Page 46 of Playing Dirty
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.
Chapter Thirteen
Tough Love
Rhett
Ilet 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.”
