Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I pull into my driveway, the engine ticking as it cools. The house feels too quiet without Reeves’s chaotic energy, but it's Caine's absence that's eating me alive.
Two months. Two months of radio silence, just like I asked for.
Part of me is grateful—he respected my boundaries, gave me the space I needed to process everything with Reeves and figure out my next steps.
But another part, the selfish, aching part, wishes he'd fought for me. Wishes he'd called anyway.
I unlock the front door, Oliver weaving between my legs with a soft meow. Liam's at daycare for another hour, giving me time to wallow in my own misery.
My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter where I left it this morning. The YouTube tab is still pulled up—highlights from the US Open in Atlanta. I know I shouldn't torture myself, but I can't help it. I click play.
There he is. Lean and focused, moving around the table with that slow, deliberate grace that used to make my knees weak.
Still does. He's wearing a fitted black shirt that shows off every line of his torso, and when he leans over for a difficult shot, I remember the feel of those muscles under my hands.
Damn, I'm dying here.
I know he's been busy doing tourneys and juggling work and life—he's a busy man. I should consider myself lucky he devoted so much time to little old me. God, I've wanted to call him so many times, but I knew if I heard his voice, I'd be driving to his place in a second.
And I really didn't want to mess with my recovery—it's never a good thing to jump from one man's arms right into another's— no matter how hot the new guy is.
The commentator drones on about his technique, his ranking, but I'm lost in the way Caine's fingers grip the cue, the intense concentration on his face. When he sinks the winning shot and that slow smile spreads across his lips, my chest tightens with longing.
I slam the laptop shut.
What if he's moved on? What if two months was all it took for him to realize I'm more trouble than I'm worth? The thought makes me physically nauseous. He could have anyone, I''m sure—models, professionals, women who don't come with messy divorces and four-year-olds and mountains of baggage.
I press my palms against the counter, trying to steady myself. The smell of vanilla from my morning coffee lingers in the air, but all I want is the tangy scent of his deodorant, the warmth of his breath against my neck when he whispers dirty things in my ear.
I miss everything about him. The way he pauses before speaking, choosing his words carefully. I loved the way his eyes darkened when he looked at me across the pool table. The gentle way he touched Liam's shoulder at the zoo, like he was afraid of breaking something precious.
I'm ready. God help me, I'm ready to dive headfirst into whatever this is between us.
I just pray he's still willing to catch me.
Liza's at my door at five-thirty in the morning, clutching a steaming travel mug and grinning like she's won the lottery.
"I can't believe you're really doing this," she says, slipping inside before I wake Liam. She's wearing her SpongeBob pyjamas, her curly hair wild from sleep.
"I can't believe it either." My hands shake as I zip up my overnight bag. "What if he's not interested in me anymore? It's been two months since I last spoke to him, Liza. Two months."
She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. "I've seen the way he looks at you. Trust me, he's still interested."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs. Go get your man."
I leave at six sharp, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Eight hours to Atlantic City. Eight hours to either reclaim my happiness or watch it crumble completely.
The drive feels endless. I stop once at a roadside deli somewhere in the middle of nowhere, my stomach churning, only to eat no more than a few bites of a turkey sandwich.
What am I doing? Driving eight hours to surprise a man who probably thinks I'm ancient history?
But I can't turn back. Not now.
Harrah's Resort takes my breath away when I finally arrive. The sleek, curved glass building stretches toward the sky like something from a sci-fi movie. I sit in my car for five minutes, engine off, staring up at the massive structure.
This is insane. I could turn around right now, drive home, pretend this never happened.
But, Liza would wring my neck. And… the thought of seeing Caine again. God, it sends shivers through me, a mixture of anticipation and terror that makes my hands shake against the steering wheel.
Two months of sleepless nights, of replaying every stolen moment we shared, of wondering if what we had was real or just my desperate imagination running wild.
Two months of yearning eating at me from the inside out, warring with this aching need that I can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try.
I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest, letting myself remember the way his beautiful eyes would search mine, like he was reading secrets I didn't even know I was keeping.
The way his voice would drop to that low, smooth cadence that made my stomach flutter.
The careful way his long fingers would trace patterns on my skin.
