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

“What’s the matter?”

He rested his forehead on hers and drew in several steadying breaths. “Everything. This summer is about Claire. About starting over with her. A second chance.”

“Second chances,” she said, her voice impossibly quiet. “I get that.” The next moment she pushed hard on his chest. “You know what you are, Lone Ranger?”

He shook his head as she started past him, wondering how she could go from soft and pliant to prickly in less time than he could stay on the meanest bull. “What’s that, Hollywood Barbie?”

“A tease.”

Fighting words. She’d probably chosen them purposely to break the spell between them, but he couldn’t let it go. He grabbed her wrist and swung her around to face him. “You’d better take that back. Now.”

She shook free of his grasp. “You won’t let anyone in and you’ll throw out any excuse in the book so you don’t have to.” Her eyes glinted, daring him to argue.

His gaze locked on hers, and he let her see how much he craved her. Her breath caught. She took a small step back.

“Do you want in, Sara? Really?”

She looked at a point past his shoulder for a few moments, and when her eyes finally found his, she shook her head. “I want out. Out of Colorado. Out of debt. Out of owing people.”

The right answer for both of them, Josh knew, but a sliver of pain sliced across his chest. He wasn’t the kind of man women took a chance on. He had nothing to offer except a wild night between the sheets and a wave in the morning.

Even if she didn’t know it, he could tell Sara needed a man who would stick.

Joe Hollywood upstairs wasn’t it, but neither was Josh.

“It’s better this way,” she told him. “No complications.”

Right.

She tapped her fingers against her jaw as if deep in thought. “I don’t like you that much anyway,” she said finally. “You’re not my type.”

“Could you stop waving red flags in front of me?” He dug his hands deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out to her again. Every time she made some kind of ridiculous comment, he itched to prove her wrong. Over and over again.

As if sensing his intentions, she took another step away. “Sorry. No red flags. I have some voice mails to return, so I’ll see you later. Or not. Probably not.”

“Are we still in good shape?”

Her brow arched.

“Bookings,” he clarified. “Guests. Good shape with actually making money this summer.” He hadn’t wanted to turn the office side of the ranch over to her, but as the start of the season got closer, it became harder to balance the preparations on the property with the work involved in making reservations and talking to potential customers. Sara had insisted that customer service was her strong suit, and despite her sassy attitude with him, so far she’d been a whiz. In less than a week, she’d organized the jumble of paperwork in the office, confirmed their current reservations and followed up with a half-dozen prospective clients.

The best part was that Josh’s cell phone, where he’d had the office calls forwarded, had stopped ringing every ten minutes. He’d actually been able to get a lot of projects done. He felt almost ready for guests to arrive.

“We’re in better than good shape. I just confirmed a family reunion for six nights at the end of June. There’s only one weekend in July still open and August is full.” She studied him. “You did an excellent job with the marketing. I guess there was a write-up in Sunset magazine recommending the ranch. That’s quite a bit of publicity.”

He shrugged. “I know an editor there.”

She leaned in closer. “Must be an ex-girlfriend because you’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush.”

That elicited a full-blown laugh. “If you say so.”

The sound of her laughter flowed through him. He grinned back at her. The moment grew quiet again, just the two of them watching each other. The heat in his cheeks took a nosedive south.

She blinked and her lips thinned. “I’m going to the office now.”

“Gotcha.”

“Don’t follow me.”

He tipped his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She headed for the other side of the house and the two rooms he’d converted to central operations with a little too much speed for a natural gait.

It looked as if she was running away.

Good. Maybe that would save them both.

Chapter Five (#ulink_42b2e963-d32b-5e4c-9cca-283d631baffb)

The crash from the floor above made Sara jump out of her seat. She rubbed her eyes and bent to retrieve the stack of papers that had spilled off the desk.

After spending the past few days buried in the office or driving back and forth to town for supplies before the first guests arrived, her eyes felt like sandpaper and her back ached. The time sequestered away from everyone was necessary, she told both herself and April, who’d brought trays of food into the office at regular intervals. For the most part, April had kept her opinion to herself, only dropping one or two pointed questions about the real reason Sara was in self-induced isolation.

Sara wasn’t ready to admit she was avoiding anyone in particular. Definitely not Josh. Or Ryan, with his continuous stream of apologies and the puppy-dog eyes he kept shooting her.

Another loud thud came from upstairs, this one actually shaking the framed pictures on the office walls. It had to be Ryan, Sara thought with an accompanying curse. He must know she was working, and she guessed this was his ploy for her attention. She’d convinced herself it wasn’t going to work until the telltale clatter of glass breaking reverberated through the ceiling.

She muttered another curse and stalked up the stairs. As she made her way down the hall, the sound of muffled crying came from behind one of the closed doors. Claire’s room.

Sara knocked softly, then peeked in when no one answered.

“Claire, are you okay?”

Claire sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, her head resting against knees drawn tight to her chest. “Go away,” she whispered, her voice clearly pained.

Good idea, Sara thought. That was exactly what she wanted to do, retreat back to her own office and not get involved in one more person’s life. Her gaze caught on the nightstand that had been knocked on its side. That explained the crash. Next to the broken lamp was a framed photo, broken glass surrounding it. Claire smiled from the picture, cradled in the arms of a woman—a drop-dead gorgeous woman—who seemed vaguely familiar.

Sara stepped into the room for a closer look. She recognized Jennifer Holmes, international supermodel. In the past decade, Jennifer had graced the covers of countless fashion magazines and several Victoria’s Secret catalogs.

“Is this your mother?” she asked, carefully lifting the frame from the carpet. “She’s beautiful.” She found a wastebasket beside the dresser and dumped the pieces of glass into it.

“I hate her,” Claire mumbled. “She doesn’t care about me at all.”

“From this picture, she looks like she does.”

“Duh.” Claire lifted her tearstained face. “She’s a supermodel. She can make herself look however she wants for a camera. That isn’t real.”