Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
It's been six weeks, three days, and a handful of hours since I last saw Caine. The acute pain of his absence has dulled to a persistent ache, something I've learned to live with, like a phantom limb.
I've managed to carve out some semblance of normalcy in the day-to-day chaos of my life, but normalcy is a fickle friend—it never fully chases away the shadows of what could have been. Little Oliver has kept me occupied and has filled a little bit of the hole Caine left in my heart.
I'm restocking the shelves below the bar, the scent of cleaning solution mingling with the faint musk of stale beer, when I feel the air shift.
It's a peculiar sensation, like the world has suddenly stilled, all the noise and clatter of my thoughts silenced by a single, heart-stopping presence.
I rise, a case of whiskey in my arms, and there he is—Caine Hall—sitting at the bar as if he's never been away. His posture is the picture of casual elegance, one arm draped over the back of the stool, the other resting on the polished mahogany.
The sight of him steals my breath away. He's like a fever dream come to life, all sharp angles and soft edges, gorgeous as ever in his fitted black shirt.
“I’m sorry… I just couldn't stay away," he says softly, and his voice is a balm to my bruised soul, and instantly rekindles the fire I've been trying so hard to extinguish.
Just like that.
It takes less than a second.
Fuck.
I'm speechless, my mouth dry, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribcage.
He tells me he's missed me, that he can't stop thinking about me. The admission makes my stomach ache with a complicated mixture of longing and guilt.
His green eyes hold mine, unwavering and intense, as if he's trying to memorize every flicker of emotion crossing my face.
I grip the edge of the bar to steady myself, the cool mahogany beneath my fingertips the only thing anchoring me to reality.
"I've tried," he continues after one of his characteristic pauses, his voice a low, honeyed rumble that seems to vibrate through my very bones. "God knows I've tried to forget you, Jenna."
The way he says my name—slow and deliberate, like he's savoring each syllable—sends shivers cascading down my spine.
I watch, transfixed, as his long fingers trace patterns on the bar top, remembering all too vividly how those same fingers had once traced patterns on my skin. How they’d once made me come.
The memory alone is enough to make my breath catch, to make the familiar warmth of desire pool low in my belly despite all my internal protests.
"S-same," I finally whisper, the word barely audible.
His eyes darken with an intensity that makes my knees weak, the green in them deepening to the color of a forest at dusk. The subtle change is mesmerizing, hypnotic even.
He leans forward, closing the distance between us. I can smell that sweet, delicious, familiar scent, so distinctly him. The air between us crackles with unspoken promises, with possibilities I shouldn't even be considering.
My wedding ring feels suddenly heavy on my finger, a weight of responsibility I'm dangerously close to betraying.
I step back, overwhelmed.
I need to lighten things up.
“Um… thank you so much for Oliver, by the way.”
“Oliver?”
“That’s what we named him… the kitten you gifted us,” I explain. “We can’t thank you enough… he’s so sweet and perfect, and Liam loves him so much.”
A huge smile stretches across his face. “I knew he’d be perfect for you.”
“It was so generous of you,” I go on awkwardly. “I know I shouldn’t have taken the money, but honestly, without the money, Reeves would have never let us keep him.”
He cocks a brow, but doesn’t say a word. I know he’s biting his tongue. I get it. It’s messed up. No one knows that more than I do.
Following a long, uncomfortable silence, he finally speaks.
“Speaking of which…” he says, his voice smooth and seductive, each word measured and delivered with deliberate slowness.
The way he speaks—like he has all the time in the world, like each syllable deserves its own moment—is so different from the rushed conversations I have with Reeves these days, both of us always skittering about like headless chickens.
“I have another proposition for you,” he says quietly.
His long fingers drum once, twice against the bar top, a patient rhythm that somehow makes my pulse race faster in contrast. He's waiting for me to ask, to engage, to step willingly into whatever web he's weaving.
The worst part is, despite everything, I want to. God help me, I want to.
“A private photo session,” he explains, his voice caressing each word like velvet.
At his studio—a space I imagine to be sleek and minimalist like everything else about him.
