Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next evening, I stand in front of my bedroom mirror while Liza sits cross-legged on my bed, Oliver purring in her lap. The black Armani dress hangs perfectly on my frame, elegant and understated in a way that makes me feel like someone else entirely.
"Girl, you look absolutely gorgeous." Liza's eyes sparkle with excitement as she watches me fasten my grandmother's pearl necklace. "That dress was made for you."
My hands shake slightly as I work the clasp. "I can't believe I'm doing this."
"I can't believe Reeves said what he said." Her voice hardens. "What an absolute asshole."
I smooth the dress over my hips, studying my reflection. The woman looking back at me seems confident, sophisticated—nothing like the frazzled mom who spent yesterday cleaning peanut butter off the kitchen backsplash.
"Maybe I should cancel." I turn away from the mirror. "This is crazy, right? Caine and I keep doing this. He keeps luring me back in. Then he apologizes. Then he does it again.”
“I don’t think he’s a bad guy. I think he just has it really bad for you.” Liza sets Oliver aside and stands, moving to my dresser. "Here, let me fix your hair."
She runs her fingers through the loose waves I've carefully styled, adjusting a few strands around my face. Her touch is gentle, sisterly.
"Promise me something," she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "Don't do anything you'll regret. But also don't punish yourself for wanting to feel beautiful. For wanting someone to see you as more than just a mom and a bartender."
"What if Reeves is right? What if Caine is just playing some twisted game?"
"Then you'll figure it out." She squeezes my shoulders. "But Jenny, I've watched you these past few months. You light up when you talk about him. When's the last time Reeves made you feel that way?"
I can't remember. The realization hits like a cold wave.
"Just be careful," Liza continues, her voice softer now. "I love you, and I don't want to see you get hurt. But I also don't want to see you disappear completely into this life that's suffocating you."
The doorbell rings downstairs, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
"That's my ride."
We hurry downstairs and grab our jackets. Liza steps into her Doc Martens, and I slip on the sexy heeled black boots I've selected to go with the dress. I grab my sparkly black purse, hands trembling, and reach for the painting I made for Caine.
"Need some help with that?" Liza asks.
I laugh. "You think?"
I'm sure the sight of the two of us attempting to maneuver the large wrapped canvas out of the house is amusing to the driver who offers his help. The three of us manage to get it in the sleek black town car with ease.
"What a nice guy," Liza whispers. "And kinda hot too."
I shake my head. "Bye, Liza. Thanks so much for helping me get ready."
She grins widely. "Go knock him dead, babe. You deserve a night of feeling like a queen."
I wave as I step into the car, feeling like Cinderella.
The restaurant is everything I imagined—soft lighting, exposed brick walls, and the gentle murmur of conversation floating over smooth jazz. But the moment I see Caine standing by our table, everything else fades into background noise.
He's devastating in his navy three-piece suit, the fabric tailored to perfection across his broad shoulders. When he turns and spots me, his face lights up with that slow, magnetic smile that makes my knees weak.
"You look absolutely stunning," he says, his voice that familiar velvet that sends heat straight through me.
I hate how my body responds instantly—the flutter in my stomach, the way my breath catches.
I steel myself, making a silent promise to maintain my composure tonight, to resist whatever dangerous pull he has on me. I won't let myself get swept away by those devastating green eyes or that slow, hypnotic way he moves.
I'll be the good wife, the faithful mother—I'll remember who I am and what I owe to my family. No matter how he looks at me, no matter what he says in that velvet voice that makes my resolve crumble, I will stay in control.
I have to.
"Thank you." I smooth my dress as he pulls out my chair, his fingers brushing my shoulder as I sit. Even that brief contact makes me picture things I shouldn't—his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine.
Stop it, Jenna.
The waiter brings wine, and we order—scallop linguini for me, steak for him. But I can barely focus on the menu when he's looking at me like that, his eyes intense and hungry.
"Thank you for being here with me tonight," he says, raising his glass. "I know this isn't easy."
"What are your intentions, Caine?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it, my voice barely above a whisper in the intimate lighting of the restaurant.
I set down my wine glass with trembling fingers, the crystal making a soft clink against the white tablecloth.
"With all of this? With me?" The words hang between us like a confession, and I immediately want to take them back.
But they're out there now, raw and vulnerable, and there's no hiding behind polite dinner conversation anymore.
He pauses, considering. "To spend time with you. Just be around you. I can't say goodbye, Jenna. I've tried."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. "Okay… fair enough. I get it. This has been hard for me, too. Let's just… try to talk like normal people."
A grin stretches across his face. I'm amusing him again. And he's driving me crazy already. "Tell me about your day," he says playfully.
I find myself smiling as I tell him about Liam's latest obsession with building elaborate train tracks that Oliver keeps destroying. Caine listens intently, asking questions about Liam's school, about his personality, about what he's like.
I jabber on, of course, but he doesn't seem bored. He seems genuinely interested.
"What about you?" I ask. "What have you been up to?"
"Boring meetings. Numbers. Playing… I have another tourney coming up soon. But I kept thinking about this," he says slowly, his long fingers moving in that deliberate way of his as he gestures between us, the space that seems to hum with unspoken tension.
