Page 8 of Playing Dirty (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #2)

Chapter Eight

One Horse Town

Callie

A fter breakfast, the kitchen looked like a crime scene: crumbs on the floor, sticky syrup handprints on the highchair trays, and an abandoned sippy cup leaking some unholy combination of juice and milk.

I wiped the granite countertops down for the third time, mostly just for something to do.

I could hear the twins shrieking with delight down the hallway, Delia reading the Bible to herself on the porch, and the deep rumble of Colt’s voice layered under Tessa’s laughter.

This was life at the Bennetts’ home on Lucky Ranch—sprawling, warm, and way too fancy for someone who still double-checked price tags before buying dish soap.

A farmhouse kitchen with a commercial-grade range.

Shiplap walls and brass hardware. A refrigerator that probably cost more than my high school car. Millionaire cowboys. Who knew?

I shook out the dish towel and draped it over the sink just as the soft pad of paws clicked against the tile.

Pixie.

She trotted in like she’d been here all her life, tail straight up in the air like a flag announcing her arrival. Pixie paused only to glance at me—more of a regal acknowledgment than anything else—before heading straight to the bowl I’d filled earlier. No hesitation. No questions. Just confidence.

"Pretty comfortable for a temporary guest, aren't you?" I said under my breath, crouching to her level.

She didn’t dignify me with a response. Just kept eating, loud and content.

I rubbed between her ears, and her purring revved up like an engine. “Don’t worry. You’re staying with me now. Permanently.”

The words left my mouth before I realized they mattered. Before I realized they were a confession.

I wasn’t waiting for Matt to come pick up his cat.

Or me.

I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, thumb hovering over the screen. No new messages. I typed out a quick text to Matt:

Me: Everything ok?

Simple. Non-accusatory. Safe.

I hit send. Nothing happened. I stared at the little delivered status and felt... nothing. No spark. No hope.

I could call him. Demand answers. Ask why he hadn’t reached out in days, hadn’t checked in on the store, hadn’t said goodnight. But I didn’t.

Because pride is a hell of a drug. And I was starting to wonder if I was the only one still playing house in a relationship that didn’t exist anymore.

Pixie finished eating and rubbed her head against my knee. “At least one of you is consistent,” I muttered.

She purred louder. I didn’t smile.

By the time I pulled into the back lot behind Frontier Market, the clouds had finally cleared. The sky was that washed-out blue you only get after a storm, like someone scrubbed it clean with a bucket of bleach and a conscience.

Inside, the store was still dark, and the air was cool from the backup generator that had kicked on during the outage to keep the freezers and coolers going.

I flipped the switch in the office, turned up the heat, and the fluorescent light flickered overhead before humming to life: coffee, lights, registers.

One by one, the pieces of the day snapped into place: tills from the safe, one for each cashier, register keys handed off, and the daily clipboard updated.

Smile.

Nod.

Breathe.

Go!

The first wave of customers hit before the clock struck eight.

Small-town folks stocking up—paper towels, milk, canned soup, storm batteries they should’ve bought two days ago but didn’t.

Everyone was chatty, grateful the power had only gone out for a few hours and not a full day.

It gave the store a certain energy, like a low-key reunion. Friendly. Familiar.

Busy was good. Busy meant I didn’t have time to think about the way Matt hadn’t called. Or texted. Or cared enough to send a blurry photo of whatever city he’d disappeared to.

Finally, the rhythm of the store took over with a cacophony of voices.

“Do y’all have any ice left?”

“Yes, two bags per customer.”

“Is the bakery making bread today?”

“They’ll have loaves out by noon.”

“Did Matt make it through the storm okay?”

There it was.

The first ask of the day.

I gave the same answer I’d been giving all week: “He’s out of town. He’s fine.”

Lie. Shrug. Move on.

Ten minutes later, more questions.

“Any word on when Matt’s getting back?”

“Not yet. He’s still tied up.”

Smile. Breathe. Stock shelves. Repeat.

