Page 10 of Playing Dirty (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #2)

Chapter Ten

The Distance Between Us

Callie

I didn’t mean to look for the second time.

But as I curved down the last stretch of road, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back at Rhett’s place in the rearview mirror one more time. Still dark. Still empty. Like it had been swallowed by the night and wasn’t in any hurry to reappear.

The ache in my chest wasn’t sharp—it was dull and constant, like something had settled there just to remind me I hadn’t figured out how to let go. Not of him. Not of anything.

The radio crackled to life as I fiddled with the volume, the local DJ cutting through my thoughts. “And good news for folks up on the north ridge—power’s finally been restored after the storm. Looks like everything’s running again, just in time for another cold snap this weekend…”

North ridge. The cabin.

I blinked. Glanced down at my phone sitting screen-up in the console. A notification from earlier glowed back at me—missed in the swirl of the day.

LOVELACE PROPANE CO:

Sorry for the delay—your tank has been refilled. Stay warm out there.

That was all it took.

I pulled over on the shoulder, threw the car in park, and stared at the steering wheel for a long moment. My fingers hovered over the screen before tapping out a quick text to Tessa.

Me:

Heading to the cabin for the night. Will grab Pixie in the morning.

No explanation. Just space.

I hit send, flipped on my blinker, and made a U-turn. Asphalt hummed under my tires as I drove toward the place I thought I’d made a home in.

It wasn’t about Matt anymore.

Not really.

I just needed to be somewhere that didn’t ask questions. Somewhere I could sit with the hollow and not have to smile through it.

I didn’t know if I wanted distance.

Or if I just wanted someone to come looking.

The door creaked open with a familiar groan, the kind that once made this place feel like home. Tonight, it just echoed.

The cold hit me first—sharp and unmoving. No heat humming through the vents, no fire waiting in the hearth. Just stale air and the faint scent of dry wood and whatever was still lingering from the last time I’d been here.

No voices. No music. No cat.

Just the absence of everything.

I shut the door behind me and adjusted the thermostat. Hearing the heater click on, I stood trying to decide if I felt relieved to be alone or just… exposed.

I slipped off my jacket, dropped my bag on the couch, and crouched to start a fire.

The logs caught faster than I expected, flames licking up the kindling with a crackle that filled the silence a little too well.

I stood and walked to the kitchen, set a kettle on the stove, and pulled down the same chipped mug I always used when I was trying to calm down or pretend things were normal.

The tea steeped while I paced. I moved through the rooms like a ghost retracing her own footsteps.

The bedroom. The hallway. The bathroom still stocked with the same soap Matt liked. I paused in front of the dresser where he used to drop his keys, the faintest scratch worn into the surface. My fingers hovered over it, then pulled back.

Every room had some kind of memory tucked into it. And most of them didn’t feel like mine anymore.

I walked back to the living room, sat on the couch, and stared into the fire. The mug of tea sat untouched beside me, the steam already fading. The quiet wasn’t peaceful—it was thick and suffocating. The kind that forced you to hear your own thoughts.

I wasn’t just missing Matt.

I was starting to see that I’d been holding on to a version of him that hadn’t existed in a long time.

And maybe the version of me who’d thought she’d loved him… didn’t either.

I couldn’t sit still.

The fire crackled behind me, the tea long forgotten. My skin itched with restlessness, with the need to move—do something, anything, to escape the echo chamber in my chest.

I walked to the bedroom and pulled open the closet in the corner. The one I hadn’t touched since Matt left.

It was time to do some digging.

Boxes lined the bottom. Neatly stacked. Labeled in his tidy handwriting. “Office,” one read. “Misc.” another. I reached for the top, peeled back the flaps, and looked inside.

Old notebooks. A pair of worn-out shoes. A tangle of cords. At the bottom, a framed photo wedged behind a zippered portfolio. I pulled it free.

Matt stood in the photo, grinning stiffly beside two men in suits. A brass plate along the bottom read: Congratulations, Matthew Downing – Regional Manager, Frontier Market Inc.

I stared at it, my stomach dipping.

Regional manager?

He always told me he managed the Lovelace store. Small-town gig. Modest hours. Nothing fancy.

So why the plaque?

Why the photo I’d never seen?

I dug deeper. A t-shirt with the Frontier Market logo. A couple of employee handbooks. But no framed team pictures. No company newsletters. No thank-you notes. No trace of the life he’d supposedly built—nothing he’d shared with me.

My throat tightened.

If he’d kept this hidden… what else had he lied about?

I shoved the box closed, went to the kitchen, and pulled the bottle of Crown from the cupboard. The cap clicked free, and I poured two fingers into a glass. No ice. No pretense.

I sank onto the couch and let the burn settle in my chest.

And for the first time since he left, I didn’t feel confused.

I felt stupid.

And so damn alone.

The Crown burned going down, but it settled warm in my belly, coiling low and deep like something half-forgotten and newly alive.

I stared into the fire, the shadows flickering against the walls like ghosts with unfinished stories.

And my mind didn’t go to Matt.

It went to Rhett.

The night he stayed here—the night I let him in, but only so far. He’d been all broad shoulders and quiet patience, standing in my kitchen like he didn’t want to break the moment. Or me.

He could’ve pushed. God knows men have for less.

But Rhett didn’t.

He sat on that couch, same as I was now, legs stretched out, fingers resting lightly on his knee, and watched me like I was something worth waiting for. Something real.

I remember the way he looked at me—not hungry in the way men usually do, but reverent, like he saw the cracks and still wanted to hold the pieces.

And I’d wanted him.

