"Thank you, baby," I whisper.
I finally settle on worn jeans and a plain work t-shirt, my usual uniform. I apply minimal makeup, debating the mascara before skipping it. The lipstick, though—I hesitate, then swipe it on quickly. Immediately, I feel ridiculous. Why am I trying so hard? This is just a few pool games, not a date.
I wipe a smudge from the corner of my mouth with my pinky finger. The lipstick looks good—the soft pink color brightens my face, but the guilt creeps in again. It's not like Reeves would notice anyway—he barely looksup from his paperwork these days—but something about putting on lipstick for another man makes my stomach knot.
I toy with my messy bun, debating whether to wear my hair up or down. Jesus, listen to me. I'm overthinking everything like a teenager.
"God, this is exhausting," I sigh, grabbing my bag.
I gather Liam's things—his communication notebook, lunch box, extra clothes, and his favorite dinosaur toy he refuses to leave home without—and usher him to our ancient car parked in the cracked driveway. The check engine light has been on for weeks, glowing orange like a persistent reminder of our financial situation, but there's no money for repairs.
One more thing on the endless list that keeps me awake at night, right between ‘pay the electric bill’ and ‘find money for Liam's next therapy session.’
Liam's Montessori school appears around the corner, its cheerful playground visible from the street. The sight of the bright yellow slide and rainbow-colored climbing structure makes my heart lift, even through my exhaustion.
The place specializes in children with special needs, and the difference in Liam since starting has been miraculous. He's making friends, communicating more. Just last week, his teacher, Miss Fiona showed me a drawing he'd made with another little boy—stick figures holdinghands beneath a lopsided sun. It was the first time he'd willingly participated in a shared activity. These small victories keep me going, even when the tuition bills make my stomach clench with anxiety.
Yes… it also costs a fortune we don't have.
Just last week, Reeves brought up pulling him out. The memory still stings. I couldn't bear it—watching my son lose the one place where he's thriving. So as bizarre as Caine's offer is, if it means keeping Liam in this school, I'll shoot pool with the devil himself.
I arrive at the pool hall, my heart pounding like I'm sixteen again. The familiar smell of beer and pine cleaner greets me, but today everything feels different. Caine stands by our usual table, racking the balls. He's traded his usual business attire for distressed jeans and a vintage Metallica t-shirt that hugs his chest in all the right places. I don't know a single Metallica song, but suddenly I'm their biggest fan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My hands tremble slightly as I screw my two-piece cue together. Greg's massive frame appears beside me, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Reeves’s watchdog, right on cue.
"I'll be at the bar if you need anything," Greg mutters, eyeing Caine with obvious suspicion.
Caine looks up, his green eyes catching mine. That slow, deliberate smile spreads across his face, transforming his features from intense to irresistible. The room seems to shrink around us, the distance between our bodies suddenly charged with electricity.
His long fingers pause on the pool cue, and I notice the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders when he bends down. My throat goes dry. I've seen that smile before—the one he reserves for moments when we'realone—but here, under the dim lights of the pool hall, it feels like a dangerous promise.
"You made it," he says, his voice smooth as honey. He steps forward. "Let me take your jacket."
His fingers brush my shoulder as he helps me out of my leather jacket, and I swear electricity shoots up my spine. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This guy might look like sin in denim, but I need to remember he's strange and possibly dangerous. I don't trust him. I won't trust him.
He shoots me a wicked grin. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to our first official playdate."
I stare down at my feet, not able to engage for some reason. I just got here, and he's already making me blush.
He racks the balls. “You want to play with me, don't you?" he asks, but this time, all traces of humor are gone. His eyes are dark and teasing, and my knees are wobbling a little.
"Eight ball?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Ladies first." He gestures to the table.
I lean over for my break shot, and the balls scatter with a satisfying crack.
"Not bad," he says, "but you're choking the cue too much." He moves closer. "Relax your grip. And your bridge hand needs to be steadier."
I shoot, missing an easy shot.
"You're poking at it," he says. "Try to stroke through the ball smoothly."
"That's what he said," I quip before I can stop myself.
Caine's laugh is warm and genuine. "Fair enough."