His professional camera, not some amateur smartphone shots.
His piercing eyes capturing every curve, every contour, every vulnerable inch of my body.
The thought sends simultaneous shivers of terror and excitement racing along my spine.
My mind races wildly, tripping over itself with questions I'm afraid to voice aloud.
Would anyone else see these photos? What would he do with them afterward? Would they stay locked away in some private collection, or would I forever wonder if they might surface somewhere?
And beneath these practical concerns lurk deeper, more dangerous thoughts—how would it feel to be the sole focus of his artistic vision? To be truly seen by someone like Caine Hall, someone who looks at the world with such precision and intensity?
"Would I... need to be naked?" I ask, my voice barely more than a breath.
"Yes," he answers without hesitation, his gaze holding mine, daring me to say yes. "That would be expected."
I feel a flush creep up my neck, heat pooling in my belly. The idea is scandalous, thrilling, and I can't deny the surge of arousal that courses through me at the thought of being so utterly exposed for him. I'm also filled with anxiety. No man, other than Reeves, has ever seen me fully naked.
I'm nowhere near perfect. I need to lose a good ten pounds, and my breasts are too small, nothing like the round and perky-breasted women I see in movies.
My stomach is soft from carrying Liam. Faint silver lightning bolt marks stretch across my hips.
My thighs touch when I walk naked, and sometimes I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince at how ordinary I look—not ugly, just... kind of unremarkable.
The reality of my life slams into me like a cold shower. Reeves. Our son. Our life. This is madness.
"Fifty thousand dollars," he says abruptly, and I almost faint. "For one hour of your time."
"That's… insane!"
He smiles. "Not at all… not as far as I'm concerned. You're worth every penny."
"But… I mean… " I really don't know what to say here. What a weird proposal. I wave in my own direction. "This… here is an illusion. Just so you know, I'm wearing a padded underwire bra. It does wonders. These are seriously nothing to write home about."
A sweet grin stretches across his face. "I'm sure you're lovely."
"Well, it's only fair that you are properly informed before you shell out fifty grand. We wouldn't want you to be disappointed with your investment."
He laughs. "Oh, I'm sure I won't be disappointed."
I twist my wedding ring unconsciously, the metal warm against my skin. The modest yellow dollhouse Reeves and I call home seems a universe away from Caine's world of penthouses and private studios.
The weight of our struggling finances presses down on me, making fifty thousand dollars sound like salvation rather than sin. For Liam's therapy. For the pool hall's rent. For breathing room we haven't had in years. It all seems too easy. Way too easy to pass up. What would it really be?
“I’d need to talk to Reeves, of course," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "He's away at the moment."
Caine nods, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Of course. I understand."
There's no way Reeves will ever agree to this. This whole conversation is pointless. The only thing it will ever achieve is messing with my mental health on a royal scale. I was doing so well. I was starting to forget all about Caine. I was moving on with my life. One day at a time.
Until this moment…
“Think about it,” he says.
And then, just like that, he abruptly rises from his stool and is gone, leaving me in a state of shock and longing and arousal so potent it's almost painful. Fifty thousand dollars, he'd said. An amount of money that could simplify our lives so much.
I lean against the bar, my hands trembling uncontrollably, my mind a chaotic tornado of conflicting emotions. The smooth wood beneath my fingertips feels like the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned upside down.
Fifty thousand dollars keeps flashing through my thoughts like a neon sign, bright and impossible to ignore.
The pool hall's familiar sounds—the crack of balls, the low murmur of afternoon patrons, Aerosmith playing softly in the background—fade to white noise as I struggle to process what just happened.
Can I really entertain this idea? This... proposition? The weight of our financial troubles presses down on me. That kind of money would solve everything, at least for now.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, barely recognizing the woman staring back with flushed cheeks and conflicted eyes. I absently twist my wedding ring around my finger, the small gesture a physical reminder of promises made and the life I've built with Reeves and Liam.
I don't have the answers, but as I stand there, the ghost of Caine's gaze lingering on my skin, I have an eerie feeling this isn't over.
Not by a long shot.