"Another beer, Caine?" Greg's voice booms from beside us, his large, imposing presence suddenly above us.
Caine straightens, unfazed by Greg's intimidation attempt. "I'm good, thanks."
I straighten up too, anger flashing through me. Seriously? I'm being chaperoned like a teenager? Does Reeves trust me so little?
The worst part is— he really shouldn't. Because when Caine looks at me with those beautiful, intense eyes of his, I feel something I haven't felt in years. Something dangerous and intoxicating.
This man is like a drug. And I've always been told to stay away from drugs.
Greg is still standing there. He looks up at the clock — we have four of them scattered throughout the hall. "I believe your time is up, Sir."
Caine looks up and blows out a long, slow breath. "It does appear so.” He sighs. "Well, it's been fun, Jenna." His smile is playful, and so damn sexy. "I can't wait until next time."
I can't either. But there's no fucking way I'm saying it out loud, in front of Greg. Instead, I say nothing at all, like a complete socially inept idiot, and an awkward silence follows.
"Well… I should get going," he finally says. "Same time on Thursday?"
I shoot him a tight smile. "Sure… I'll be here."
Greg is still standing there, and he cocks his head in the direction of the bar, and I take that to mean, 'getback to work. ’ Who does he think he is? I'm the one who owns this bar. But not wanting to ruffle any feathers since I know he will directly report back to Reeves, I reluctantly oblige.
I watch Caine from the corner of my eye as he gathers his things, longing to play some more. His movements are deliberate and smooth, like everything he does. Part of me wants to ask him to stay, just a little longer, but I know I can't.
He shoots me a sweet smile and a wave before he turns and heads out. I watch him every step of the way until he disappears, his tall figure moving with that confident grace that makes my heart skip.
The door closes behind him, and I'm left with the lingering scent of his tangy deodorant and the hollow feeling that always comes when he leaves.
CHAPTER NINE
I sit cross-legged on our beige sectional, papers scattered across the coffee table. Bills, bills, and more bills. Red notices, final warnings, and payment plans—a paper trail of our financial disaster. My stomach knots as I add up the numbers again, hoping for a different result.
Reeves paces the living room, tossing a baseball into his glove with rhythmic smacks. His tall frame casts a shifting shadow across our brick fireplace as he moves. I can read the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens with each catch. The wornRolling Stonest-shirt he's wearing—one I've stolen to sleep in countless times—stretches across his broad chest as he moves. Even in his agitation, there's something sexy about watching his large hands work.
"Did you have fun with Liam?" I ask, trying to inject some normalcy into our evening.
He scoffs. "Kid's hopeless. He can't hear, and he can't catch either."
The words hit me like a sharp slap. "That's not funny, Reeves. He's trying his best."
"It was a joke, Jenna. Lighten up."
But I know better. There's an edge to his voice that has nothing to do with Liam's baseball skills. Something else is eating at him.
"What's really bothering you?" I ask, setting down my calculator.
He catches the ball one final time and holds it tight. "Greg told me Caine was all over you yesterday."
My heart skips. "He wasn't 'all over me.' He was showing me how to do a draw shot."
"I've tried to show you that shot a thousand times!" His voice rises. "But when Mr. Fancy Pants millionaire shows you, suddenly you're interested?"
"That's not fair." I gather the bills into a neat pile, buying time. "Nothing is going on between us. He was just teaching me pool."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I think about Caine's breath on my neck, the electricity when his fingers brushed mine on the cue. The way his eyes locked with mine across the table. The memory alone makes my skin warm.
"I'm thinking about ending this whole thing," Reeves says, his voice tight with frustration. "Telling him to fuck off. Just walk away from whatever deal he thinks we have."
My stomach clenches at his words. Part of me wants to agree—to simplify our lives and go back to how things were. But another part, the part I'm afraid to acknowledge even to myself, feels a flutter of panic at the thought of never seeing Caine again.
