Page 37 of Playing Dirty
I walked to the bedroom and pulled open the closet in the corner. The one I hadn’t touched since Matt left.
It was time to do some digging.
Boxes lined the bottom. Neatly stacked. Labeled in his tidy handwriting. “Office,” one read. “Misc.” another. I reached for the top, peeled back the flaps, and looked inside.
Old notebooks. A pair of worn-out shoes. A tangle of cords. At the bottom, a framed photo wedged behind a zippered portfolio. I pulled it free.
Matt stood in the photo, grinning stiffly beside two men in suits. A brass plate along the bottom read:Congratulations, Matthew Downing – Regional Manager, Frontier Market Inc.
I stared at it, my stomach dipping.
Regional manager?
He always told me he managed the Lovelace store. Small-town gig. Modest hours. Nothing fancy.
So why the plaque?
Why the photo I’d never seen?
I dug deeper. A t-shirt with the Frontier Market logo. A couple of employee handbooks. But no framed team pictures. No company newsletters. No thank-you notes. No trace of the life he’d supposedly built—nothing he’d shared with me.
My throat tightened.
If he’d kept this hidden… what else had he lied about?
I shoved the box closed, went to the kitchen, and pulled the bottle of Crown from the cupboard. The cap clicked free, and I poured two fingers into a glass. No ice. No pretense.
I sank onto the couch and let the burn settle in my chest.
And for the first time since he left, I didn’t feel confused.
I felt stupid.
And so damn alone.
The Crown burned going down, but it settled warm in my belly, coiling low and deep like something half-forgotten and newly alive.
I stared into the fire, the shadows flickering against the walls like ghosts with unfinished stories.
And my mind didn’t go to Matt.
It went to Rhett.
The night he stayed here—the night I let him in, but only so far. He’d been all broad shoulders and quiet patience, standing in my kitchen like he didn’t want to break the moment. Or me.
He could’ve pushed. God knows men have for less.
But Rhett didn’t.
He sat on that couch, same as I was now, legs stretched out, fingers resting lightly on his knee, and watched me like I was something worth waiting for. Something real.
I remember the way he looked at me—not hungry in the way men usually do, but reverent, like he saw the cracks and still wanted to hold the pieces.
And I’d wanted him.
God, I’d wanted to strip in front of him, climb into his lap, thread my fingers into his hair, and taste the curve of that smug, infuriating mouth.
I’d wanted to feel his hands on my thighs, his breath in my ear, the weight of him pressed against every aching part of me.
