Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
I struggle with the ribbon, my fingers fumbling as I try to untie the intricate knot.
Caine steps closer, his presence immediately surrounding me, and I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
His long, elegant fingers reach out to assist, brushing lightly against mine.
The contact sends an electric current racing up my arm, making my skin tingle with a sudden, unexpected excitement.
There's a delicious heaviness in my belly that I haven't felt in years, a slow burn that spreads warmth through my entire body. It's intoxicating, this simple touch, and it makes me feel alive in a way I haven't been in so long.
Inside the box is an impressive collection of art supplies - brushes and paints that I immediately recognize as top quality. My mouth falls open in genuine surprise. The brushes are delicate yet sturdy, with fine sable tips that probably cost more than I make in a week at the pool hall.
The paints are arranged by color, their rich pigments promising depth I could only dream of achieving with my bargain store supplies.
I run my fingertips over the wooden handles, feeling the smooth finish that speaks of craftsmanship.
These aren't just supplies—they're tools for creating something beautiful, something I haven't allowed myself to imagine doing in far too long.
"I can't accept this," I say, though I'm already imagining using them. "It's too much."
"You work hard. You deserve something just for you.
" His voice is firm but gentle, that rich timbre that somehow makes everything he says sound like gospel truth.
He leans slightly closer, and I catch a hint of his tangy deodorant.
"Promise me you'll make time to paint. Something that's yours alone, not for the pool hall or Liam or Reeves. Just for Jenna."
The way he says my name makes my stomach flutter.
I haven't had something just for me in so long that the concept feels almost foreign, like a luxury I can't afford—not with bills piling up, a busy schedule, and the pool hall barely staying afloat.
But looking at these brushes, I feel a yearning so deep it almost hurts.
After a brief debate, I relent. "I promise."
"I'll have some canvases delivered next week," he adds.
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to." The intensity in his eyes makes me look away. There's something almost unbearable about the way he looks at me—like he can see straight through to parts of myself I've forgotten existed.
“How can I ever thank you?” I ask. “This is all too much.”
A slow smile spreads across his lips. “Well… there’s one thing.”
I cock a brow, highly intrigued. “What’s that?”
He smiles again. “Well… you always wear your hair up,” he points out. “I’d love to see it down.”
A strange warmth spreads across my cheeks, and I find myself studying the intricate bristles of the paintbrushes instead, running my fingertip along their delicate points. The promise of creating something beautiful with these feels exciting.
He wants to see me with my hair down. I suppose it’s not a huge request. The thought of wearing my hair down to please him excites me more than it should.
I’m breathless when I finally reply, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He smiles and his gaze lingers on mine for a beat too long.
I look up at the clock, feeling extremely ill-at-ease.
It’s that time again.
He leans in slowly and kisses my cheek. It's chaste, but he lingers, his scent wrapping me like a familiar memory. The warmth of his breath tickles my skin, sending tiny shivers down my neck.
I don't even check if Greg is watching from behind the bar. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't care who sees or what they might think. This moment feels separate from everything else, as if we've stepped outside of time completely.
It hits me then - I'm falling for him. Deeper and deeper with each moment we spend together.
And I'm completely helpless to stop it, even knowing he could ruin everything.
Like a moth to a flame, I'm my own worst enemy.
The realization settles in my chest, heavy and undeniable.
I've tried to rationalize these feelings away, pretending they were just physical attraction or fascination with someone so different from my world.
But standing here, with the ghost of his touch still warming my skin, I can't lie to myself anymore.
This feeling has roots now, tangling around my heart with each smile, each conversation, each lingering look.
What started as a playful game has become something that could shatter the life I've built with Reeves and Liam.
Yet I keep coming back, keep letting myself drift closer to the edge. Common sense screams at me to run, but some reckless part of me whispers that I deserve this feeling, this escape, this man.
I enjoy a sip of my mojito, letting the mint and lime wash over my tongue. The restaurant hums with quiet conversation and soft music, just loud enough to feel private without shouting. Reeves sits across from me, the flickering candlelight catching in his dark eyes.
It's rare for us to have a night out like this—just the two of us.
His long hair is pulled back tonight, revealing the strong angles of his face that still make my heart skip after seven years together.
