Page 13 of Playing Dirty (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Tough Love

Rhett

I let the door fall shut behind me and tossed my keys onto the marble counter. They slid a little, caught the under-cabinet light, and went still. The sound carried farther than it should’ve, like the house wanted to remind me how empty it was when it had me all to itself.

Everything looked the way I’d paid people to make it look—high ceilings washed in warm light, beams hewn to look rustic but too perfect to be anything but planned, floors that didn’t dare creak.

The stone fireplace anchored the room like a magazine spread.

Leather couches. Art I’d convinced myself I liked because it said I had taste.

The whole place was the kind of life you built after a Powerball miracle.

And yet it felt like I’d walked into a model home at closing time. No voices. No laughter bleeding in from down the hall. The air smelled faintly of cedar polish and clean linen—a sign my cleaning crew had been here an hour ago to erase any trace of me.

I stood a second longer, listening to the refrigerator hum and the quiet tick of the thermostat.

Then I crossed the great room and headed down the short hall to the theater.

The carpet gave under my boots, soft as a secret.

Eight recliners waited in a tidy row, the screen asleep and glossy, reflecting a narrow slice of me as I walked by.

I set my phone on the arm of the first chair and sat, the leather sighing like it had missed company.

I recalled the plan we had made earlier—me, Sawyer, Colt, and Tessa—around their kitchen island while the last of the daylight pooled against their windows. We had come to the conclusion that Callie needed the truth about Matt. Not the careful version. Not the rumor mill with the edges sanded down.

Facts. It was time. Tessa had said it softly, Colt had backed it with that steady nod of his, and Sawyer had already volunteered logistics like he was drawing up a stakeout. Tomorrow night, dinner here. Comfortable setting. Good food. Then the truth.

I pictured Colt and Tessa afterward, moving around their home like they were made to fit there—two people who’d figured out how to share a roof and a life without scraping each other raw. It wasn’t envy I felt.

Not exactly. Just the kind of ache that reminded me what quiet could turn into if you let it run your days.

I picked up my phone and opened Callie’s contact. Her name sat there like a horizon line I couldn’t quite see past. I rehearsed the first sentence in my head—casual, easy, nothing that would make her brace before she walked through the door. Dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook. Seven work for you?

My thumb hovered over the call icon. I’d told the others I could do this without making a mess of it.

That I could be honest and careful at the same time.

What I hadn’t said—what I didn’t quite want to admit even now—was that I didn’t know how she’d take it.

Maybe she’d thank me. Maybe she’d hate me for saying out loud what she’d been trying not to name.

The room held its breath with me. Somewhere in the walls, the HVAC sighed and settled. I drew in a slow breath, set my shoulders, and let the truth line up in my head the way it needed to come out.

Then I angled the phone in my palm, ready to call her before I lost my nerve.

My thumb was just brushing the call button when the doorbell rang.

The sharp chime carried through the house, snapping the thread of focus I’d been holding onto.

I sat there for a beat, jaw tight, already betting money it was Sawyer or Easton.

Both had a bad habit of showing up unannounced when they were bored, looking to bum a beer and swap small-town gossip like we didn’t just see each other almost every day.

I pushed out of the recliner, muttering under my breath, and cut through the hall to the front door. The porch light had kicked on, casting a warm pool over the steps.

And there she was.

Callie.

Smiling.

Her copper hair caught the light, throwing a soft halo around her, and there was a faint pink to her cheeks that wasn’t all from the cool evening air. She held her bag in one hand, the neck of a wine bottle sticking out like she’d come armed.

“Evening,” I said, gripping the door a little tighter than I meant to. “You lost?”

“Not unless you moved,” she shot back, stepping past me like she owned the place. “I’ve got news.”

I glanced at the bottle as she held it up between us. “That my peace offering?”

“Think of it more like truth serum,” she said, the corner of her mouth tipping up.

It hit me then—the way her being here shifted everything. The air didn’t feel as still. The quiet wasn’t so loud. Just her standing there, coat open, bottle in hand, and suddenly the house didn’t feel so damn big.

I took the bottle from her and headed for the kitchen, pulling two glasses from the cabinet. The cork came out with a soft pop, and the scent of red wine drifted up—something full-bodied, the kind that sat warm in your chest after the first swallow.

“Make yourself at home,” I said, nodding toward the couch in the great room and pouring us each a glass.

She did, settling on the end cushion, tucking one leg under her like she planned to stay awhile. I handed her a glass, then sat on the adjacent cushion, angled toward her. Close enough to read her face without making it feel like an interrogation.

She turned the glass in her hands once, the wine catching the light. “So. My news.”

I waited, letting her find her own pace.

“I called the corporate office today,” she said, eyes fixed on the wine instead of me. “Needed a letter for the Historical Society, for the Lovelace Centennial Celebration.”

Her mouth curved—just slightly—but there was nothing amused in it. “Turns out, I’m the permanent manager of the Frontier Market now. Not just for a few weeks like Matt told me.”

The words landed like a clean hit, no flourish, no drama—just fact.