By the fifth time someone asked, it wasn’t just annoying—it was humiliating. Because the truth was, I didn’t know where he was. Not really. He hadn’t offered, and I hadn’t pushed.

And that’s when the thought crept in, quiet and ugly.

What if this really is it? What if he really isn’t coming back... to me, or to Lovelace?

I was here, holding the clipboard, giving the orders, keeping the lights on. I was running the damn store. I was showing up.

But him?

He was somewhere else, untethered.

Silent.

The idea that this could all be mine one day used to thrill me. Now it just felt heavy.

I paused at the end of aisle two, adjusting a stack of cereal boxes. Someone had knocked the bottom row crooked, and I lined them back up one by one.

Straighten. Stack. Breathe. Let go.

I was restocking receipt paper in the stockroom when Amanda walked in like she had something on her mind—which usually meant she had something to say that didn’t belong in her mouth to begin with.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her hip popped like she was waiting for a punchline. “So… you and Matt still a thing? Or did he just, like, ghost you and the store?”

My hand froze. I took a breath, finished placing the roll, and shut the drawer with a calm click. “We’re fine,” I said, without looking at her. “And the store is running better than ever.”

Amanda shrugged, like she hadn’t just lobbed a grenade at my pride. “Just asking. People talk, you know?”

“No,” I said, turning to face her, “ you talk.”

Her expression flattened, and she gave a lazy eye roll before turning on her heel. “Touchy.”

“Unprofessional,” I retorted.

She muttered something under her breath as she walked away. I didn’t ask her to repeat it.

The door buzzed two seconds later, and I almost welcomed the interruption.

FedEx guy. Mid-thirties. Ballcap, dimples, the kind of smile that made his customers’ days a little brighter.

“Morning, boss lady,” he said, carrying three stacked boxes like they weighed nothing.

“Morning,” I replied, signing the tablet he passed me. “You guys running late or am I running early?”

“I think you’re just killing it,” he said, flashing that grin. “Store looks good. You runnin’ this whole thing now?”

I handed him back the tablet. “Something like that.”

“Matt take a permanent vacation?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said evenly. “But hey, if you hear from him, tell him we’re out of pickle chips and his cat’s living like royalty.”

He let out a low laugh. “Noted.”

I smiled, just barely, and turned for the office.

Because it was funny—until it wasn’t.

Everyone saw it—the vacuum he left behind. And the woman who was still here, trying like hell not to fall into it.

I shut the door to Matt’s— my —office and let the hum of the store fade behind me. Just a minute to myself. That’s all I needed. One solid minute without questions, customers, or anyone noticing the cracks I was too tired to patch today.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled.

There they were—hundreds of messages. His stupid gifs. My sarcastic replies. Pictures of the store, of us, of nothing and everything. Tiny breadcrumbs from a time when he made space for me in his day.

I tapped his name.

Stared at the blank screen.

No green dot. No typing bubble. Just… air.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Smothering. Louder than any fight we’d ever had. At least a fight meant someone cared enough to shout.

I locked the screen and flipped my phone face down on the desk.

Back to work.

Because there was always work.

The office door swung open without so much as a knock. Lilly strolled in, clutching a plastic-wrapped bouquet of daisies and wearing a look that screamed, I’m pretending this is casual so you don’t bolt.

“You didn’t have to bring me pity flowers,” I said, half-teasing.

She waltzed in like she owned the place, dropped the daisies onto Matt’s desk, and flopped into the chair across from mine.

I sighed. “Let me guess—you’re not just here to brighten my day with sunny blooms.”

“Nope,” she said, grinning. “I came to dig through your business and force you to eat something that didn’t come from a vending machine.”

She opened a brown paper bag from the deli with a smug little grin on her face like she’d just solved world peace.

“Lunch,” she announced, setting the bag on the desk with a dramatic flourish. “Fresh sandwiches. And brownies. Because emotional sabotage pairs best with sugar.”

She didn’t ask what I wanted. Of course not. Lilly didn’t ask—she decided .

She unpacked a turkey and cheddar for me, slid it across the desk like it was a contract I wasn’t allowed to negotiate, then pulled out her own chicken salad sandwich and two warm brownies wrapped in wax paper.