I trace the condensation on my glass with my finger, savoring this moment of peace that feels so precious and fleeting in our chaotic lives.
"Remember when Liam knocked over that entire train display at the hobby shop?" he asks, chuckling. "The owner's face turned so red I thought he'd explode."
"How could I forget?" I smile, picturing our son's innocent face amid the wreckage. "I've never apologized so much in my life."
I should be fully present in this moment. It's our anniversary, after all. Seven years together and four years married. Yet Caine's face keeps flashing in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
When I slipped into this black dress earlier, I caught myself wondering if Caine would like it, imagining his hands sliding the silk from my shoulders.
I'd pushed the thought away immediately, disgusted with myself for letting him invade even this sacred night with Reeves.
But the guilt lingers, hovering over me like a storm cloud that refuses to break.
My husband deserves better than a wife whose thoughts are elsewhere while he's sitting across from her, completely unaware of her betrayal.
"Jessica's been such a lifesaver with Liam," Reeves says, pulling me back to reality. "I don't know what we'd do without her."
"She's amazing. Liam adores her too." I fiddle with my napkin, guilt gnawing at me. "The way she reads his favorite books with all the different voices."
Reeves reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. His palm is warm and familiar against mine.
"Jenny," he starts. “I want to apologize for how I've been acting about this whole Caine situation.
" His thumb traces circles on my wrist, sending familiar tingles up my arm.
"I know we need the break on the rent, and I know you're doing this for us—for Liam.
I've been unfair, acting jealous when you're the one making the sacrifice. "
The guilt twists deeper in my stomach as I watch his dark eyes, so earnest and trusting.
He has no idea that what started as a business arrangement has become something else entirely, something that keeps me awake at night, torn between my family and these new, overwhelming feelings for Caine.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Caine's face, feel the ghost of his touch, and then I look at Reeves—my husband, Liam's father—and the shame nearly suffocates me.
How did I let myself fall this far? What started as a desperate solution to our financial problems has turned into an emotional maze I can't find my way out of. The worst part is that Reeves is apologizing to me when I'm the one who should be.
"It's okay," I say softly.
"No, it's not. I've been a jealous ass." He squeezes my hand. "And I know how much you love our house. I promise we won't sell it. We'll figure something else out."
I think about the stained glass window he broke, now replaced with a plain glass that lets in too much light in the mornings.
The original was a beautiful peacock design—vibrant blues and greens that cast colored shadows across our office floor.
"We'll make it work," I tell him, squeezing his hand back. "We always do."
I look at him—really look at him—and for a moment, I see the boy who reached up to grab that book for me in the campus library all those years ago.
That broad, sexy smile made my heart skip.
I remember how it felt to fall in love with him.
The way his dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, how his long fingers brushed against mine when he handed me that dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby.
Seven years later, and sometimes I still catch glimpses of that carefree college boy beneath the worried lines now etched across his forehead.
The boy who would play his guitar until sunrise, who promised we'd figure everything out together.
Before mortgages, medical bills and a failing family business.
Before we knew how hard "together" could be.
The drive home from the restaurant is quiet, filled with the kind of comfortable silence that only years together can cultivate.
Reeves’s hand rests on my thigh, his fingers idly tapping out a rhythm only he can hear.
The streetlights cast a warm glow over the interior of his truck, illuminating the soft lines of my husband's face.
I study him, committing every detail to memory—the curve of his brow, the gentle slope of his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he's deep in thought. Guilt twists in my chest, an unwelcome companion that's been dogging my every step lately.
We pull into the driveway, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires breaking the silence. Our yellow dollhouse stands before us, a beacon in the quiet night.
Inside, Jessica greets us with a soft smile, her eyes sleepy. "Liam was an angel," she whispers.. "He's out like a light."
"Thank you, Jessica," I say, my voice equally hushed. "You're a godsend."
Reeves slips her a few folded bills, gratitude etched on his face. We exchange a few more quiet words before she slips out the front door, leaving us alone in the dimly lit entryway.
No sooner has the door closed than Reeves’s hands are on me, his body pressing me against the wall with an urgency that steals my breath.
His lips find mine in a desperate, hungry kiss that leaves no room for thought, for guilt, for anything but the here and now.