Page 6 of Playing Dirty
“Only if you count frozen pot pies and a loaf of sourdough as living large,” Rhett drawled behind me.
I stood and brushed chip dust off my slacks, then turned just enough to confirm what I already knew—there he was, leaning on the cart like it might roll away if he didn’t keep one boot anchored to the floor. Stetson low, jacket open, exposing his western-style shirt tailored to his broad chest, eyes annoyingly warm and full of mischief.
He gave me that half-smile that used to mean trouble back when I was dumb enough to flirt back. “You know, most grocery runs involve more than sodium and nostalgia.”
I crossed my arms. “Maybe some of us shop for comfort, not content.”
That earned a soft laugh. “Fair enough.”
He hovered too long, pretending to scan the display. “You seen Tessa and the twins lately?”
I bent down to straighten a crooked bag. “Not really. She’s been busy. Newborns, you know.”
“She mentioned naming the boy after me?”
I looked up with a flat stare. “Pretty sure his name is Wyatt, not Pain-in-the-Ass.”
That made him laugh harder than I liked. He leaned closer, eyes catching the overhead light. “Have you ever missed it? The road, the races, wrangling sponsors and egos?”
I stiffened before I could help it.
Did I miss it? The adrenaline, maybe. The hustle. But not the feeling of being someone else’s unpaid therapist, errand runner, and emotional sponge. Even friendship had its limits.
“Nope,” I said coolly. “I like having a real paycheck. Health insurance’s a perk.”
He didn’t blink at the edge in my voice. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just figured you were good at it.”
“I was,” I said. “Doesn’t mean it was good for me.”
The silence that followed was stretched, taut, and awkward. He scratched at his jaw, wanting to say something more.
Instead, he gave a slight nod and stepped back. “Well, don’t let me get in your way.”
I didn’t watch him walk off, but I felt it—his lingering weight, like heat off a just-turned-off engine. My cheeks flushed, not from the flirt or the memory of old smiles. It was the unsaid words between us—and the one comment he had made about Matt, which I still remembered.
Loser.
Like I didn’t already wonder.
But spiraling over Rhett in the middle of a chip display wasn’t on my to-do list. I shoved the thought aside like an expired coupon—useless and irritating.
Then came the scent—sunflowers, eucalyptus, and that witchy autumn magic Lilly always managed to bottle into her bouquets. She breezed through the front doors like the human version of a mood reset, arms full of blooms from her shop and a clipboard jammed under one elbow, her cheeks pink from the cold.
“Don’t tell me you’re replacing the taco chip display with dahlias,” I called, half-teasing.
“Please,” she said, setting the buckets down by the floral stand. “These are classier. Barely.”
We both laughed, and the tension Rhett had left behind slipped off my shoulders just like that.
Lilly straightened a few price tags and handed me her clipboard. “Matt usually writes me a check.”
“Yeah, he mentioned it this morning before leaving.” I ducked behind the counter, opening the drawer under the register where Matt kept the checkbook. A neat stack of pre-signed checks waited there—he’d told me about them last week, said if he ever got caught out of town on short notice, all I had to do was fill in the details.
I filled one out, tore it neatly along the perforated line, and handed it over.
Lilly tucked it into her clipboard, giving me a sidelong glance. “So, he’s really gone? Just like that?”
I shrugged, folding my arms. “Training thing in Tucson. Says it’s a big deal.”
