A Cowboy's Wish Upon A Star. Caro Carson

the towel and her famously blue eyes were puffy from crying, but by God, she was absolutely beautiful. His heart must have stopped for a moment, because he felt the hard thud in his chest when it kick-started back to life.

      She suddenly threw the plastic onto the tile floor, making a great clatter. “Don’t stare at me. So, I’ve been crying. Big deal. Tell all your friends. ‘Hey, you should see Sophia Jackson when she cries. She looks like hell.’ Go get your phone and take a picture. I swear, I don’t care. All I want is for that refrigerator to work. If you’re just going to stand there and stare at me, then get the hell out of my house.”

      If Travis had learned anything from a lifetime around animals, it was that only one creature at a time had better be riled up. If his horse got spooked, he had to be calm. If a cow got protective of her calf, then it was up to him not to give her a reason to lower her head and charge. He figured if a movie star was freaked out about her appearance, then he had to not give a damn about it.

      He didn’t, not really. She looked like what she looked like, which was beautiful, red nose and tear stains and all. There were a lot of beautiful things in his world, like horses. Sunsets. He appreciated Sophia’s beauty, but he hadn’t intended to make a fuss over it. If he’d been staring at her, it had been no different than taking an extra moment to look at the sky on a particularly colorful evening.

      He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. “Is the fridge plugged into the wall?”

      She’d clearly expected him to say something else. It took her a beat to snap her mouth shut. “I thought of that, but I can’t see behind it, and the stupid thing is too big for me to move. I’m stuck. I’ve just been stuck here all day, watching all my food melt.” Her upper lip quivered a little, vulnerable.

      He thought about kissing just her upper lip, one precise placement of his lips on hers, to steady her. He pushed the thought away. “Did you try to move it?”

      “What?”

      “Did you try to move it? Or did you just look at it and decide you couldn’t?” He nodded his head toward the fridge, a mammoth side-by-side for a family that had consisted almost entirely of hungry men. “Give it a shot.”

      “Is this how you get your jollies? You want to see if I’m stupid enough to try to move something that’s ten times heavier than I am? Blondes are dumb, right? This is your test to see if I’m a real blonde. Men always want to know if I’m a real blonde. Well, guess what? I am.” She grabbed the handles of the open doors and gave them a dramatic yank, heaving all her weight backward in the effort.

      The fridge rolled toward her at least a foot, making her yelp in surprise. The shock on her face was priceless. Travis rubbed his jaw to keep from laughing.

      She pressed her lips together and lifted her chin, and Travis had the distinct impression she was trying to keep herself from not going over the edge again.

      That sobered him up. He recrossed his arms. “You can’t see them, but a fridge this size has to have built-in casters. No one could move it otherwise. Not you. Not me. Not both of us together.”

      “I didn’t know.”

      “Now you do.”

      She seemed rooted to her spot, facing the fridge. With her puffy eyes and tear-streaked face, she had definitely had a bad day. Her problems might seem trivial to him—who cared if someone snapped a photo of a famous person?—but they weighed on her.

      He shoved himself to his tired feet. “Come on, I’ll help you plug it in.”

      “No, I’ll do it.” She started tugging, and once she’d pulled the behemoth out another foot, she boosted herself onto the counter, gracefully athletic. Kneeling on Mrs. MacDowell’s blue-tiled counter, she bent down to reach behind the fridge and grope for the cord. Travis knew he shouldn’t stare, but hell, her head was behind the fridge. The dip of her lower back and the curve of her thigh didn’t know they were being fully appreciated.

      When she got the fridge plugged in, it obediently and immediately hummed to life. She jumped down from the countertop, landing silently, as sure of her balance as a cat. He caught a flash of her determination along with a flash of her bare skin.

      Hunger ate at him, made him impatient. He picked his hat up from its hook by the door. “Good night, then.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “Back to work.” He shut the door behind himself. Stomped into the first boot, but his own balance felt off. He had to hop a bit to catch himself. He needed to get some food and some sleep, then he’d be fine.

      The door swung open, but he caught it before it knocked him over. “What now?”

      “I need groceries.”

      There was a beat of silence. Did she expect him to magically produce groceries?

      “Everything melted.” She looked mournfully over her shoulder at the sink, then back at him, and just...waited.

      It amazed him how city folk sometimes needed to be told how the world ran. “Guess you’ll be headed into town tomorrow, then.”

      “Me? I can’t go to a grocery store.”

      “You need a truck? The white pickup is for general use. The keys are in the barn, on the hook by the tack room. Help yourself.”

      “To a truck?” She literally recoiled a half step back into the house.

      “I don’t know how else you intend to get to the grocery store. Just head toward Austin. Closest store is about twenty miles in, on your right.”

      “You have to get the groceries for me.”

      “Nope. It’s May.” He stuck his hat on, so his hands were free to pick up his second boot and shake the cell phone out of it.

      “It’s May? What kind of answer is that? Do you fast in May or do a colon cleanse or something?”

      He looked up at her joke, but his grin died before it started. Judging by the look on her face, she wasn’t joking. “The River Mack rounds up in May.”

      She looked at him, waiting. He realized a woman from Hollywood probably had no idea what that meant.

      “We’re busy. We’re branding. We have to keep an eye on the late calving, the bulls—”

      He stopped himself. He wasn’t going to explain the rest. Managing a herd was a constant, complex operation. Bulls had to be separated from cows. The cow-calf pairs had to be moved to the richest pastures so the mamas could keep their weight up while they nursed their calves. Cows who had failed to get pregnant were culled from the herd and replaced with better, more fertile cattle.

      Sophia flapped one hand toward the kitchen behind her. “I have nothing to eat. You have to help me.”

      He stomped into his second boot. “Not unless you’re a pregnant cow.”

      At her gasp, he did chuckle. “Or a horse. Or a dog. You could be a chicken, and I would have to help you. I keep every beast on this ranch fed, but you, ma’am, are not a beast. You’re a grown woman who can take care of herself, and you’re not my problem.”

      She looked absolutely stricken. Had he been so harsh?

      “Listen, if I’m going toward town, I don’t mind picking you up a gallon of milk. That’s just common courtesy. I expect you to do the same for me.”

      “But I can’t leave the ranch.”

      “Neither can I.” He touched the brim of his hat in farewell. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got horses to feed before I can feed myself.”