God, what am I doing? But even as the self-recrimination floods through me, I know I can't drive away. Not when there's even the smallest chance that he might look at me the way he used to, like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Inside, the lobby buzzes with activity. I get my spectator pass with trembling hands, following signs to the tournament area. The space is cavernous, filled with pristine grey tables under bright lights. Spectator stands ring the main table.
The place is packed.
And there he is.
My breath catches. He's wearing a fitted navy shirt that hugs every line of his torso, his hair perfectly styled, that familiar intensity radiating from every movement.
I find a seat in the packed stands, my legs weak.
"What's happening?" I whisper to a middle-aged woman beside me.
"Final game," she whispers back. "Winner takes the title."
It’s the 9-ball US Open. This is big.
The silence is eerie, hundreds of people holding their breath. Caine doesn't see me, doesn't see anyone. He's in his zone, moving around the table with that slow, deliberate grace that makes my heart race.
He has the break, and he kills it, pocketing the one ball right off the bat.
Damn, he's good.
I watch him intently as he hits the two ball and masters a combo shot. He's slow and smooth as he pockets the next ball. He's winning this. The outcome is inevitable. His opponent seems defeated, slumped in his chair.
I study him as he pockets the next balls with ease. He's so focused.
It comes down to the nine-ball, and he doesn't disappoint.
He fist bumps the air as it goes down, reveling in his victory—US Open Nine Ball Champion.
The crowd roars, and I stand to cheer him on.
He shakes his opponent's hand, and as they share a few words, I inch closer to the ring.
I stand there, waiting for him to spot me among the dispersing crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm certain everyone around me can hear it.
My palms are slick with sweat, and I keep wiping them against my jeans, trying to steady myself.
The noise of celebration swirls around us—photographers snapping pictures, officials congratulating him, spectators slowly filing out—but all I can focus on is the way he moves through it all with that trademark slow confidence, shaking hands and accepting praise like he was born for this moment.
My mouth feels dry as cotton, and I realize I haven't thought through what I'm going to say. What do you say to someone after two months of radio silence? After walking away from something that felt like it could consume you whole?
I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly hyperaware of my casual outfit—my worn jeans and an old band t-shirt that I'd hastily thrown on this morning.
I watch him as he tucks his cue away in his case, just like he's done so many times before when we've played together. God, he's beautiful. And I'm here, after two months of silence, about to throw myself at his mercy.
What could possibly go wrong?
When his eyes finally catch mine across the dispersing crowd, everything else fades to nothing. His face lights up—shock morphing into pure joy, that devastating smile spreading across his features like sunrise breaking over the horizon.
He drops his cue case with a loud clatter that echoes through the vast space, and I watch in stunned disbelief as he jumps onto one of the players' armchairs, then leaps clean over the ring barrier.
Photographers' cameras flash like strobes as spectators gasp and point.
Officials call out behind him, but he doesn't care. Nothing exists except the space between us, rapidly disappearing.
My heart stops beating entirely as he reaches me, as his arms wrap around my waist and lift me clean off the ground. The world spins as he pulls me against him, my feet dangling in the air.
I'm overwhelmed by the solid warmth of his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with that clean soap smell that's uniquely him.
"Jenna." My name falls from his lips like a prayer answered.
He releases me to the ground again, and when his mouth finds mine, I dissolve completely. Two months of careful control shatter in an instant.
His kiss is desperate, hungry, like he's been starving and I'm the first real meal he's seen.
My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, trying to make up for all the lost time in this single moment.
His lips are soft but insistent, moving against mine with a familiarity that makes my knees weak.
God, I'd forgotten. Forgotten how his kiss could unravel me completely, how it made every rational thought scatter like leaves in a windstorm.
Forgotten how perfectly we fit together, how right this feels despite everything logical screaming that it's complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.
The crowd around us erupts in whispers and camera clicks, reminding me where we are. I pull back reluctantly, my cheeks burning as I notice the dozens of eyes fixed on us, the smartphones recording every second.
A tournament official approaches, kindly handing him his cue case with a playful smirk.
Caine takes it and releases me gently, but keeps an arm around me, shielding me from the crowd's stares. His eyes search mine intensely, like he can't quite believe I'm real.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "God, I've missed you so much. Let's get out of here."
His voice is rough with emotion, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My heart pounds as he takes my hand, leading me through the curious crowd toward the exit.