CHAPTER THREE
I swallow hard and approach him. "Nice to see you again," I say, a little breathless. "Would you like a table?"
A soft grin stretches across his face. "That would be great."
I lead him to an empty table near the bar where we send the hooligans — the young kids we need to keep an eye on. All the better to keep a closer eye on him — I'm shameless.
I try not to be too obvious as I watch him set up his game. Liza is not so subtle.
"Stop staring," I scold her quietly.
She grins mischievously and turns her attention back to her customers.
Reeves notices Caine eventually. He frowns slightlyas he watches him sink shot after shot with effortless precision.
"Who’s that?" Reeves asks, curious.
"His name's Caine," I say casually. "I’ve seen him here before."
Reeves narrows his eyes. "He looks familiar."
As we go about our work and the usual routine, I try not to stare. Honestly, I don’t want Reeves to catch me ogling this man. Actually, Reeves is the one ogling—he keeps watching him intently, and I figure it’s him appreciating Caine’s game — the guy can shoot.
Then, like a stroke of lightning, it finally clicks for Reeves. He leans in close and whispers urgently, "Do you know who that is?"
"No," I admit, curious as a cat. "Am I supposed to?"
"That's Caine Hall. He’s one of the best pro players in the world," Reeves says with awe in his voice. "He’s won the US Open twice."
I blink in surprise. "Really? He looks more like a business guy—a lawyer or something."
Reeves gives me a weird look but then nods thoughtfully. "Well, he actuallyisa business guy," he reveals. "He owns this building."
My jaw drops. "He’s our landlord?"
Reeves wastes no time walking over to introduce himself and invites him to play a game of eight-ball. They set up quickly and lag for the break. Reeves hasalways been an excellent lagger. His speed control is spot-on. I'm not surprised when his ball hugs the rail, and he wins the break.
Liza and I watch them intensely. Liza manages to serve a guy while simultaneously not taking her eyes off the game; it's a skill she's developed so she can watch hot guys shooting while she remains efficient. It's quite impressive, actually.
Reeves pockets two balls on the break, one solid and one stripe. He has options, and he studies the table intently while Caine sits comfortably, completely unbothered. When he turns his gaze to the bar, my heart jumps, and I instantly turn my head away. Real smooth. I'm sad, really. There's no other way to describe me.
I venture another look quickly — I just can't help myself. I'm hopeless, almost as bad as Liza.
"Reeves is gonna kick his gorgeous ass," Liza whispers, unaware of who Caine is.
I'm not a great player, just average. I can pocket balls, but I can't control the cue ball to save my life. I also can't break a rack properly. But… I can read a table, and this table is all set for a run if Reeves picks the stripes.
And he does. Of course he does. I'm excited about the possibility of him winning. And with each ball he pockets, the excitement builds. A young group of kidsrudely interrupt when they ask for a table. I manage to do my job while still keeping an eye on the game.
Reeves has pocketed six balls. Only one more to go, then he's on the eight ball. I watch him as he bends down to take his shot.
Caine's demeanor has changed a little — he seems impressed.
But then… Reeves chokes. He pots the ball, but leaves his cue ball tucked against one of the solids, and totally hooks himself. He throws his head down — the disappointment is palpable, and I ache for him.
He sends the cue ball to the rail and back, hitting the eight ball successfully, and avoids a foul, but he's left a wide-open table for Caine.
Caine does his thing. Caine's intensity is insane; watching him play for real is unexpectedly thrilling. Every shot is calculated with precision. He clears the table and wins. As expected.
