My hands still on the moldy takeout container. The disappointment hits me like a punch to the gut, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn't care this much. It's just pool, just an arrangement to help with rent. Nothing more.
But my heart pounds with something that feels dangerously close to loss.
I lean against the counter, staring at the message. One session shouldn't matter. I have plenty to keep me busy - Liam's therapy appointments, inventory at the hall, the never-ending pile of bills. Yet the thought of Thursday arriving without that familiar thrill of anticipation makes everything feel gray.
It's on my mind all day, and I'm still glum when I'm making dinner.
"What's wrong?" Reeves appears in the doorway, still wearing his pool hall shirt. Reeves is far from perfect, but he's always been pretty intuitive about my moods.
"Nothing," I lie. "Just tired. I didn't sleep well last night." I'm surprised by how easy the lies spill out of my mouth.
I force my voice to stay casual. "By the way, Caine's canceling next Thursday. Tournament or something."
Reeves’s face brightens immediately. "Good. He loses the session then. No make-ups."
"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended. "That's not fair. It's not his fault. Tournaments are a part of his life."
Reeves crosses his arms, studying me with those dark eyes that miss nothing. "Since when do you care about what's fair to him? You seem alittletoo upset about this."
Heat floods my cheeks. I turn back to the refrigerator, furiously grabbing a jar of minced garlic. "I'm not." Ilie again. "It's just..." My words trail off… I'm not winning this argument, and I can't let him see how much I care. How I miss him. I know I shouldn't be having these feelings.
"You'll survive," he says. "And we'll still get out of the rent." The bitterness in his voice makes me want to defend Caine, which terrifies me. I shouldn't want to defend him. I shouldn't care if Reeves is being unfair.
"It's not just about…" I mutter.
"Yeah? What's it about, Jenna?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I don't have an answer that won't reveal too much.
"Pool practice," I finally say, the lie tasting bitter. "I'm learning a lot from him."
Reeves snorts. "Right. I bet you are."
I slam the refrigerator door harder than necessary, the disappointment churning in my stomach like spoiled milk.
The air in the pool hall feels charged somehow, heavier than usual. Every time I miss a shot, which is far too often, Caine's gaze is on me, intense and unwavering. It's like he's peeling away my layers with those intense eyes, and I'm powerless to stop him.
I can't remember the last time someone looked atme with such focused attention, and it's doing things to my insides, making my stomach flutter and my skin tingle.
"Sorry," I mutter after another missed shot. "I'm not sure what's wrong with me today."
Caine circles the table, his movements fluid and graceful. He's been giving me chance after chance, allowing me to stay at the table even though I'm playing terribly.
"Don't be sorry," he says softly, his eyes locking onto mine. "I like watching you play."
As I lean over the pool table, my back arched and jean skirt clinging to my curves, I'm acutely aware of how I must look to Caine. There's a part of me that thrills at the thought, at the idea that I might be affecting him as much as he's affecting me.
The air seems to thicken with each shot, each glance exchanged across the table. It's both intoxicating and scary as hell.
I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind as he watches me, his gaze intense and unwavering. Does he notice the way my breath hitches when our eyes meet, or how my hands tremble slightly as I line up my next shot?
I feel exposed under his scrutiny, yet there's a strange comfort in it, too—a sense of being seen, truly seen, for perhaps the first time in a long time.
The pool hall, usually just a backdrop to my daily life, now feels charged with a new energy. The blues and classic rock that typically fill the space seem to fade into the background, replaced by the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.
I’ve been going crazy this past week, waiting to see him again. It’s horrible and crazy of me, but at least I realize it.
I tell myself to focus, to concentrate on the task at hand, but it's impossible to ignore the man sitting across from me. Caine's presence is magnetic, and despite the voice in my head urging caution, I find myself drawn to him—to the softness of his voice when he speaks.
