7. Lucie
Lucie sat behind the counter, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she leaned over her sketchbook.
She’d been at this for days, filling page after page with the same face.
The same pair of eyes. She was determined to get it right, but something about the Ranger kept slipping through her blue pen’s grasp.
She tugged at the collar of her turtleneck; the heat of the day was getting to her.
A bead of sweat dribbled down her spine.
Just a couple more hours, and she could be in her bed in her pajamas.
The fan she’d placed in front of her wasn’t doing anything besides pushing more hot air into her face.
She sighed, pressing her pen into the paper, trying to will time to go faster. But she was stuck in her drawing, wanting to capture the way the Ranger’s smile always seemed a bit crooked, like he knew a secret she didn’t. But every time she thought she got close, it just looked . . . wrong.
Frustrated, she rubbed at the smudges on her paper, feeling the fabric of her long-sleeved shirt brush against her wrist, trying to unravel whatever mystery lay behind his easy grin and sharp eyes.
He had this way of looking at her that made her feel exposed and protected all at once—a feeling she wasn’t sure she liked or hated.
It was like staring into the sun. Overwhelming. Too powerful for mere mortals.
Michelangelo would pay to have a time machine to sculpt that man in marble. The Ranger reminded her of one of her fallen angels she loved reading about—dark, broody, and handsome as sin.
Lucie found herself looking forward to the Ranger’s visits—when he’d stand by the window, cross his arms over his leather-clad chest, and share snippets of his work and adventures at the Ranger Station.
When he wasn’t there, Lucie would imagine herself at the Ranger Station, helping by his side. He had come to visit six other times, either to order bulk supplies or to fix things around the shop, such as the leaky roof, the squeaky back door, and the broken handrail at the front.
She thought maybe he was flirting with her a couple of times, but she couldn’t be sure. He had been gone in a hurry each time.
Between his absences, she found herself daydreaming about when he would come back.
The pen seemed to have a mind of its own as it sketched his strong jawline and messy hair that somehow always looked perfect.
“Ooo, he looks dreamy,” a voice broke through her focus.
Lucie jumped, her pen skidding across the page.
Her heart lurched as she looked up to find the Ranger himself leaning against the counter, grinning down at her. For a moment, she could only stare, heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. She glanced down at the drawing—a drawing of him—and her stomach twisted into a tight knot.
She slapped her hand over the sketch, as if that would somehow make him unsee what he had already seen.
“Uh—when did you . . . I just—?” She fumbled for words, unable to look at him, her mind racing through every mortifying possibility of what he might say next. Her toes curled into her ballet flats.
The Ranger chuckled, a deep, amused sound that made her both want to crawl under the counter and laugh with him.
“Didn’t know I made such an impression.”
Lucie took a deep breath, willing herself to regain some semblance of composure.
“It’s . . . it’s not that good of a likeness,” she said, her voice a little too high, betraying her nerves.
She slowly lifted her hand from the page, revealing the sketch.
She’d captured the tilt of his head, the shadow along his jaw, but the lips—oh, those lips. They still weren’t quite right.
He leaned closer, inspecting the drawing with a thoughtful nod. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d say it’s pretty accurate,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his mouth while he inspected the sketch of his not-quite-right lips.
She shook her head. “I just can’t get it right. It’s a waste of time,” she said, parroting her father’s mean but truthful words.
“I get it. It’s a lot to take in,” he replied with a wink.
Lucie rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but feel a flutter in her chest.
“You’ll need something to name the portrait, after all. What’s an artist without the name of her muse? I forgot to introduce myself. Name’s—” He held out his hand. Lucie pulled back.
“No, don’t tell me,” Lucie blurted, her voice sharper than she intended, panic seizing her.
The Ranger blinked, surprised, the easygoing smirk slipping from his face. “Why not?”
“It would ruin the illusion,” she said, trying to sound aloof and mysterious.
It would be better if he didn’t know. Lucie tugged down the sleeve of her shirt, hiding finger-sized bruises on her wrist and arm.
She hated wearing long sleeves, especially in the summer, but if she didn’t, too many people would start asking questions, like they had when she was in junior high.
Her father almost took her out of school to homeschool her, but she begged him not to and promised to cover them up.
Over the years, she had grown more creative.