“Eat,” she said. “We’re having a friendly interrogation.”

I peeled back the wrapping. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Callie.”

I bit into the sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed. “He’s just busy.”

“He hasn’t even sent you a selfie .”

“He’s probably in meetings.”

“Okay, then where’s the picture of his hotel room ? His view? His overpriced steak dinner? Matt used to send you pictures of puddles that reminded him of cloud shapes.”

I winced. “That was one time.”

“It was three. I counted.”

She let that hang for a second, then crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “He gave you a bonus, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So… that’s not a ‘thank you,’ that’s a bribe.”

“It’s not a bribe. It’s appreciation.”

“It’s hush money.”

I barked a dry laugh, mostly just to keep from choking. “God, you’re dramatic.”

“And you’re avoiding the obvious.”

I put my sandwich down, my appetite gone. “I need the money.”

Lilly blinked. “For what?”

“A car,” I said, almost under my breath. “I’m tired of using his rental. I’m tired of depending on him for everything. It’s stupid.”

She sat back in her chair like I’d just told her I had a second head.

“You just said something real,” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes. “Shut up.”

But it was real. And it was the first time I’d said it out loud.

And for a split second, it felt like air coming into my lungs after holding my breath too long.

Freedom. Or something like it.

The last customer had left twenty minutes ago, but I was still in the office, straightening things that didn’t need straightening.

Matt’s chair. His pens. The stack of invoices I’d file tomorrow.

His scent was starting to fade from the room, replaced by toner and lemon-scented cleaner. I used to find comfort in the way he left things just a little crooked—like it meant he’d be back to fix it. Now, all it meant was that I was the one doing the fixing.

I wiped a fingerprint from the edge of his monitor. Not because it mattered. Just because I could.

Then I sat down in his chair— my chair—and pulled out my phone.

The screen lit up. Still no new messages.

I tapped open the Notes app and stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment before typing:

— Look for apartments

— Search for used cars

— Call vet for Pickles

The words sat there, neat and ordinary. No drama. No heartbreak. Just logistics.

I hesitated, then typed one more line:

— Don’t wait for him

I stared at it. My thumb hovered, and then I deleted it.

Because I didn’t need a list to tell me what I already knew.

I wasn’t waiting anymore.

I shut off the lights one by one, the store dimming behind me in stages like a curtain falling after a long, strange play. The hum of the soda cooler was the last sound to go.

The front door clicked shut behind me. I locked it, tugged twice out of habit. Solid.

The air outside had turned cool; the kind of crisp that settled into your lungs and made you feel small—in the best way. The parking lot was deserted, and my car sat under the streetlamp as if it had been waiting, its headlights faintly fogged at the edges. Comfortably familiar.

I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. It started on the first try thanks to Colt and the new battery he’d installed a few days ago. As I pulled out of the lot, I didn’t plan to drive past Rhett’s place.

It just... happened.

His ranch sat quiet and still, tucked against the slope like it belonged to the land more than it belonged to him. But the windows were dark. No porch light. No truck in the drive.

Gone.

My stomach dipped. Just a flicker. A flash.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t hoping to see him. I wasn’t wishing that somehow he’d be outside, arms crossed, looking at me like I still mattered somehow.

But I noticed the emptiness. Noticed it hard.

Maybe he’d left town. Maybe he was out late. Maybe he’d realized I wasn’t worth waiting for.

Rhett Callahan—millionaire rancher, professional flirt, full-time pain in the ass—wasn’t the type to stay lonely long. Girls would line up for a shot at that smirk and those broad shoulders. Smart ones. Willing ones.

The kind of women who didn’t come with emotional baggage and a half-adopted cat.

I gripped the wheel a little tighter as I turned back toward Tessa and Colt’s place.

Let him move on.

Let him be done.

Because I wasn’t about to be the girl hoping for scraps. Not again.

But that didn’t stop me from checking the driveway one more time in the rearview mirror.

Just in case.