God, I’d wanted to strip in front of him, climb into his lap, thread my fingers into his hair, and taste the curve of that smug, infuriating mouth.

I’d wanted to feel his hands on my thighs, his breath in my ear, the weight of him pressed against every aching part of me.

But I didn’t.

Because I was scared of what it would mean. Scared he’d think I was easy, or lost, or desperate.

Yet I wasn’t any of those things.

I was just… tired of being untouched. Tired of playing the safe girl when my skin was begging to be wanted. I wasn’t ashamed of that anymore.

What I felt for Rhett wasn’t just desire—it was hunger. For connection. For honesty. For someone who didn’t need me to be smaller to love me.

And maybe it wasn’t too late to want that.

Even if I had no idea what to do with it now.

Thanks to the whiskey, the cabin felt warmer now, but a part of me still felt cold where it mattered.

I walked toward the bathroom, bare feet padding softly across the floor. The cold tiles bit at my soles, sending a jolt through me that I couldn’t shake.

I turned on the shower. Steam poured out, fogging the mirror in slow tendrils as I peeled off my clothes—one layer at a time. Not seductive. Just… deliberate.

My bra hit the floor. Then the panties.

Then there was nothing left but—me.

I stepped beneath the spray and let the heat scald away the chill. Water rolled over my breasts, down my belly, between my thighs. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting the ache bloom in the quiet.

I ran my hands over my belly—slow at first, exploring places I hadn’t touched in too long.

I let my fingers drift, remembering the way Rhett’s voice had dipped when he called me “darlin’,” the rasp of it like gravel and heat.

I imagined his hands replacing mine—rough palms, steady fingers, coaxing, teasing, owning.

He’d say my name, low and thick, right before pressing me back against the tile.

And I’d let him.

I’d wrap my legs around his hips, dig my nails into his shoulders, lose myself in the way he’d take his time—not just to get me off, but to see me fall apart for him. But the edge wouldn't come no matter how much the water and my fingers stimulated my clit.

I pressed harder, circling faster, my other hand squeezing my breast, pinching my nipple until it bordered on pain.

My legs trembled, muscles tightening as I chased the release that hovered just out of reach.

I slipped two fingers inside, curling them upward, searching for that spot that usually sent me over, but tonight my body refused to surrender.

No matter how close I got, it wasn't enough.

I could feel the pressure building, that delicious tension coiling tighter in my core, my inner walls clenching around my fingers.

My breath came in ragged gasps that echoed off the tile as I leaned against the shower wall, water streaming between my breasts and down my stomach.

I spread my legs wider, angled my hips, desperately seeking that perfect friction. The familiar tingling started at the base of my spine, my toes curling against the slick floor—but then it plateaued, leaving me suspended in that maddening space between almost and not quite.

Frustrated, I shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and pressed it to my face like I could smother the hunger growing inside me. My body still throbbed, sensitive and swollen, aching for a release that wouldn't come from my own touch.

I needed something more—someone more. I needed hands larger than mine, rougher than mine. I needed Rhett's weight, his heat, his voice in my ear telling me exactly what he wanted to do to me.

Back in the bedroom, I opened the bottom dresser drawer and pushed past the socks, past the old sweatshirt, until my fingers brushed velvet.

I pulled the toy free, smirking in spite of myself.

Lonely wasn’t the same as powerless.

Sliding between the sheets, I let the cotton wrap around me, soft and clean. My body still pulsed from the shower, the whiskey, the memory of his eyes on mine.

I closed my eyes.

And let him in.

In my mind, Rhett didn’t hesitate. He knelt at the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, spreading me open like I was something precious he was about to ruin. His mouth trailed heat down my belly, his voice rough against my skin—praising, coaxing, promising.

My hand moved in rhythm with the picture I painted of him—his fingers wrapped around my wrists, his chest against my breasts, his breath hot and shaky in my ear.

The toy slid inside slowly, stretching me, filling me in a way that had my breath catching. I arched off the bed, whispering his name like it meant something. Like I meant something.

The orgasm slammed into me, sharp and sudden. I cried out, body trembling, back bowing as the wave rolled through.

And then it was quiet again.

Too quiet.

I lay there panting, chest rising and falling as the sweat cooled on my skin. The toy slipped from my fingers, forgotten beneath the covers. I pulled the blanket up, wrapped myself tight like it could hold me together.

My heart ached—hot and sore.

Not from what I’d done.

From how badly I wanted him. Rhett. Not just the fantasy. Not just the sex. I wanted him .

His voice. His hands. His presence.

I’d thought it was just longing.

But it was more than that.

It was need.

And that scared me more than anything else.

The light woke me first.

That soft, silvery kind that creeps in through the curtains when the sun is just starting to rise and the world still feels half-asleep. I blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented. The fire was out. The bedroom had gone cold.

But I was warm.

Too warm. My skin still hummed, tingling like an echo I couldn’t shake.

The sheets were tangled around my legs, my nightshirt twisted, my heart thudding like I’d been running in a dream I couldn’t remember—only the feeling of it lingered.

Heat. Hands. A mouth whispering things I wanted to believe were true.

Rhett’s name pressed against my lips like a secret I hadn’t meant to keep.

I laid there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling as the ache in my chest stretched wide and deep.

It wasn’t shame that settled over me.

It was clarity.

I wasn’t just lonely.

I was starving—for something real. For something that didn’t vanish in the morning light or lie with a smile. I wanted honesty. I wanted to be seen and touched like I mattered—not just for a night, but for everything I was trying so hard to hold together.

And deep down, I knew exactly who I wanted it from.

And it wasn’t Matt.