Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I'm elbow-deep in the refrigerator, tossing out a container of leftover pasta that's grown disgusting green fuzz, when my phone buzzes against the counter. The text makes my stomach drop.
Away for tournament next week. Need to cancel Thursday session. Hope we can make it up later. - C
My hands still on the moldy takeout container. The disappointment hits me like a punch to the gut, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn't care this much. It's just pool, just an arrangement to help with rent. Nothing more.
But my heart pounds with something that feels dangerously close to loss.
I lean against the counter, staring at the message.
One session shouldn't matter. I have plenty to keep me busy - Liam's therapy appointments, inventory at the hall, the never-ending pile of bills.
Yet the thought of Thursday arriving without that familiar thrill of anticipation makes everything feel gray.
It's on my mind all day, and I'm still glum when I'm making dinner.
"What's wrong?" Reeves appears in the doorway, still wearing his pool hall shirt. Reeves is far from perfect, but he's always been pretty intuitive about my moods.
"Nothing," I lie. "Just tired. I didn't sleep well last night." I'm surprised by how easy the lies spill out of my mouth.
I force my voice to stay casual. "By the way, Caine's canceling next Thursday. Tournament or something."
Reeves’s face brightens immediately. "Good. He loses the session then. No make-ups."
"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended. "That's not fair. It's not his fault. Tournaments are a part of his life."
Reeves crosses his arms, studying me with those dark eyes that miss nothing. "Since when do you care about what's fair to him? You seem a little too upset about this."
Heat floods my cheeks. I turn back to the refrigerator, furiously grabbing a jar of minced garlic. "I'm not." I lie again. "It's just..." My words trail off… I'm not winning this argument, and I can't let him see how much I care. How I miss him. I know I shouldn't be having these feelings.
"You'll survive," he says. "And we'll still get out of the rent." The bitterness in his voice makes me want to defend Caine, which terrifies me. I shouldn't want to defend him. I shouldn't care if Reeves is being unfair.
"It's not just about…" I mutter.
"Yeah? What's it about, Jenna?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I don't have an answer that won't reveal too much.
"Pool practice," I finally say, the lie tasting bitter. "I'm learning a lot from him."
Reeves snorts. "Right. I bet you are."
I slam the refrigerator door harder than necessary, the disappointment churning in my stomach like spoiled milk.
The air in the pool hall feels charged somehow, heavier than usual. Every time I miss a shot, which is far too often, Caine's gaze is on me, intense and unwavering. It's like he's peeling away my layers with those intense eyes, and I'm powerless to stop him.
I can't remember the last time someone looked at me with such focused attention, and it's doing things to my insides, making my stomach flutter and my skin tingle.
"Sorry," I mutter after another missed shot. "I'm not sure what's wrong with me today."
Caine circles the table, his movements fluid and graceful. He's been giving me chance after chance, allowing me to stay at the table even though I'm playing terribly.
"Don't be sorry," he says softly, his eyes locking onto mine. "I like watching you play."
As I lean over the pool table, my back arched and jean skirt clinging to my curves, I'm acutely aware of how I must look to Caine. There's a part of me that thrills at the thought, at the idea that I might be affecting him as much as he's affecting me.
The air seems to thicken with each shot, each glance exchanged across the table. It's both intoxicating and scary as hell.
I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind as he watches me, his gaze intense and unwavering. Does he notice the way my breath hitches when our eyes meet, or how my hands tremble slightly as I line up my next shot?
I feel exposed under his scrutiny, yet there's a strange comfort in it, too—a sense of being seen, truly seen, for perhaps the first time in a long time.
The pool hall, usually just a backdrop to my daily life, now feels charged with a new energy. The blues and classic rock that typically fill the space seem to fade into the background, replaced by the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.
I’ve been going crazy this past week, waiting to see him again. It’s horrible and crazy of me, but at least I realize it.
I tell myself to focus, to concentrate on the task at hand, but it's impossible to ignore the man sitting across from me. Caine's presence is magnetic, and despite the voice in my head urging caution, I find myself drawn to him—to the softness of his voice when he speaks.
