Page 12 of Playing Dirty (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #2)

Chapter Twelve

The Last Lie

Callie

B y mid-morning, I’d already restarted the same email three times.

The store’s inventory report sat open on my screen, half-filled cells blinking like accusations. I was supposed to flag a handful of items from last week’s delivery—shortages, overcharges, and damaged goods. Still, my focus kept slipping sideways, straight into the mess of my personal life.

I typed two lines, deleted them, then sat back in my chair and rubbed the space between my eyes. Matt was supposed to be in Tucson. Training, he’d said. Important stuff for the regional team. His words, not mine. And like a fool, I’d nodded and kept the store running while he disappeared—again.

I stared at the screen a second longer, then clicked open the employee schedule, scanning for holes I needed to fill this weekend.

A couple of people had requested Sunday off, and the high school kid who stocked the freezers had baseball tryouts coming up.

I made a note in the margin, emailed corporate about the missing cases of creamer, and flagged a second box of freezer-burned burritos to be credited.

All productive. All necessary. And all completely useless when what I really needed was to figure out how I was going to move out of the cabin.

Because I couldn’t stay there. Not anymore.

The walls felt different now—smaller, somehow. Like they’d soaked in too many lies. I knew Tessa would let me stay in the guesthouse with Dalia if I asked, but I wasn’t sure I could handle being that close to someone who loved me that much. Not right now. Not while I still felt so scraped raw.

Maybe I needed a fresh start. Something temporary. A hotel. A long drive.

But where would I even go?

I exhaled hard and flipped the inventory report over, pretending it wasn’t all caving in a little more each day. Matt hadn’t just left me with the store—he’d left me with his mess. Unanswered calls. Vague texts. Weeks of one-sided trust that now felt more like denial dressed up as patience.

And the worst part?

I still missed the version of him I thought I knew.

I missed the man who made coffee before I got out of bed. The one who laughed at my bad jokes and said we made a good team. I missed the life we were supposed to be building together—grocery lists, mortgage talk, daydreams about a porch swing, and maybe a dog someday.

Now, I was starting to realize that version of him didn’t exist. Not really.

Perhaps the version of me that believed in him didn’t either.

I was halfway through drafting a “friendly” reminder to our customer service rep about the cracked box of cleaning supplies when a light knock landed on the doorframe. Emma stood there, beaming like she was carrying good news in her purse.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything too exciting,” she said, already stepping inside with her tote bag slung over one shoulder and a digital tablet tucked beneath her arm.

“Only if you count billing discrepancies and expired freezer burritos exciting,” I said, pushing back from the desk. “What’s up?”

“I was just over at the Historical Society and thought I’d stop by. I’ve been working on the exhibit for the centennial— Lovelace: Then and Now —and of course, I have to include the market. I mean, it’s been a staple in this town longer than most of us have had birthdays.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Seriously? You want to feature us?”

Emma dropped her tote on the guest chair and grinned.

“Absolutely. This place has been the heartbeat of Main Street for almost a hundred years. Frontier Market is the perfect example of how the town’s grown and changed.

I figured you might have some fun facts or materials tucked away in the office that I could use. ”

“Wow. Yeah, sure—have a seat.” I stood and moved toward the old coffeemaker in the corner. “You want a cup?”

“Love one,” she said, settling into the chair like she had all the time in the world.

I poured us both a cup—hers with sugar, mine black—and handed hers across the desk before sitting back down.

She took a sip and started flipping through the papers she pulled from her tote.

“I’m pulling together photos, historical notes, and maybe some artifacts.

A few folks donated old receipts, newspaper ads, and other things like that.

You wouldn’t believe the gems I’ve found.

” Then she brightened. “Oh! Let me show you this.”

She pulled out her phone and tapped a few times before turning the screen toward me.

It was a photo, sun-faded and slightly blurry, of the old storefront, back when it was still called Bart’s Market.

Wooden benches out front. A hand-painted sign hung above the door.

Two kids with soda bottles sat on the curb, legs kicked out and grins as wide as summer.

One of them looked suspiciously like a young Colt Bennett.

“Hard to believe it’s been almost a decade,” Emma said. “Before Frontier came in and corporatized everything.”

I smiled, but something tugged at my chest. “I remember that sign. And that window used to get foggy in the winter—you could draw pictures on it with your finger while your mom shopped.”

The memory hit unexpectedly. Sharp. Sweet. And kind of sad.

That place in the picture… it felt more honest. Like it belonged to the people who lived here—not some boardroom in another state. Somewhere along the line, the store had lost that.

Maybe I had, too.

“I’d love to include something current to show the contrast,” Emma went on. “If you could get a signed letter from corporate listing the current management and maybe a short write-up on the store’s presence in Lovelace, I can frame it next to the photo.”

“Sure,” I said, nodding slowly. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wonderful.” She jotted a note in her tablet, finished her coffee, and stood with that same bright smile. “I’ll swing back by later in the week. Thanks again, Callie. This is going to be a beautiful addition.”

I walked her to the door, and as I turned back toward the desk, the image on her phone lingered in my mind: that hand-painted sign, the foggy windows, the feeling that things used to be simpler—and maybe a little more true.

Maybe that’s what bothered me the most—the difference between what was real and what looked good on the outside.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Emma, I sank back into my chair. I reopened my laptop, pulled up the contact list for the Tucson office, and located the number. It was time to take care of this letter.

The line rang twice before a woman answered.

She sounded cheerful and unbothered, like someone who’d had a full cup of coffee and no idea how heavy the world could be.

I explained the exhibit Emma was working on, said we needed an official letter listing store management, and offered to write the draft myself.

