Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
My hands tremble slightly as I screw my two-piece cue together. Greg's massive frame appears beside me, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Reeves’s watchdog, right on cue.
"I'll be at the bar if you need anything," Greg mutters, eyeing Caine with obvious suspicion.
Caine looks up, his green eyes catching mine. That slow, deliberate smile spreads across his face, transforming his features from intense to irresistible. The room seems to shrink around us, the distance between our bodies suddenly charged with electricity.
His long fingers pause on the pool cue, and I notice the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders when he bends down.
My throat goes dry. I've seen that smile before—the one he reserves for moments when we're alone—but here, under the dim lights of the pool hall, it feels like a dangerous promise.
"You made it," he says, his voice smooth as honey. He steps forward. "Let me take your jacket."
His fingers brush my shoulder as he helps me out of my leather jacket, and I swear electricity shoots up my spine. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This guy might look like sin in denim, but I need to remember he's strange and possibly dangerous. I don't trust him. I won't trust him.
He shoots me a wicked grin. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to our first official playdate."
I stare down at my feet, not able to engage for some reason. I just got here, and he's already making me blush.
He racks the balls. “You want to play with me, don't you?" he asks, but this time, all traces of humor are gone. His eyes are dark and teasing, and my knees are wobbling a little.
"Eight ball?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Ladies first." He gestures to the table.
I lean over for my break shot, and the balls scatter with a satisfying crack.
"Not bad," he says, "but you're choking the cue too much." He moves closer. "Relax your grip. And your bridge hand needs to be steadier."
I shoot, missing an easy shot.
"You're poking at it," he says. "Try to stroke through the ball smoothly."
"That's what he said," I quip before I can stop myself.
Caine's laugh is warm and genuine. "Fair enough."
As we play, I find myself relaxing, actually having fun. When was the last time I did anything just for enjoyment? Between Liam, keeping the house and business afloat, fun became a luxury I can't afford.
"So what's your story?" I ask, lining up a shot, an attempt at casual conversation. “Millionaire businessman by day, pool shark by night?"
"Something like that." He leans against the table. "My father first taught me to play when I was only three. Started sneaking out to halls like this one when I was about twelve or so ."
"And now you own half the city?"
"Just the good parts." His smile is teasing. "What about you? Always been a pool hall girl?"
"Hardly. I was majoring in health sciences with a minor in art studies when I met Reeves. I wanted to be an art therapist. Then life happened."
"Tell me about it," he says as he leans down at the table. I watch him intently, not a clue where to start.
"Well… when I was a kid, I had a neighbor who was an art therapist. She worked with special needs kids mostly. Anyways, she worked with me when I was going through a hard time… she really helped me, and gave me an appreciation for art… anyway, that’s what I was working on, but then I got accidentally pregnant. "
He's running the table, then he scratches the cue ball — on purpose. It's so obvious, but I don't say a word.
"I guess that kind of put a damper on your plans," he says as he takes a seat and lets me play. We both know that if he weren't giving me chances — many chances, he'd be the only one playing. And we also both know that this isn't really about playing pool.
I honestly don't know what this is all about, to be honest, and that's what makes the whole thing so fucking weird.
"Yeah, I had to quit school," I go on. "But don't get me wrong. I love my boy to death, and I wouldn't change a thing."
He smiles. "Tell me about him… what's his name again?”
Surprisingly, I'm running the balls with ease. "His name is Liam," I start. "He's four. And he's the sweetest boy you'll ever meet. He looks just like his dad — big brown eyes and dark hair. He's smart as a whip, too, despite…" My words trail off.
"Despite what?" Caine asks, clearly invested.
I pocket the eight ball and get a huge shot of dopamine. I love that feeling.
"I beat you!"
He laughs. "You certainly did."
I do an awkward little dance, and instantly regret it. "I beat a pro," I sing.
He smiles. "Despite what though… You were saying…"
Oh that. For some reason, I'm always telling people about Liam's hearing impairment. I don't know why. It's not like it defines him, but I feel like it's a big part of our lives.
"Liam was born with partial deafness," I explain. “Which has affected his speech a little, but thanks to cochlear implants, speech therapy and his fantastic school, he's doing amazing."
Caine's grin stretches across his face, and it seems so genuine, as if he truly cares for this boy he's never met. I instantly like him a little more… despite myself. Yes, he’s a bit weird, but he can also be very likable. Sure, there's the cockiness thing too, but…
Or is he just being charming and playing me? I shake my head.
"So what do you do when you're not running an empire or shooting pool?" I ask a little nervously, another attempt to make conversation and make this whole situation a little less uncomfortable. Then I immediately realize the man probably doesn't have time for hobbies. What a stupid question.
He smiles as he shoots. "I love playing guitar and photography," he tells me. "I unfortunately don't have much time for it."
"Oh… wow," I say, quietly surprised. I hadn't pegged him as the creative type. And since I like to paint, there's one thing we have in common… that and pool. I’d definitely wager that we have nothing else in common. “What do you take pictures of?"
"Landscapes… typically from photos of my past travels," he says quietly as he clears the table and 'misses’ the eight ball. He shoots me a devilish smile.
"And nudes," he adds playfully as he walks past me, his arm brushing lightly against mine and sending a shiver right up my spine.
God help me.
I'm a little shaky when I get to the table, but miraculously pocket a hard shot.
