I know he's been busy doing tourneys and juggling work and life—he's a busy man. I should consider myself lucky he devoted so much time to little old me. God, I've wanted to call him so many times, but I knew if I heard his voice, I'd be driving to his place in a second.
And I really didn't want to mess with my recovery—it's never a good thing to jump from one man's arms right into another's— no matter how hot the new guy is.
The commentator drones on about his technique, his ranking, but I'm lost in the way Caine's fingers grip the cue, the intense concentration on his face. When he sinks the winning shot and that slow smile spreads across his lips, my chest tightens with longing.
I slam the laptop shut.
What if he's moved on? What if two months was all it took for him to realize I'm more trouble than I'm worth? The thought makes me physically nauseous. He could have anyone, I''m sure—models, professionals,women who don't come with messy divorces and four-year-olds and mountains of baggage.
I press my palms against the counter, trying to steady myself. The smell of vanilla from my morning coffee lingers in the air, but all I want is the tangy scent of his deodorant, the warmth of his breath against my neck when he whispers dirty things in my ear.
I miss everything about him. The way he pauses before speaking, choosing his words carefully. I loved the way his eyes darkened when he looked at me across the pool table. The gentle way he touched Liam's shoulder at the zoo, like he was afraid of breaking something precious.
I'm ready. God help me, I'm ready to dive headfirst into whatever this is between us.
I just pray he's still willing to catch me.
Liza's at my door at five-thirty in the morning, clutching a steaming travel mug and grinning like she's won the lottery.
"I can't believe you're really doing this," she says, slipping inside before I wake Liam. She's wearing her SpongeBob pyjamas, her curly hair wild from sleep.
"I can't believe it either." My hands shake as I zip up my overnight bag. "What if he's not interested in meanymore? It's been two months since I last spoke to him, Liza. Two months."
She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. "I've seen the way he looks at you. Trust me, he's still interested."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs. Go get your man."
I leave at six sharp, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Eight hours to Atlantic City. Eight hours to either reclaim my happiness or watch it crumble completely.
The drive feels endless. I stop once at a roadside deli somewhere in the middle of nowhere, my stomach churning, only to eat no more than a few bites of a turkey sandwich.
What am I doing? Driving eight hours to surprise a man who probably thinks I'm ancient history?
But I can't turn back. Not now.
Harrah's Resort takes my breath away when I finally arrive. The sleek, curved glass building stretches toward the sky like something from a sci-fi movie. I sit in my car for five minutes, engine off, staring up at the massive structure.
This is insane. I could turn around right now, drive home, pretend this never happened.
But, Liza would wring my neck. And… the thought of seeing Caine again. God, it sends shivers through me, a mixture of anticipation and terror that makes my hands shake against the steering wheel.
Two months of sleepless nights, of replaying every stolen moment we shared, of wondering if what we had was real or just my desperate imagination running wild. Two months of yearning eating at me from the inside out, warring with this aching need that I can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try.
I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest, letting myself remember the way his beautiful eyes would search mine, like he was reading secrets I didn't even know I was keeping. The way his voice would drop to that low, smooth cadence that made my stomach flutter. The careful way his long fingers would trace patterns on my skin.
God, what am I doing? But even as the self-recrimination floods through me, I know I can't drive away. Not when there's even the smallest chance that he might look at me the way he used to, like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Inside, the lobby buzzes with activity. I get my spectator pass with trembling hands, following signs to the tournament area. The space is cavernous, filled withpristine grey tables under bright lights. Spectator stands ring the main table.
The place is packed.
And there he is.
My breath catches. He's wearing a fitted navy shirt that hugs every line of his torso, his hair perfectly styled, that familiar intensity radiating from every movement.
I find a seat in the packed stands, my legs weak.