“Oh, that sounds so fun! We can do the letter,” she said brightly. “We’d love to be part of something like that. But if it’s going to be displayed, it’ll need an actual signature from your regional manager. We don’t do digital for public-facing stuff like that.”

“Okay,” I said, grabbing a pen. “So that would go to Matt?”

“Yep, we’ll route it to him for sign-off.”

I leaned back in my chair, forcing my voice to stay casual. “I thought he was doing training in Tucson?”

A pause. “Tucson?” she echoed. “No, he hasn’t been here. He’s been in Casper, Wyoming, filling in as the manager for that store. Casper is the regional office, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” My pen stilled in my hand.

I stared at the pad of paper in front of me like it might change what I just heard. “Oh,” I said, keeping my tone light. “So… who’s listed as the manager for Lovelace?”

More keyboard clicks.

“Well, that store’s manager position has technically been open for a couple of years now. Matt’s been covering it remotely. But… huh. Actually, as of a few days ago, you’re listed as the manager.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. Didn’t Matt tell you?”

I swallowed. “He’s been out of town.”

“Ah, that makes sense. But no worries—we’ll send the draft letter to him, and once it’s signed, we’ll forward a copy for your records. Your salary increase will be reflected in Friday’s direct deposit.”

I stared straight ahead, watching the tiny crack in the drywall near the window. “Thanks,” I said softly.

“Oh, and let us know if you want to include anything fun about the store’s history in your draft. We love it when local teams get involved.”

“I will,” I replied. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime!”

I ended the call.

And just sat there.

No tears. No denial. No pleading with the universe for another explanation.

Just silence.

Then I set the phone down with deliberate care, like if I moved too fast, something in me might crack.

I stood. Started pacing—tight, sharp loops behind the desk. My boots tapped against the laminate floor like a metronome speeding up with each step.

My jaw locked.

One hand curled into a fist.

He lied. Again.

Not some slip of the tongue or omission out of guilt.

He’d told a full, practiced lie—said he was training in Tucson while living out his second life in Casper. At the same time, changing my job title permanently behind my back. And managing every detail like a man who expected not to be questioned.

By the third pass, I slammed my palm on the desk. The coffee mug jumped. The pen jar rattled. A paperclip skittered off the edge and landed at my feet.

Still no tears.

Just breathe. Shallow. Focused. Controlled.

This wasn’t heartbreak.

It was clarity.

And I had never felt colder—or more certain.

The desk was still vibrating faintly from where I’d slapped it when the memory snuck up on me.

It came in soft at first—like the scent of something warm drifting through a half-open window. The kind of moment that didn’t hurt until you realized it never meant what you thought it did.

He’d come home late. That part I remembered clearly.

The porch light had already timed itself off, and I was sitting on the couch in an old sweatshirt, half-watching something forgettable on TV and wondering whether I should just go to bed.

Then the door opened, and there he was—grinning, worn out, holding a bouquet of daisies in one hand and his keys in the other.

Daisies. My favorite.

“Picked these up at a little flower stand near the Montana border,” he said, crossing the room like he couldn’t get to me fast enough. “I missed you.”

I’d taken the flowers and buried my face in them, already melting. He always knew when to show up just right. When to be sweet. When to disarm me.

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, leaned in, and kissed my forehead.

“I hated being away,” he murmured. “I couldn’t wait to get back to you.”

And I had believed him.

Every word.

I’d set the daisies in a mason jar on the kitchen counter and fallen asleep that night after making love. Feeling wanted. Safe. Like love was still something I could count on, even if it had a habit of showing up late with road dust on its shoes.

But now, sitting in that office with the truth pressing down on me like a second spine, I could see it for what it really was.

A performance.

A moment borrowed from someone else’s story. Undoubtedly from some other woman. Some other life.

He hadn’t hated being away. He had just hated the idea of being caught.

I stared down at my phone, Rhett’s name glowing on the screen like it might offer something—guidance, reassurance, a voice that didn’t lie.

I hit call .

It rang twice. Then straight to voicemail.

I didn’t leave a message.

What could I even say? Hey, I figured it out. He’s been lying. Again. And I think I already knew. Also—I think I need to see you.

I let the screen go dark and held the phone in my hand a second longer, thumb pressed against the edge like I might change my mind and try again.

But I didn’t.

There was no more room for doubt. No more space for waiting. No more pretending I needed permission to move on from someone who’d already moved on from me.

I was done.

I stood and grabbed my purse as I walked through the store. At the front, I found Madison—the head cashier—and gave her a quick nod.

“Can you close up tonight?” I asked, keeping my voice even.

She blinked at me in surprise. “Of course. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just need to step out.”

She didn’t press, and I didn’t offer anything else.

The glass doors swung shut behind me, trapping the hum of checkout scanners and bad pop music inside. Somewhere between the register and the door, I’d caught myself smiling—quiet, sly, like I’d just decided on the perfect crime and no one else knew it yet.

Instead of aiming for the rental car, I detoured two doors down into the beverage store.

One lap around the wine aisle, I found my weapon of choice: not too expensive, not too cheap—just the kind of middle-shelf truth serum that might help me explain myself to Rhett without accidentally setting his kitchen on fire.

The clerk slid it into a brown paper bag, and I carried it out like contraband.

Back at the car, I slipped the bottle into my bag. If I was about to launch into a speech that could either clear the air or blow the whole damn thing sky-high, I wanted backup.

The engine turned over with a low rumble. I stared down the stretch of road ahead, knowing full well I couldn’t predict what I’d find when I got there.

For the first time in a long time, I knew exactly what I wanted to say. And maybe—if the wine did its job—I’d even say it out loud.