by Elena Aitken
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.
Arriving home, he unlocked the outside door to his basement room, wondering what the heck had gotten into him tonight: spitting on those burgers, chasing after Missy, and asking her out on a date. Though he’d noticed Missy right away, he’d done such a good job keeping his distance from her these past few months.
On his first day at the Blue Moon she’d looked him up and down and grinned, but he’d been careful to break eye contact immediately. He’d read the interest in her glance, and as much as he wanted to explore it, especially after a stretch in prison, he knew it wasn’t a good idea. So, he’d kept his distance, never looking for her, never making eye contact, never being available. He needed to concentrate on holding down the job and exhibiting good sense in the workplace. Couldn’t risk his re-entry by messing around with a pretty waitress.
But now? Four months later? Something had shifted. For better or for worse, getting to know Missy was more important now than it was then.
He took a cold beer out of his mini-fridge, threw the bottle cap in the little garbage can under the sink, and took a long gulp, remembering the conversation with her on the loading dock. He hadn’t meant to tell her about his sister Jody and her abusive ex-boyfriend Roy, recipient of said cracked skull. He’d just w
anted Missy to know that he didn’t like bullies.
Lucas didn’t like thinking about Jody, especially what had happened to her while he was inside. Aw, he knew if wasn’t likely he’d have been able to help her, even if he’d been around. Still, it ate at him. Some days it made him almost crazy. It made him want to save someone, anyone, to make up for letting down his sister.
He took another a long swig of beer then ran his hands through his hair, glancing around the dingy room. The whole place was mismatched and shabby, but at least it was his. And after three years of sharing a very small cell with various roommates ranging from difficult to downright dangerous, Lucas felt grateful.
The basement apartment had come furnished with a throw rug, coffee table, and a copper-colored sofa that had seen better days. A yellow checked curtain spanned the length of the room on a long horizontal pole, cutting it in half. Behind it was Lucas’s twin bed, a nightstand and a lamp.
Actually, he’d set the lamp on the floor a few days ago to make room for the miniature Christmas tree he’d found on sale at the local pharmacy. Lately, he’d been going to sleep staring at the soft multicolored lights, longing for the old-fashioned kind of Christmas they showed in the movies; the kind Lucas remembered from his very early childhood—the soft, sepia memories from when life was safe and good, before his father died, when his mother still baked Christmas cookies and told bedtime stories that ended in giggles and hugs. The kind Lucas, with his broken nose and ex-con record, knew were probably not in the cards for him.
He sat down on the sofa, flicking on the radio beside him, then kicked off his shoes and sat back.
I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know….
Bing Crosby’s voice filled the dumpy room as Lucas stared at the amber glass of the beer bottle, thinking about Missy.
Truth told? Thinking about Missy was pretty much his favorite thing to do.
Physically, she was exactly his type: round where a woman should be round, soft and curvy with bright eyes and full lips. He liked that she wasn’t too skinny; a man wanted someone he could hold on to. Her blond curls framed her pretty face, and her blue eyes were wary but somehow, not hard, like she’d been kicked around plenty, but still had some hope in her heart. Which, he thought, must make her life just about unbearable.
He’d paid special, if quiet, attention to her from his very first day, drawn to her in some visceral, unexplainable way, far deeper than his body’s response to her.
He watched her secretly, careful not to draw attention to himself,
Took the garbage out when she was on the loading dock for her break,
Looked through the order-up window whenever her orders were up,
Stayed in the shadows but always made sure she got into her car safely at the end of her shift.
While on her break, she fed a mangy old dog that came around a couple times a week, cooing to it in sweet tones when she thought no one was listening. She packaged up extra food without being asked, and he’d watched several times as she threw in a few extra fries for an older couple or someone down on their luck passing through. When children came in, her pretty face would light up and she’d fish out the crayons she kept under the counter, squatting down beside them to exclaim over their finished pictures while their parents looked uncomfortable.
Mostly she ignored the meanness. It was heaped on her every other day. Women gave her cold looks while their men ogled her chest, “accidentally” bumping into her on the way to the men’s room. Her breasts and ass were probably touched more regularly than the front doorknob that let people into the joint.
Why people felt like they could treat her like that, Lucas didn’t know.
But he knew this: He’d treat her with care and respect.
Missy Branson wasn’t garbage.
She was special. More than special.
In fact, in Lucas Flynn’s tired eyes, she was rare and precious for one simple reason: her goodness was worth a hell of a lot more to him than her virtue.
And Missy Branson was full of goodness.
A date.
A date out to dinner.
Missy couldn’t actually remember a man ever asking her out on a proper date, and she couldn’t squelch her excitement.
The next day, Saturday, she found herself daydreaming, smiling at nothing, thinking about going out to dinner with a man who’d asked nicely, who might even treat her like a nice girl. He’d looked her in the eyes and said he wanted to get to know her better then sealed her “yes” with a tender kiss on the hand. Even if he never asked her out again, she’d have that memory. She’d know—for once—what it felt like to be asked out nicely.