"Good shot," he says. "So… would you ever consider modelling for me?"
The cue practically flies out of my hand as I miscue, shocked into mortifying clumsiness. "Fuck," I whisper.
"Uh… I'll take that as a no," he teases. "Maybe some day… I'd pay handsomely for your services."
I shake my head. "I bet you would."
He laughs.
"I like to paint," I tell him as I take a seat.
He perks up. "Really? What do you paint?"
"Well, not nudes… I'll tell you that. Usually flowers, and whimsical animals… really girly stuff. I find it relaxing."
He's completely stopped playing, just standing by the table listening intently as if I'm the most interesting person in the world.
"But I haven't painted in forever… between this place and my son, I don't have the time either. And I really can't afford the supplies, to be honest."
He bends to shoot again. "Well, if you'd pose for me, I could resolve that issue."
My mouth hangs open. How dare he? Every time he says something suggestive, he doesn't look at me at all, doesn't study my reaction. He just puts it out there.
"I think I'll pass, but thank you for the offer. I'm flattered."
He sinks the eight ball. "Well, it's too bad you don't have time to do what you love."
I watch him as I finish racking the ball for another game. There is a sweetness about him… it can't be denied. What is the man doing to me? For the love of God, Jenna… keep it together.
Like Reeves says… he wants to fuck me… maybe… I'm not sure.
But there's more to it.
I know there is. There's something else going on.
Does he have a beef with Reeves? He gives me that vibe.
And if I'm completely honest with myself, in another world, one where I'm not married, I'd love to climb that tall sexy tree. I can deny this attraction as much as I want, but last night's dream is all the evidence I need to face the brutal, inappropriate truth.
I break, and the six ball goes right in. I love that sound — the clank of a ball dropping on the break. I study the table for a beat, then lean down to pocket the three ball.
Oh yes… the dream… We made love in a tree house, of all places. A tree house, for heaven's sake. I have no fucking clue what possessed my subconscious to choose such a whimsical, precarious spot, but there we were, wrapped up in each other amidst the rustling leaves.
I remember the feel of his skin, warm and smooth against mine, and the prickle of his stubbled jawline grazing my cheek. It was an intoxicating mix of rugged and tender, a sensory overload that left me so turned on, I could barely breathe.
The scent of pine mingled with the smell of him, filling my lungs. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word echoed in the hollow of that tree. It felt so deliciously forbidden, and I couldn't have cared less. That's the beauty of dreams — there are no consequences in dreams.
I woke up breathless and feeling guilty as hell. But still, I haven't been able to stop thinking about that dream.
I attempt to draw back the cue ball, but I go too low and bounce the ball, resulting in a foul. I'm a little embarrassed and instantly blush.
Caine moves behind me to demonstrate the proper shot, his chest nearly touching my back.
"Like this," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
"You want to go low on the ball, but you don't want to elevate the cue too much. You want to keep it level. The trick is follow-through… and loosen your grip a little.”
The feel of him right behind me is driving me crazy.
I want him to stay there forever. I want every single person in this hall to disappear.
God, I want him to take me right here on the table, bent over the green felt, his hands gripping my hips.
The thought alone makes my breath catch and my cheeks burn hotter.
I'm a slut... that's all there is to it. I've never wanted anyone with this kind of desperate intensity before—not even Reeves in our early days. I can't be trusted with this man. Not when his warm breath on my neck makes my knees weak and my thoughts scatter like billiard balls across the table.
"Another beer, Caine?" Greg's voice booms from beside us, his large, imposing presence suddenly above us.
Caine straightens, unfazed by Greg's intimidation attempt. "I'm good, thanks."
I straighten up too, anger flashing through me. Seriously? I'm being chaperoned like a teenager? Does Reeves trust me so little?
The worst part is— he really shouldn't. Because when Caine looks at me with those beautiful, intense eyes of his, I feel something I haven't felt in years. Something dangerous and intoxicating.
This man is like a drug. And I've always been told to stay away from drugs.
Greg is still standing there. He looks up at the clock — we have four of them scattered throughout the hall. "I believe your time is up, Sir."
Caine looks up and blows out a long, slow breath. "It does appear so.” He sighs. "Well, it's been fun, Jenna." His smile is playful, and so damn sexy. "I can't wait until next time."
I can't either. But there's no fucking way I'm saying it out loud, in front of Greg. Instead, I say nothing at all, like a complete socially inept idiot, and an awkward silence follows.
"Well… I should get going," he finally says. "Same time on Thursday?"
I shoot him a tight smile. "Sure… I'll be here."
Greg is still standing there, and he cocks his head in the direction of the bar, and I take that to mean, 'get back to work. ’ Who does he think he is? I'm the one who owns this bar. But not wanting to ruffle any feathers since I know he will directly report back to Reeves, I reluctantly oblige.
I watch Caine from the corner of my eye as he gathers his things, longing to play some more. His movements are deliberate and smooth, like everything he does. Part of me wants to ask him to stay, just a little longer, but I know I can't.
He shoots me a sweet smile and a wave before he turns and heads out. I watch him every step of the way until he disappears, his tall figure moving with that confident grace that makes my heart skip.
The door closes behind him, and I'm left with the lingering scent of his tangy deodorant and the hollow feeling that always comes when he leaves.