His eyes hold mine steadily, and I can see something vulnerable flickering beneath his usual composed exterior.
"About what we have. About you." He pauses, the way he always does before saying something important, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for whatever truth he's about to lay bare between us.
"I honestly can't stop thinking about you. It's driving me absolutely insane."
I understand exactly what he's saying because I've been drowning in the same impossible thoughts, the same maddening pull that seems to follow me through every mundane moment of my day.
When I'm folding Liam's tiny shirts or wiping down the bar at the pool hall, when I'm lying next to Reeves in our unmade bed listening to his steady breathing—Caine is there, invading my thoughts like some beautiful, dangerous fever I can't shake.
The memory of his touch, the way his voice drops to that velvet whisper when he says my name, the intensity in those stunning eyes when he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
I've been carrying this secret weight, this guilt and longing twisted together so tightly I can barely breathe sometimes.
So yes, I understand completely what he means about going insane, because I'm right there with him, teetering on the edge of something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"You've been painting," he observes, nodding at a small paint stain on my wrist I missed.
"A little." I'm suddenly shy about the canvas waiting in the car.
"You mentioned wanting to be an art therapist once. Do you still think about that?"
"It's stupid. I never finished school, I can't afford—"
"It's not stupid." His voice is firm. "You have a passion, Jenna. And a big heart. It seems to me like it would be right up your alley."
God… the way he looks at me, like I'm someone important and worthwhile, makes me believe him.
"Are you really happy working at the pool hall?"
The question stuns me. I've never really stopped to think about it.
Am I happy there? I love hanging with Liza when it's quiet, and that's about it.
I do like some of our regulars, but most customers are jerks.
People have no respect for a pool hall barmaid.
The tips are shit. And the work… it's never-ending.
It's exhausting. I'm only twenty-five, but I feel like I'm eighty sometimes.
No, I'm not happy working at the pool hall. I kinda hate it.
It's what I should admit to him, but of course, I don't say a word. His question remains unanswered as our attention is redirected to our server.
"How is everything?" she asks, all smiles.
"Everything is great," Caine tells her. "Delicious."
Yes, everything is great. My life is falling apart at the seams. But the scallops are delightful.
Following dinner, Caine walks me to the town car. I’m not sure where the driver has gone, but Caine is apparently driving me home.
He doesn't hold my hand, doesn't try to get too close. The cool evening air feels good against my flushed skin as we make our way there quietly.
"Thank you," I tell him as we reach the car. "For dinner, for everything. This was really nice."
He pauses in that slow way of his, studying my face in the dim parking lot light. "Thank you for coming."
"Actually..." I feel suddenly nervous, like a schoolgirl with a crush. "I haven't given you your gift yet."
He smiles.
Honestly, this painting has been a huge pain in my rear tonight.
First, I lugged it out of the town car, and there I was standing awkwardly by the restaurant entrance with this huge package when Caine spotted me, laughing at my expense.
I told him it was an after-dinner surprise for him, and he took it off my hands, seemingly intrigued, and brought it to his SUV.
I reach into his car and pull out the wrapped canvas he's been anxiously waiting to see. My hands shake slightly as I hand it to him.
"I painted this for you. It's just... a thank you. For everything you've done for us."
He tears away the brown paper carefully, reverently, and when he sees the abstract close-up of the eight ball rack I've painted, his whole face changes. His green eyes go soft, and for a moment, he just stares at it without speaking.
"Jenna..." His voice is barely a whisper. "This is... no one has ever..."
I suddenly feel a little ill at ease, my stomach fluttering with nervous energy as I watch him study the painting. The way his eyes have gone soft, the reverent silence—it's more intense than I expected. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
This feels too intimate somehow, too personal.
I painted this for him in a moment of gratitude, but standing here watching his reaction, seeing the raw emotion flickering across his handsome features, it feels like I've revealed something I shouldn't have.
Something that crosses a line I didn't even realize I was approaching. "It's nothing…"
"This is amazing. How did you do this? What medium is this? I assumed you were talented, but this… this is fantastic," he goes on. "And I'm not just saying that to be nice."
I smile. "It's mixed media: acrylic, pastels, ink and cut-up magazines."
He shakes his head, his gaze still locked on the canvas. "Amazing."
He then sets the painting gently back in the back of his car and turns back to me, something raw and vulnerable flickering across his features. Before I can process what's happening, his hands are grabbing my face, and his mouth is on mine.
I should push him away. I should remember the promises I made to myself tonight, that this is wrong on every level.
But God, the way he kisses me—slow and deep and desperate, like he's been starving for this moment.
His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue touches mine, I melt against him completely.
My hands find the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away like I should. He tastes like wine and sex, and every rational thought in my head evaporates.
When his hand slides up my thigh, finding the hem of my dress, I don't stop him. I can't. My body responds instantly, heat pooling low in my belly as his fingers brush against the silk of my underwear.
"Jesus, Jenna," he breathes against my mouth as he explores me deeper. "You're already so wet for me."
I am.
I'm aching for him in a way that terrifies the hell out of me.