It's a dangerous game I'm playing, I know. But in this moment, with the warmth of his gaze upon me, I can't find it in myself to care. I tell myself it’s not dangerous at all, that it’s just fun and games. I’m caught in it, and I’m content to see where this dance might lead.
I make a silent vow not to let it go too far.
"You're staring," I say, trying to keep my tone light, teasing.
He smiles, unrepentant. "Can you blame me?"
My face warms under his gaze. I'm saved from having to come up with a witty response when he steps up to the table to take his turn. He moves with a quiet confidence that I've always admired.
He misses his shot on purpose, I'm certain of it. It gives him an excuse to come back around the table to where I'm standing, his presence overwhelming me in the best possible way.
"Your stroke is still too jerky," Caine chides gently, his voice a soft murmur that seems to resonate in the quiet of the pool hall.
He steps closer, his presence wrapping me in a warm, tangy-scented cloud.
His long fingers glide over mine as he adjusts my grip on the cue.
The contact is electric, a spark that travels from the tips of my fingers straight to my core.
“You need to shoot smoother, like I showed you. "
I nod, trying to focus on his words rather than the way his body is pressed against mine, the way his breath feels against my skin.
But I’m hopeless.
His fingers brush against my arm as he adjusts my stance, and I can't help but wonder how those same fingers would feel against my skin in a different context.
I'm caught in a whirlwind of emotions—guilt, desire, the thrill of the forbidden—and yet, there's a sense of calm that washes over me, a respite from the chaos of my life outside these walls.
"You've been a bad girl, Jenna," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “I can tell you haven’t been practicing your stroke like I told you to."
The words, coupled with the feel of his breath against my ear, make my knees weak. I can't help but imagine what it would be like to have him all to myself, to give in to the desire that's been building between us since the moment we met.
The fantasy is so vivid, so real, that I almost don't hear him when he tells me it's my turn again. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart as I line up my shot.
I manage to sink a ball this time, but the victory is short-lived. Our hour is up, and reality comes crashing back in.
Caine leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. His voice, soft and commanding, wraps around me like a velvet cloak. “I love the skirt… wear another one next time,” he whispers, the suggestion alone making my heart flutter wildly.
“Although I should warn you… I’ve demonstrated incredible restraint today, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to next time.
” His words hang in the air, a tantalizing promise of what's to come, and I can't help but imagine the next time I'll see him, the next time he'll look at me with that smoldering gaze that seems to see right through me.
I nod, a silent vow to follow his instructions, even as a twinge of guilt tugs at my conscience. But in this moment, with Caine right next to me, it's easy to get lost in the fantasy, to forget the weight of my responsibilities waiting for me outside these walls.
"Okay," I finally manage, my voice barely audible.
He gives me a knowing smile before turning to leave, his exit as graceful and commanding as his entrance. I watch him go, feeling like I've just been handed a secret, thrilling promise of what's to come. My heart hammers against my ribs as his silhouette disappears through the door.
The weight of our exchange settles over me like a warm blanket—dangerous yet comforting.
I blow out a long breath.
Part of me wants to run after him, while another part knows better. I take another deep breath, trying to compose myself, but Caine's effect lingers.
Damn, the man is good.
I sink next to Clara on my sectional and cuddle with her cat Oscar, a sweet orange tabby, letting the softness and comfort of him embrace me when everything else in my life seems to be spinning out of control.
Clara and Liza are my best friends, and I’m so thankful to have them both.
I met Clara back in high school. I was new to the school, and we quickly became best friends.
I followed her around like a lost puppy, while she took me under her wing and introduced me to everyone.
But now she lives two hours away, so we don’t get to see each other enough.
I stroke Oscar’s chin, and he loves every second of it.
"He's so damn cute," I say. "Aren't you, gorgeous Oscar.
" Funny enough, I was there when Clara first adopted him from the shelter.
It had been my suggestion. I could tell she was lonely — her ex really messed her up good.
We named him Oscar, after the actor Oscar Isaac, whom we're both secretly in love with. We've watched all his movies.
"Why don't you have a cat?” she asks. "You clearly love them."