I kept my voice even. “He didn’t call to tell you it was permanent?”

“No. And I can’t decide if it was because he didn’t want me to feel too secure, or because he liked me thinking my job depended on him.”

She took a sip, slow and steady, the kind that said she was processing it on her own terms. No cracking voice, no tears—just a quiet acceptance that spoke louder than either.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” she said after a moment. “And if I had to guess… maybe there’s another woman.”

The words were simple, but there was a weight to them—a shift from speculation to something she was beginning to believe. She swirled the wine once more before taking another sip, and I let her have the silence that followed.

I reached for the bottle and tipped it over her glass, giving her a refill before topping off my own.

“I’ve got news too,” I said, setting the bottle back on the table between us.

Her eyes met mine, steady but searching. “Good news or bad?”

“That depends on how you take it.” I let the words hang there a second, feeling their weight settle in my chest. “Since I saw you last, Sawyer and I checked into something we’d heard about Matt. We drove to Casper. Saw it for ourselves.”

She didn’t look away, didn’t fidget—just waited.

“He’s married, Callie. Has two kids. House, yard, the whole thing.”

For half a heartbeat, I braced for the blowback—anger, disbelief, maybe a slammed glass on the table. But she didn’t give me any of that. She just lifted her wine, took a long, deliberate sip, and set the glass down again.

“Then I guess I know where I stand.”

Her voice was quiet, but it carried that same steel I’d seen in her before—when she’d decided to stand her ground instead of letting someone walk all over her.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “We recorded it. Figured you should see for yourself. I knew there was a chance you’d hate me for it, for stepping in like that.”

She reached out, her hand settling on my forearm—light but firm enough to hold me there. “No. I respect it. You’re giving me tough love, Rhett. I’m not used to it… but I think I need it.”

The corner of my mouth pulled before I could stop it. “Guess I’ll take that as a win.”

She didn’t smile back, exactly, but the way her crystal blue eyes held mine told me she meant every word.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled until I found the file. “You ready?”

She nodded once, her hand still resting on my arm like she didn’t want to lose her place.

I angled the screen toward her and hit play. The glow lit her face in soft gold, catching in her hair. She leaned in, close enough that I could feel the faint brush of her shoulder against mine, the warmth of her tucked into the space between us.

On-screen, Matt came into view—walking up the path to a small house with a tidy yard, a swing set in the back. A woman stepped out to meet him, dark hair pulled back, an easy smile on her face. Two kids barreled toward him, squealing his name.

He bent down, scooping them both up like it was the best part of his day.

Callie didn’t say a word. Didn’t flinch. Her fingers tightened briefly on my arm, then relaxed again. She watched the whole thing with the kind of focus you see in people who’ve already guessed the ending—they just need to see the proof with their own eyes.

When the video ended, I let the screen go dark and set the phone on the table.

“Well,” she said, her voice steady, “that’s that. I feel sorry for his wife.”

No tears. No cracking voice. Just a quiet acceptance that landed harder than anything else she could’ve done. I’d braced for her to shatter, and instead she’d just… absorbed it.

I found myself watching her more than the phone, taking in the way she sat there—shoulders squared, glass still in reach, eyes forward. Stronger than I’d given her credit for. Stronger, maybe, than she realized.

We didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, we let it stretch, the only sound was the soft tick of the clock on the far wall. I reached for the bottle, gave us each the last of it, and set it down again.

We drank slowly, the warmth curling in my chest, softening the edges of a conversation that should’ve hurt more than it did. Somewhere between the first glass and the last, the space between us had closed. Our knees brushed. Neither of us moved away.

“You know,” she said after a while, turning her empty glass in her hands, “this might be the most expensive peace offering I’ve ever made.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Worth it?”

Her gaze flicked up to mine, the faintest smile at the corner of her mouth. “Guess we’ll see.”

There was something in her eyes then—something unguarded, softer than I was used to seeing from her. I reached up without thinking, brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face. My thumb grazed her cheek, and she didn’t pull away.

Her breath caught.

I leaned in, slow enough to give her time to change her mind. She didn’t.

The first kiss was soft, deliberate—an answer to a question we hadn’t quite asked out loud. Then she shifted closer, her hand sliding up to my shoulder, and it deepened. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just certain.

When we finally broke apart, our foreheads rested together, both of us breathing just a little harder.

“This isn’t about Matt anymore,” she murmured.

“No,” I said. “It’s about us.”

And for the first time, the house didn’t feel empty at all.

The kiss didn’t end so much as change, our mouths slowing before we pulled back just far enough to look at each other. Her eyes searched mine like she was weighing something—then whatever it was tipped in my favor.

I shifted closer, my hand sliding to the back of her neck, feeling the heat of her skin under my palm. She let out a breath that brushed against my jaw, then leaned in again, this time with a hunger that hadn’t been there before.

The wineglass in her hand made it to the table without a sound. My own followed. And then there was nothing between us but the warmth of her pressed against me, her fingers curling into my shirt like she’d been holding on for far too long.

The house was quiet, but it didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt full—of her, of us, of everything that had been sitting unsaid between us until now.