The few times she’d been asked out on a date, it’d been with a suggestive smirk, so she’d known exactly what to expect: an impatient dinner, promptly followed by eager hands on her body. Pushing her panties down, they’d thrust into her without permission, but she’d let them because she craved the contact. And all the while, she’d try to look into their eyes, as they tried to avoid looking into hers.
And there were always stars, it felt like. She’d see them from a truck bed, or through a car sunroof, or from a blanket hastily placed in the dark corner of a park. There they’d be, blazing up there in the sky while she lay on her back. Always there watching, judging, cold and far away.
So she wasn’t anxious to wish on Lucas’s stars. They were no strangers to her, or she to them. And they both knew that a girl with the nickname “Easy Missy” probably didn’t deserve for her dreams and wishes to come true.
By Sunday, however, Missy’s feet had landed back on the ground and she’d stopped daydreaming. During their busy lunch-dinner shifts together, Lucas had barely glanced at her all weekend, and she started to wonder if he regretted his invitation. She wouldn’t have blamed him. She was Missy Branson, after all. Things generally didn’t work out for girls like Missy, no matter how much she wanted them to. She was so braced for disappointment by Sunday night, in fact, that it didn’t surprise her to find him at her side as she left the café at closing.
He’s going to take back his invitation. I know it.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked.
“I walked to work tonight,” she answered as he fell into step beside her.
“Can I walk you home, then?”
She stopped in her tracks, feeling her face fall as she turned to look at him.
There was only one reason men ever offered to walk Missy home, and it was not the sort of offer they made to a “nice” girl.
All of those stupid hopeful feelings. All of that excitement. For nothing. Asking her out on a date was just to butter her up so she’d sleep with him. Of course.
Stupid, stupid, Missy!
She blinked against the sting of tears and resumed her walk.
“Oh. I’m, um, a little tired tonight. I’m not really up for—”
“Wait. Stop a second,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his and forcing her to stop walking. She looked up at him, willing the tears away. She’d learned long ago that tears, like wishes, were worthless.
His smile was unexpected, all the more so because his eyes were deep and warm. Smarmy smirks and suggestive grins? She knew them well. But Lucas’s smile was kind. Almost…tender.
“Hey…” he asked, “is everything okay?”
Missy gulped. “I…I’m just not up for company tonight…s-so I know you probably want to call off the date—”
“I don’t want to call off anything.”
“—because I’m not going to sleep with you tonight.”
“What?” His eyes widened. “I never asked you to.”
“You barely looked at me for two days! You didn’t—”
His hand gripped hers tightly as he pulled her a little closer. “Missy, if I’d looked at you, I wouldn’t have gotten any work done.”
“You mean…you’re not canceling? The date?”
“Canceling? No! And hey, I didn’t mean to send the w
rong message.”
He seemed honest, but Missy didn’t know if she should believe him or not. Nobody ever said things like this to her unless they were actively trying to get in her pants. Even then, their voices didn’t ring with the truth that Lucas’s did. She searched his eyes, trying to figure him out.
Suddenly, he nodded as if he’d just figured something out and let go of her hand.
“You know what? Let me be really clear so we’re on the same page. All I want to do is walk you home. Nope. That’s a lie. Actually, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to hold your hand, too. And when we get to your house, I’m going to kiss your hand and say goodnight. Tomorrow at seven, I’ll pick you up for our date.” He nodded at her again. “And that’s all. That’s my whole agenda.”
“That’s all? You don’t want…” She bit her bottom lip, in disbelief or relief, and felt a tear slip out of her eye to roll slowly down her cheek.
He swiped it away with a gloved finger, his expression warm and tender.
“That’s all,” he whispered. “I promise.”
“Why are you so good to me?”
“I think you deserve someone to be good to you.”
You’re wrong, she thought, and most of this town would tell you so.
But when he offered her his hand, she couldn’t stop herself. She took it, slipping her gloved hand into his.
He walked her to her door, making polite conversation about the upcoming holidays until they arrived at her house. When they got there, he stopped on the sidewalk, glancing at the simple, two-bedroom cottage she shared with her mother.
“Do you have a Christmas tree? I tell you, Christmas was one of the things I missed the most while I was inside. I really missed it.”
Missy shrugged, not wanting to let go of his hand, not wanting to say goodnight yet, wishing she didn’t have to disappoint him with her answer. “We don’t really do Christmas.”
“You don’t do it? You don’t like Christmas?”
She loved Christmas, but after stepfather #3 had decreed: “No Christmas crap,” six years ago, there hadn’t been another. He’d gotten rid of the decorations and acted like December 25th was just another wintry day. Even when he finally left, Missy and her mother hadn’t really reinstated any celebration aside from attending Christmas Eve church services and exchanging a modest gift each. It was as though the joy had been taken out of the holiday and they didn’t have the will or spirit to get it back.