.
My fourth playdate with Caine looms just hours away, and my stomach twists with a mixture of anticipation and guilt.
Behind me, Reeves sits on our bed, his dark eyes tracking my every movement.
I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I deliberate which shade of lipstick might please a cocky millionaire.
My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes—evidence of another sleepless night spent wrestling with my conscience.
The vanilla scent of my perfume seems to mock the coffee-stained reality of my everyday life, this secret double existence I'm cultivating.
I catch Reeves’s reflection watching me, his long wavy hair falling past his shoulders, his expression unreadable beneath that carefully trimmed beard. How did we get here? How did I become this woman preparing to meet another man with my husband's silent permission?
"You're sure this shirt isn't too much?" I ask, smoothing down the simple blue blouse I've paired with my most comfortable jeans.
Nothing fancy, nothing that screams “I’m trying to impress you.
" At least, that's what I tell myself. The soft cotton feels almost apologetic against my skin, as if it knows I'm betraying something.
I've worn this top a hundred times before—to grocery shopping, to Liam's speech therapy appointments, to lazy Sunday brunches with Reeves—but today it feels like a costume, a deliberate choice to appear casual when everything about this situation is anything but.
My fingers fidget with the second button, wondering if it's too high or too low, if the slight v-neck reveals intention or indifference.
"It's fine," Reeves says, his voice tight. "I just hate that I can't be there to make sure that rich prick keeps his hands to himself."
I apply my foundation with careful strokes, trying to keep my hand steady. "Greg will be there the whole time, watching like a hawk. You know how loyal he is."
"Yeah, well, Greg isn't me." Reeves stands and paces the small confines of our bedroom. "I should cancel lunch with Jimmy, and do a quick pop-in.”
"Don't be silly. You've been planning this for weeks." I reach for my mascara, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. "And you're not allowed there. Besides, it's just pool. That's all it is. "
But we both know it's more than that. The electricity when Caine stands close to help with my stance, his breath warm against my neck as he positions my arms just so. The way my skin tingles when our fingers brush across the smooth wood of the cue, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
The heavy silences between shots feel loaded with unspoken words, thick with possibility and danger. Those moments when our eyes meet across the green felt and time seems to stretch like taffy, pulling us toward each other despite everything that should be keeping us apart.
I hesitate, lipstick tube in hand. Reeves is watching me so intently that I almost put it back. But what's a little lipstick? It's just a swipe of color, barely noticeable really—except Reeves notices everything lately.
His dark eyes follow the movement as I uncap the tube, the rich berry shade catching the bedroom light.
My fingers tremble slightly. It's ridiculous to feel guilty over something so trivial, but the weight of his gaze makes my stomach knot.
I tell myself it's just about looking professional at the bar today, nothing more.
But deep down, I know exactly who I'm putting it on for, and it isn't my husband.
I apply it quickly, a flirty red shade that is way too conspicuous.
My red hair is down in loose waves, just as Caine requested. The strands catch the morning light that filters through our small bathroom window. I used to hate this color, wished for something more ordinary when Julie's perfect blonde waves got all the attention.
Now it's part of my identity—my ‘Jenny’ trademark at the bar, the first thing Liam reaches for when I lean down to kiss him goodnight. I tuck a loose strand behind my ear, my fingers still trembling slightly as I recap the lipstick and slide it into my pocket.
"Your hair looks nice down,” Reeves says, coming up behind me. His reflection meets mine in the mirror. “Always makes you stand out in a crowd."
I nod, wondering what Caine will think when he sees it. The guilt surges again, hot and uncomfortable under my skin. It's like a fever that won't break, this constant awareness of my betrayal.
I reach up to touch my hair self-consciously, fingers trembling slightly against the strands that Reeves just complimented. The same hair that Caine might even touch later.
Reeves helps me out of our front door, his large hand gentle on my arm. "I should get going. Jimmy's waiting." He kisses me, a lingering press of lips that feels like a claim. "Be good," he adds with that devilish grin that first made me fall for him years ago.
That smile still does things to me—crinkles the corners of his dark eyes and reminds me of late nights at college parties when he'd look at me from across the room like I was the only person worth seeing.
I reach up and brush my fingers against his beard, feeling the familiar scratch against my skin.
"Tell Jimmy I said Hi," I say, trying to ignore the weight in my chest. Jimmy's been booking bands for the pool hall since before we took over, and he's one of the few connections keeping our weekly live music night afloat.
"Be good, Jenny Bee," he says once again before sliding into his truck.
I force a smile. "Always am."