A Kiss on Crimson Ranch. Michelle Major

      He nodded, not liking where this conversation was going.

      “Best blueberry muffins ever,” Claire added.

      “And now?”

      “I’m interviewing people,” he admitted. “Do you cook?”

      She rolled her eyes. “That’s not my point.”

      “Which is?”

      “You need help.”

      “Not from you, I don’t.”

      “I could handle the kitchen,” April offered quietly.

      His gaze shot to April, who was looking at Sara.

      “You don’t have to do that,” Sara told her. “You have a life.”

      April smiled. “I could use a little break, and I’m sure I can sublet the beach house for the summer.”

      “Is this because of losing the studio? You could teach some other place. Rent another space. You know your clients would follow you anywhere.”

      “That’s the beautiful thing about yoga. I can take it anywhere, too.” She gave Josh a hopeful smile. “I could even offer a few classes on the ranch. To start the morning, maybe.”

      Sara glared at him over April’s shoulder, nodding vigorously. “That would be perfect,” she said. “Your veggie burgers are the best. Josh, is there a Whole Foods anywhere around here?”

      “A whole what?”

      “They just opened one on the way to Aspen,” Claire piped in. “But Dad only shops at the Red Creek Market.”

      April nodded. “It’s important to support local businesses. I’ll drive into town tomorrow morning and see what we can work out.”

      “When are the first guests arriving?” Sara asked no one in particular. “We’ll need time to plan out the right menus. Do you have lists of food preferences and allergies? That sort of thing?”

      “Hold on,” Josh bellowed, raking his hands through his hair. “Hold on! No one is making veggie anything at my ranch. People book trips looking for action and adventure, not airy-fairy spa treatments and yoga classes. They want to fish and race ATVs, hike fourteeners and mountain bike the local trails. I’m the boss around here. I do the hiring. I make the plans. I’m the one—”

      He looked at the three women, April’s gaze a little hurt, Claire’s eyes narrowed and Sara shaking her head just a bit as she chewed on her full lower lip.

      “I’m the boss,” he repeated quietly, willing it to be true.

      “Don’t be a hater,” Claire mumbled.

      “A what?” He rubbed his temples. “Never mind.”

      “You don’t have a chef, do you?” Sara asked, her voice too knowing for his taste.

      “I’m interviewing cooks.”

      “And who’s planning all the so-called adventures?”

      “I am.”

      “And leading the fun?”

      Was it his imagination or did her gaze stray to his knee? “That’s me, too. Got a problem?”

      She took a step closer to him. Across the bridge of her nose, under who knew how many pounds of makeup, he could see the faint outline of freckles. Distracting freckles. Freckles he wanted to trace, wondering if her skin was as soft as it looked.

      “Face it, cowboy,” she said, bringing him back to the moment, “you need us.”

      “I don’t need anyone.”

      He heard Claire snort.

      “Jerk,” Sara said under her breath.

      A dull pounding started behind his left eye, matching the throbbing of his leg. “Fine. But this isn’t the Ritz. If you’re here, you work.”

      She tossed her streaked hair. “I’ve been working since I was eight years old.”

      He suppressed a growl. “Not the kind of work that involves a catered lunch.”

      “You think you know me so well.”

      “I know your type.”

      “We’ll see about that.” She gave his shoulder a hard flick. “I’ll give it until Labor Day, Lone Ranger. If you can’t get the bank loan approved by then, I’m taking the next best offer.”

      He studied her luminous blue eyes, their depths cold as an alpine stream. “Deal.”

      They glared at each other, and though he kept his eyes on her face, he noticed that her chest rose and fell unevenly and a soft pink flush rose to her cheeks. His own breath quickened, and without knowing why, he leaned in and enjoyed watching her big eyes widen.

      The hippie chick clapped a few times, breaking the weighted silence. “If that’s settled, we should think about planning. I’ll start with dinner.”

      He forced his gaze from Sara’s. “The local diner has decent takeout.”

      April laughed. “I’ll cook tonight. Think of it as an official interview.”

      He nodded. “There are six smaller cabins on the property. Four of them are two bedrooms. You can have your pick.”

      “Can’t they stay in the house with us?”

      “No,” Josh and Sara said in unison.

      “Whatever,” Claire mumbled.

      Sara turned to his daughter. “Would you show me the other cabins?” She glanced warily at the thick pine forest that surrounded his land. “I want the one least likely to be invaded by critters.”

      Josh expected Claire to offer up one of the flip comebacks she gave him every time he asked for her help. To his surprise, she gave Sara a genuine smile. “Sure. Will you tell me about all the stars you know in Hollywood?”

      A momentary cloud passed through Sara’s eyes before she smiled brightly. “Oh, sweetie, I’ve got some stories for you.”

      Claire giggled. Actually giggled as she led Sara toward the row of cabins that sat in front of the small stream at the back of the property.

      “Unbelievable,” he said under his breath.

      He heard April laugh again and whirled on her. “What?” he demanded. “What is so funny?”

      She took a step back, palms up. “Nothing at all. Do you want to discuss menus while I check out the kitchen?”

      Josh recognized a peace offering and was smart enough to take it. “Let’s go,” he said, and headed for the house.

       Chapter Three

      Sara glanced up from the computer in Crimson’s small-town library. It had been three days since she and April had arrived in Colorado. Word spread fast that former starlet Serena Wellens was in town for the summer. A steady stream of locals had stopped by the ranch for neighborly visits. Of course the disappointment in meeting a once-upon-a-time celebrity in real life had been obvious from the comments she’d received.

      “You looked taller on TV.”

      “You were so pretty when you were younger.”

      “Do you still talk to Amanda? Can you get her autograph?”

      Her favorite had been from the town’s mayor, who’d blurted, “I read you overdosed a year ago. I think I sent your gran flowers as a condolence.”

      It was a good thing the ego had been pummeled out of her years ago. Otherwise, the blatant disapproval