Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I dig through my closet, pushing aside hangers filled with old dresses and faded t-shirts.
The light from the bedroom window catches dust dancing in the air as I search for something—anything—that might work for tomorrow.
My fingers brush past the soft cotton of Reeves’s old rock band shirts that I've claimed as my own, the ones I usually tie up at the waist when I'm working at the pool hall.
Nothing seems right. I need something that says ‘I’ve got my life together’ even when everything feels like it's falling apart. I pause for a moment as I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Maybe I'm overthinking this, like I overthink everything these days.
"Mommy, look!" Liam giggles behind me, his voice bright with delight.
I turn to find him wobbling in my black pumps, the two-inch heels making him teeter like a baby giraffe taking its first steps.
He's got his arms out for balance, his little face scrunched in concentration, his dark hair falling across his forehead. Those big brown eyes of his—so much like Reeves’s—are wide with determination as he tries to master this new challenge.
The sight of my four-year-old son in my dress shoes is adorable.
Even with his hearing challenges, Liam approaches everything with such fearless curiosity. My heart swells watching him, this little person who somehow makes all the stress of our lives momentarily fade away.
"Very stylish," I laugh, though I can already picture Reeves’s frown if he walked in right now. The way his jaw would tighten, that look that says he's worried about Liam being "too soft." As if a four-year-old trying on his mom's shoes means anything at all.
I turn back to my limited options, sighing at the sparse selection that seems to mock my indecision.
There's the dark brown silk skirt I wore to my sister Julie's wedding four years ago—way too formal, not to mention a painful reminder of how she managed to look flawless while seven months pregnant with those perfect twins of hers.
And then there's the denim mini that's frayed at the edges from too many washes, practically begging to be retired.
I pull it out anyway, holding it against my hips in front of the mirror, wincing at the reflection.
God, no. It would hug every curve I've been trying to hide since Liam was born, and my stomach would definitely peek over the waistband—that little pooch that never quite disappeared, no matter how many crunches I halfheartedly attempt between bartending shifts.
The last thing I need is to be tugging at my hemline while trying to look composed.
My fingers land on something corduroy. I pull out the army green skirt I'd forgotten about, knee-length with just enough flare to be flattering.
Perfect for winter, casual enough that I won't look like I'm trying too hard.
It's one of those pieces that somehow makes it through every closet purge, always spared at the last minute because it's so reliable.
The fabric is soft from countless wears, but still holds its shape in all the right places.
I run my thumb over the textured ridges, remembering how Reeves once said it made my legs look amazing.
Maybe with my cream-colored sweater and those ankle boots Julie gave me last Christmas—the ones I pretended to love just to keep the peace—I could actually pull this off without feeling like I'm constantly sucking in my stomach.
I lay it on the bed alongside my black boots and a black tank top. The loose cream knit sweater will soften the look—casual but put together. Like I just threw this on without thinking, when really I've spent an hour agonizing over it.
I slip the outfit on and stand before the mirror.
The skirt hugs my hips just right before falling in a gentle A-line.
My mind wanders to dangerous territory—Caine's long fingers sliding beneath the hem, tracing up my thigh, his touch slow and deliberate...
I shiver despite the warmth of the room. God, I need to stop this.
I smooth the fabric down, trying to focus on how it looks rather than these forbidden thoughts that keep creeping in when I least expect them. The dark fabric makes my legs look longer, slimmer. I turn sideways, checking my profile.
Not bad for someone who's had a kid and subsists mainly on leftover chicken nuggets and whatever I can grab during my shifts. I bite my lip, wondering what he'll think when he sees me in this—then immediately scold myself for caring. It shouldn't matter. It can't matter. But somehow, it still does.
"Mommy! I boke it!" Liam's distressed voice snaps me back to reality.
I turn to see him holding one of my black flats, a leather flower dangling from his fingers. His bottom lip trembles, eyes wide with fear. He hunches his shoulders slightly—the way he does when he's bracing for Reeves’s shouting.
"Oh, baby.” I kneel, taking the shoe and the decoration. "It's okay. We can fix this."
His little body relaxes as I pull him into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around my neck. I breathe in his familiar scent—a mix of apple shampoo and that indescribable sweetness that only children have.
Against my chest, I can feel his racing heart gradually slow down. This is our ritual; whenever he's upset, we hold each other until the world rights itself again. It reminds me of how my father used to comfort me when I was small, before the accident took him away.
"Not mad?" he whispers against my hair.
"Never at you," I promise, holding him closer, wishing I could protect him from all the raised voices and broken windows in the world.
The moment I step into the pool hall, our eyes lock, and it's as if the air has been sucked out of the room.
There's an intensity to the way Caine looks at me, like he's trying to strip away my layers with his gaze alone.
I can feel the weight of his stare as I make my way toward him, my heart pounding a wild rhythm in my chest.
I nervously tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, a silly habit I've never been able to shake. The familiar sounds of clacking pool balls and classic rock playing from the sound system fade into background noise.
All I can focus on is him—the way his eyes follow my every move, how his full lips part slightly as I approach.
It's terrifying how easily he commands my attention, how my body responds to his presence without my permission.
I shouldn't feel this way about anyone but Reeves, yet here I am, practically breathless under Caine's slow, deliberate stare.
