Page 12 of Playing Dirty
“You made it out alive,” he said as I stepped up beside him.
“Barely,” I replied, tugging my coat tighter. “That neon drink that Sawyer ordered for Lilly and me. Pretty sure my tongue is still glowing.”
He chuckled, then nodded toward the far end of the lot. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
We crunched side by side across the snow, our boots leaving a crisp trail behind us. My breath fogged the air, and every part of me wanted to soak in the comfort of having someone next to me, even if that someone had a knack for getting under my skin.
At the edge of the lot, he slowed to a stop by my rental. “You want me to follow you back to the cabin?” he asked, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the nicest offer I’d heard all day. “Roads might get tricky.”
I paused, hand already on the door handle.
“No,” I said with a soft smile. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
The words came out too fast, too practiced.
Rhett nodded once, like he wasn’t surprised, then stepped back to give me room.
But as I slid behind the wheel, my chest went tight. The snow brushed softly against the windshield, and I sat there for a second, hands frozen on the wheel, listening to the silence grow.
What are you doing, Callie?
I didn’t have an answer.
Only the sinking feeling that I’d just made the kind of mistake that didn’t show up until later, when it was dark, cold, and no one was around to fix it.
I turned the key.
Click.
No engine rumble. No lights. Just that hollow, soul-sucking sound of a dead battery.
“Come on,” I whispered, trying again.
Click.
I slumped forward and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, closing my eyes. Of course. Of course, this would happen—rental car, no jumper cables, no charger, no Matt.
The snow was coming down harder now, and the windshield wipers—bless them—were useless. My breath clouded the windows while a low pulse of panic started behind my ribs.
A soft knock on the window made me jump.
Rhett.
He was already brushing snow off the hood with one hand, motioning for me to pop it with the other. I scrambled for the latch, the cold sneaking into the car the second I cracked the door open to yell, “It’s probably the battery!”
“I figured,” he called back, already lifting the hood.
I stayed where I was, watching him through the frosted glass. He leaned in, tugged something, and jiggled a cable like he knew what he was doing. His breath misted in the air, and the snow dusted his shoulders, catching on his dark lashes.
He looked exactly how I remembered from a thousand small-town moments—calm, solid, infuriatingly competent. Like when I sprained my ankle in fifth grade in the middle of the three-legged race, he’d picked me up without a word and carried me across the finish line.
He closed the hood and stepped back to the window. “Try it now.”
I did.
Click.
I groaned and let my head fall back against the seat.