After the Ranger first left, her dad pushed and pushed for the Ranger’s name because he must have given it to a “hussy like herself” for flirting with him. And if the Ranger told her she would have to tell her father, she never lied to him. There was power in a name.
Before she dropped out of college, a guy was interested in dating her.
Two days after she told her father about the guy, Travis never called her back and avoided her on campus as if she had contracted the plague for the rest of her time there.
If her dad found out she was interested in the Ranger, she didn’t want the Ranger to get hurt.
Or have her dad say something about her that wasn’t true simply so he would be disgusted and never talk to her again.
She clenched her jaw, her fingers trembling as she tucked her hand back against her side, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.
The Ranger seemed to notice her movements.
His head cocked to the side, and his eyes darkened.
He couldn’t know—there was no way he could.
She had been practicing hiding for years.
His brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Instead, he leaned back, giving her space. Lucie unclenched her hands and looked at the clock.
She still had forty-seven minutes before her dad would be home from the bar. Lucie had mentally timed his whereabouts for years, and he hardly ever went off script. A creature of habit. Or maybe a monster of habit.
Lucie nodded, grateful that he didn’t press any further. “I just . . . I like it better this way.”
He studied her for a moment, then smiled softly. She got a feeling not very many people had seen that particular smile of his, as if he understood more than she was saying.
“Fair enough. So if you don’t want to get to know me, then why are you drawing me?”
Hurt flickered in his eyes like fire catching dry kindling.
She wanted to ease his pain. It wasn’t his fault; it was hers.
He looked at her with that sharp, perceptive gaze, the one that seemed to see more than she was comfortable revealing.
She looked away, knowing that if he asked, she would tell him everything.
And it would ruin everything—break all her father’s rules.
Lucie let out a shaky laugh, half mortified, half thrilled. “I guess I’m trying to figure you out.”
Lucie traced the edge of the wooden counter with her finger, like a pianist gently tapping out a rhythm on porcelain keys. She could feel the Ranger’s intense gaze following her delicate movements.
“Not many people bother,” he muttered.
That statement collided their eyes together.
The door jingled open, and a flood of tourists rushed in. Sardines in a can. That is what she would call the painting. Every nook and cranny was filled with sunscreen-slathered families.
“I’ll come back when you’re not so busy,” he smiled, shoving his hands into his tightly fitting in-all-the-right-places jeans. She wanted to kiss his tailor. Congratulate him. Give a Medal of Honor for his service to the public.
Lucie unashamedly stared at his backside when he turned around, as she prepared to juggle the onslaught of questions about where the bathroom was, food, and complaints about the weather.
Why had he come in? Did he need to buy something, and was I distracting him? Oh, Dad would be so mad I’d missed a sale.
While ringing up a customer’s order of candy bars, chips, and several sodas, she noticed the towering Ranger hesitate near a shelf.
“You got a tip jar or something?” he asked, cupping his hands around his perfect, moody lips, his voice carrying over the noise of the store.
Lucie looked up, slightly puzzled. “Um, no, not much of a tipping kind of place.”
He gave her a casual shrug. What was he playing at? She lost track of his dark head of hair as another family pushed all the snacks toward her across the counter.
Moments later, an old souvenir mug was placed on the counter with a deliberate clink—a crisp hundred-dollar bill resting inside.
Lucie’s eyes shot up.
At the door, the Ranger held up the sketch of himself that Lucie had tried so hard to hide. But there it was, held between his fingers, for her to see.
“For the art,” he called out, pointing to the cup.
Lucie’s cheeks flushed as the man stood there, smiling at her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No one had ever wanted to pay her for her art before, let alone for one of her doodles.
“I like the way you see me,” he said. “Feels like I owe you something for that.” He placed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Besides, every artist should get paid for their work.”
He gave her a wink, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment before she needed to ring up the next person in line, before going out the door that kept bringing him and taking him away from her.
As the customers buzzed around her, she found herself looking out the door, wishing she could wish him back into her life.
He didn’t feel real. She’d stopped believing in knights in shining armor a long time ago.
She tucked away the feelings bubbling up inside her.
Her mind spun with thoughts of him and all the things she wanted to figure out about him, knowing she’d never look at the old mug the same way again.