As he inches closer and walks towards our usual table, I remain motionless. He quietly removes the RESERVED placard Liza has set on the pool table. No words are exchanged, no smiles.
My gaze skitters across the hall, noticing that Greg isn't here yet.
He must be running late, and I'm thrilled at the prospect of playing with Caine without Greg's constant watchful eye hovering over us.
There's no one here but us and Liza, and two old guys I've never seen before playing at the other end of the hall.
Liza doesn’t waste any time leaving. She grins at me on her way out. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she teases.
“Well, that still leaves me a lot of options,” I joke as she makes her way out.
Caine is smiling widely, entertained by our antics.
“Don’t mind her,” I tell him. “She’s a ham.”
He shoots me a wink as he pulls his cue out of his bag, and my treacherous heart skips a beat.
As I retrieve my own cue from my bag, I study his.
Both his break cue and his playing cue are top-of-the-line, high-end cues worth a fortune — of course, I wouldn't expect anything less.
I'd love to try them out, but I'm too shy to ask.
I'm breathless as we take our positions to lag at the pool table, the clack of the balls our only soundtrack. He so obviously lets me win the lag, and I get to break first.
Each shot is a dance, a careful choreography of movement and intention. He's close enough that I can smell the tangy scent of him, feel the heat radiating off his body.
When he leans in to guide my stance, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, I can't suppress the shiver that runs through my spine. The warmth of his fingers leaves an invisible imprint on my skin that I know will linger long after he's gone.
I try to focus on the cue ball, on the angles and geometry that Reeves has taught me over the years, but Caine's presence overwhelms my brain, rendering it useless.
His breath tickles my ear as he murmurs instructions, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my entire body.
I grip the cue tighter, knuckles whitening, desperate to ground myself in something familiar while everything inside me threatens to unravel.
I should step away, put some distance between us. But I don't. Instead, I lean into his touch, my body acting on its own accord. His fingers trace the curve of my waist before slowly drifting lower, down the length of my skirt.
I need to stop him, but I don’t want to.
His hand finally reaches the hem of my skirt. I close my eyes, knowing what’s coming next. The sensation of his warm hand against my bare skin warms my core. I can't remember the last time I've felt this way — it's too delicious to push away.
I catch my breath, trying to remember that we're in a public place, that Greg could walk into the pool hall at any moment, that I have a husband, a son, a life that doesn't include Caine's intoxicating touch.
But rational thought dissolves like sugar in hot coffee as his fingertips graze the sensitive skin of my thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
My guilt feels distant now, pushed to the periphery by something more immediate, more demanding.
Something that makes me forget, just for this stolen moment, about all the reasons I shouldn't be here with him.
“S-stop," I finally manage to breathe out, even as my hips arch slightly toward his touch.
His voice is a low rumble in my ear. "Do you really want me to stop?" His hand inches slightly higher, and I'm paralyzed by the conflicting desires warring within me. The warmth of his fingertips against my skin warms my core, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.
His touch is such a rush.
I should say the word 'no.' I should pull away and put an end to this madness. But the word sticks in my throat, swallowed by the haze of arousal clouding my judgment. The familiar scent of his deodorant fills my senses, making me dizzy with want despite everything I stand to lose.
Finally, with a strength I didn't know I had, I find the will to whisper, "No," and gently extract his hand from beneath my skirt. My fingers tremble as they wrap around his wrist, my body betraying how much I want to do the opposite.
The cool air of the pool hall rushes between us as I create distance, a stark reminder of the real world waiting just beyond this moment of weakness.
The moment is broken, and we stand there for a long beat, neither of us speaking. The sexual tension that's been building between us is palpable, a living thing lurking in the shadows. Every breath feels weighted with possibilities and consequences.
"What are we doing?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My fingers still tingle where they touched his skin, and I curl them into my palm, trying to extinguish the sensation.
He runs a hand through his hair, a sign of frustration or uncertainty—I can't tell which. The light catches on his silver chain, the diamond cross momentarily glinting against his throat. "I don't know, Jenna," he admits, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"This wasn't my intention. This was supposed to be—different." His words come out slow and measured, that smooth voice of his somehow making even his confusion sound deliberate, controlled—everything I'm not feeling right now.
“Am I just a pawn in your game?" I ask, feeling a twinge of anger at being used.
He nods, the truth of it hanging heavy in the air between us. "Yes—"
I shove him against the table. How dare he use me like that. "Asshole".
He grabs my wrist softly and somehow manages to keep a hold of me. "At first, yes… I just wanted to get into your husband's head."
I'm shaking now—I'm so furious. "You play these kinds of power games a lot? You get off on this shit?!"
He grabs my hand in both of his and holds it tightly. "But then I got to know you. You're not like anyone else, Jenna. You're sweet, unpretentious, so full of life. And you're beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with your big blue eyes and your gorgeous red hair."
I'm taken aback by his words, and I can't deny the thrill that runs through me. Something warm unfurls in my chest despite my better judgment. The way he looks at me—like he can see past all my defences—makes my breath catch.
I pull my hand from his and twist my wedding ring nervously around my finger, the small band a physical reminder of everything I'm risking.