She furrowed her brows, turning to face him. Because of the cold, she knew the tips of her breasts would be visible against her too-small uniform. She crossed her arms over her chest protectively, reaching out with one hand for her jacket.
Instead of handing it to her, Lucas stepped closer, opening it up and encircling her shoulders, placing it gingerly around her. He tugged at the collar gently, pulling it snug around her neck and ears before stepping back.
Missy stood speechless, touched beyond words for two simple reasons.
The first? He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a kiss, not a touch, not a favor.
And the second? His eyes hadn’t slid lower than her chin the entire time he wrapped her jacket around her. Not once. Not for an instant.
She looked at his face, not for the first time but maybe for the first time this close up. He had brown eyes, warm and dark, with a fringe of dark eyelashes. His cheekbones were high, his cheeks angular hollows. His olive-toned skin wasn’t smooth and perfect, but his lips were. They were bowed and full, and Missy stared at them for a moment, biting her own bottom lip before lifting her eyes to his nose.
His poor nose.
Missy winced. Her second stepfather, a mean drunk prone to fights, had a nose like that. She was fairly certain that Lucas’s nose had been broken more than once.
“Ugly,” he whispered, turning away.
“N-no,” she said, turning to him as he rested his elbows on the iron railing, staring out at the darkness. She wasn’t a small woman, but next to him, beside his tall, lean body, Missy felt small, and she liked that.
“I know what I look like, Miss Branson.”
Miss Branson. Miss Branson? If he didn’t stop being so nice to her, she’d start crying again. Or she’d have to kiss him.
“Huh,” she murmured, putting her arms through her jacket and zipping it up before propping her elbows on the metal bar beside his. “Haven’t said a word to me in four months and now here you are, all…‘Miss Branson’ with me.”
He stared up at the sky, running a finger back and forth across his lower lip, which pulled Missy’s eyes like a magnet. Her tongue darted out and she wet her lips.
“Lots of stars here,” he said.
She turned her attention to them. “I guess. Never really look at them.”
“Thought you might be out here wishing on a star,” he said, and she could almost feel him blush beside her as he shifted his weight awkwardly. “Stupid thing to say.”
“No, it’s not. It’s just…I don’t wish on stars.”
“I thought all women did that stuff.”
“Not me.”
“Why not? You don’t believe in wishes?”
Looking out across the Yellowstone River, she saw some twinkling Christmas lights in the distance. In shades of red and blue, orange and green, they blinked cheerfully in the darkness. Festive and hopeful, but so very far away.
“They don’t come true,” she murmured, turning around to lean her back against the railing and face the grimy kitchen door.
“What’d those guys say to you?”
She shrugged, pushing her blond curls out of her face. She used the rubber band on her wrist to secure them into a perky ponytail. Didn’t he know who she was? Didn’t he know the things people said about her? To her?
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Three soaked guys eating my spit in their burgers says it mattered to you.”
“Spit?” Her hands froze in her hair, a surprised smile spreading across her face as he turned around to face her, his brown eyes catching hers in the dim light. “Did you spit—?”
“It was three to one. Nothing I hate more than a rigged fight.” He stared at her, leaning back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh, yeah. Except one thing. I don’t like men who bully women. Ain’t so fond of that either.”
“What were you in jail for?” she blurted out.
Damn it, Missy! She had no right to ask him that.
“Sorry,” she added, offering him a small, sheepish smile.
“I cracked open the skull of a man who was bullying a woman.”
Missy held his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. She didn’t know what to say; she just knew she couldn’t look away.
“You…you did?”
“Yep.” He uncrossed his arms, moving his white apron aside to put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Can I ask you something?”
Here we go, she thought. He’s going to ask me something disgusting. He’s going to kick me in the teeth with mean words that hurt more than he could ever kn—
“Will you go out to dinner with me on Monday night, Missy?” he asked.
Her mouth dropped open. “Wait. What?”
“I’m asking you out on a date.”
“Why?” she murmured, feeling her brows knit in confusion.
“Because I’d like to get to know you better.”
“You don’t have to take me to dinner to get to know me better,” she said softly, dropping his eyes.
“But that’s the way I’d like to do it,” he said. “What do you say?”
“Are you…for real?”
“Yes, Miss Branson, I am,” he said, holding out his hand, palm up.
She looked at his hand then back up at his face. She’d kissed many men in her life. So many men, she couldn’t possibly even guess at how many. But she’d never wanted to kiss a man as desperately as she wanted to kiss Lucas Flynn.
“C-Call me Missy,” she whispered, placing her hand in his.
She watched him lift it to his mouth and brush his lips softly against her cold skin. It sent a deluge of shivers up her arm and down her back, making her tingle with pleasure before turning her insides hot. A small, breathy sound escaped her throat as she stared at the dark brown, wavy hair on the back of his head.
Finally, after the prettiest little eternity she’d ever known, he released her hand and turned, reaching for the kitchen door.
“Make a wish on a star before you come in,” he said softly, without facing her. “It’s Christmastime. Who knows? It might come true.”
Then, he slipped inside, leaving her hot and alone under the starry sky.
Chapter 2
Lucas hadn’t made enough money to buy a car yet, so he trudged the two miles home to the room he rented.
It was in the basement of an older couple’s house, and when he’d filled out his application to rent it, he’d considered lying, assuming that no one would want a jailbird living so close. But his conscience had won out and he’d ended up telling the truth.
Surprisingly, it hadn’t mattered to the Andersons. In fact, they’d lost a son to drugs, and he’d done a little time inside, like Lucas. Mrs. Anderson said Lucas had an honest face, and as long as he got his rent in on time, they were happy to give him a chance.
He was grateful to them for their kindness, and for the cookies he’d sometimes find on his doorstep, or the occasional invitation to join them for dinner. He raked the leaves off their lawn without being asked and shoveled their walkway after every snowfall. He couldn’t bear to see their 80-year-old bodies doing the work that one 30-year-old man could handle twice as fast.