Reeves stops pacing and looks at me. "The whole thing is weird. He's so fucking weird."
I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. "How do you know him anyway? You two seemed to recognize each other."
He turns away, adjusting the blinds unnecessarily. "Just from around."
"Reeves."
He sighs. "Fine. I knew him from the pool hall years ago. We got into it once."
"A fight? Over what?"
"Does it matter?" He shrugs. "Ancient history."
"Who won?" I ask, genuinely curious.
A cocky smile spreads across his face. "Who do you think?"
I roll my eyes but can't help smiling back. Still, I can't shake the thought of Caine's offer. As insulting as it is, something is thrilling about it, too. It would just be pool, after all. A spark of excitement flickers deep within me. A small voice warns me it’s a bad idea—but part of me is intrigued by him. I quickly shove those thoughts aside.
"We could really use the help with the rent," I say carefully. "Just until we figure something else out."
Reeves’s expression darkens. He crosses the room and kneels beside the bed, his eyes searching mine.
"Are you attracted to him?" he asks bluntly.
The question catches me off guard; heat floods my cheeks. I think of Caine's elegant movements, his measured words, the way he studies everything with those penetrating eyes. I shake my head too quickly, forcing a laugh instead. “He’s a little too flamboyant for me,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Seems cocky as shit.”
Reeves laughs, tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah, heiscocky as shit.”
He takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "I don't trust him, Jenna. Not one bit. But I do trust you."
We talk for what feels like hours, weighing the pros and cons, the absurdity of it all. Eventually, logic wins out over pride. We need the money—desperately.
"Okay," Reeves finally says. "We'll do it. But at the first sign of anything weird, we're done."
I nod, relief and something else—excitement?—washing over me.
He leans in, his lips finding mine with an urgency that's both familiar and unsettling. The kiss deepens, hishands slipping beneath the fabric of my shirt, tracing the familiar contours of my body.
As we make love, I close my eyes tightly, trying to focus on the sensation of Reeves’s touch, the solidness of our relationship, the life we've built together.
But despite my best efforts, Caine's face keeps intruding—his slow, knowing smile. Guilt twists like a knife in my stomach, a painful reminder of my betrayal. I chastise myself for these wayward thoughts, but they come unbidden, as if my mind is a traitor to my heart.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, tugging at my messy bun. My eyes look tired, and I take in the slight crookedness of my incisor, visible when I smile. I turn sideways, pinching the softness around my waist.
"Nothing to write home about," I mutter.
Why would someone like Caine even look twice at me? He's tall, successful, sophisticated—everything I'm not. I'm just... average. Five-foot-four and perpetually ten pounds over where I'd like to be.
God, I’m being way too hard on myself. Reeves says I’m beautiful, and I should believe him. I do like some things about me. I’ve inherited my mom’s Bette Davis eyes, and my long red hair always draws compliments. So, there’s that.
I slip on my favorite flowy skirt and pink top, then immediately pull them off. Too much. Too obvious. I want to seem casual, like I don't care, even though my racing heart proves otherwise. For some bizarre reason, I want to look good for Caine. The thought makes my stomach twist with guilt.
Liam sits cross-legged on my bed, watching me with those big brown eyes of his.
"Mommy petty," he says, his little face serious.
My heart melts at his innocent compliment. His speech therapy is helping, but he still can't pronounce his Rs, turning "pretty" into "petty" in that adorable way that makes me want to scoop him up and cuddle him forever. It's the sweetest sound in the world, one that reminds me daily how blessed I am to be his mom, even when times are tough.
