New Year, New Man: A Kiss on Crimson Ranch / The Dance Off / The Right Mr. Wrong

“Doesn’t belong in Crimson, that’s for sure.”

Josh concentrated on the necklaces as unease skated around his chest. He glanced in the small mirror above the jewelry case and spotted Sara standing behind a sale rack.

As Josh turned toward the group of women, the conversation behind the counter continued, louder now. The women made no attempt to be discreet.

“I read she was into drugs for a while,” one of the customers offered, bending forward so that Josh got too much of a view of her ample backside.

Eyes widened within the group. “Did you see track marks?”

“I can’t get past those raccoon eyes,” another woman said with a snicker.

“It looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in years,” Rita answered. “Maybe we should send her down to Nell’s salon for a makeover.”

Maybe you should shut your mouth, Josh thought. He glanced at Sara in the mirror, expecting to see steam rising from her ears. He was surprised she hadn’t come out swinging already. Instead, he watched her swipe under her eyes and return a blouse to the rack, her hand shaking a bit.

“I wouldn’t wish that hot mess on anyone,” the younger salesgirl said, sending the other women into peals of laughter.

Josh felt his blood pressure rise along with the volume of giggles. He looked back to Sara, and her gaze met his in the mirror. For a single moment her eyes were unguarded and he saw pain, raw and real, in their depths. She blinked and shuttered them, turning the glare he’d come to know so well on him in full force. She shook her head slightly and backed away from the clothes rack.

Now, he thought. Cut them down now. She turned to a display of knit tops and picked one out at random. He watched her carry it to the front of the store. The women looked her up and down, not hiding their judgment and contempt.

“Just this,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes forward. “You have some lovely things in the store.”

“They all have security tags,” Rita answered as she punched a few keys on the cash register.

“Of course.”

Josh’s temper hit the roof. How could Sara let that group of catty witches fillet her without defending herself? Where was the sarcastic, no-holds-barred woman he’d already come to expect? Hell, he hated to admit it, but he actually looked forward to their verbal sparring to break up the monotony of his day.

But this? This was total and complete bull. He grabbed two necklaces from the rack and stalked to the counter.

“What do you think of these?” he asked as he slammed them onto the glass top.

Rita jumped back an inch then pasted on a broad smile. “With Claire’s gorgeous skin the turquoise will—”

“I’m not talking to you,” he interrupted, unconcerned with how rude he sounded. “Which one, Sara?”

“The butterfly charm,” she answered immediately. “The turquoise on the other one is dime-store quality.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rita sputtered.

Sara didn’t make eye contact with either of them, only dug in her purse for a wallet.

That a girl, Josh thought. Just a little more.

“Claire trusts your opinion,” he continued conversationally. “I think she was sold the moment Gwyneth called to see what she should wear to her movie opening.”

“Gwyneth Paltrow?” the salesgirl asked, her tone taking on a fraction of respect.

Sara’s fingers tightened around her purse and she sliced a dead-meat look at him.

He forced a chuckle. “It’s like Hollywood is one big sorority.” He pointed to Sara. “Her phone is ringing every ten minutes. Julia needs to know where to find some kind of boots. Sandra’s texting about a brand of fancy-pants jeans.”

Rita raised an eyebrow at Sara. “And they’re calling you?”

When Sara didn’t answer, Josh spoke quickly, “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Sara pulled out cash and handed it to Rita. “For the sweater.” She didn’t acknowledge Josh’s comments or Rita’s question.

Rita took the money, studying Sara. “I’m ordering for fall in a couple of weeks. Maybe you could stop by and take a look at the lines. We’re not as exclusive as Aspen, but I still want to offer current trends. I’d appreciate a fresh opinion.”

“Fresh?” Sara questioned. “As in fresh off heroin?” She yanked her sleeves above her elbows and held out her arms for inspection. “No track marks, ladies. Needles were never my thing.”

Two of the women giggled nervously and backed away from the counter. After an awkward pause Rita said, “If you’ve got time, stop back later in the month.”

Sara blew out a breath. “Give me a break,” she mumbled, and left the store, leaving the bagged sweater and change Rita had placed on the counter.

Josh quickly paid for his necklace, grabbed Sara’s bag and followed her into the warming afternoon. He caught up with her half a block down the street.

“What happened in there?”

She rounded on him. “Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Name Dropper?” She jabbed at his chest, her voice rising. “Since when are you an expert on celebrity fashion? Not one damn person has called my cell phone since I got here, famous or otherwise. And you know it.”

“Excuse me for trying to help. Those women were out for blood, and you were about to open a vein for them.”

“You should mind your own business,” she countered.

“Who are you right now?” He took a deep breath, needing to clear his head. It didn’t work. Not one bit. “All you’ve done since the minute you walked into my house—”

“My house.”

“The house,” he amended. “All you’ve done is bust my chops. If I look at you wrong, you read me the riot act, give me one of those snide remarks or smart comebacks you’re so damn good at.” He pointed in the direction of Rita’s store. “You didn’t say one word to those ladies in there.”

She rolled her eyes. “You took care of it all on your own.”

“Somebody had to. It was too painful to watch your slow death.”

“Julia, Gwyneth? Even if I was in L.A., do you think one of those women would give me the time of day? They are A-list, Josh. I’m beyond Z. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Rita didn’t know that.”

“I know it.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I’m a has-been. A nobody. You don’t get it. What those women dished out was nothing compared to what I hear every single day in California. At the grocery. The dry cleaners.” She laughed without humor. “At least back in the day when I could afford dry cleaning. I’ve been a waitress now for the same number of years I was a paid actress. Do you know how many customers gave me career advice, hair tips, dissed my makeup, my boyfriends, all of it? Nothing was off-limits. I can take it, Josh. I don’t need you to swoop in and rescue me.”

“Excuse me for trying to help.”

“I don’t want help. This isn’t Pretty Woman meets mountain town. I’m not Julia Roberts shopping on Rodeo Drive. You’re not Richard Gere on the fire escape.”

“Why do you do that?”