A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(36)

When they came out of the store, Monica was surprised to find that it was snowing. She couldn’t remember the weatherman mentioning snow. The fat flakes came down fast and furious and had already covered the sidewalk.

“I’d better hurry to the bus stop,” she said, anxious to get home before the weather made it impossible. She was already an hour later than she said she’d be.

By the time they’d climbed the steep hill to the bus stop, Monica was breathless. It seemed that everyone in town had decided to head for home at the same time. Within minutes it became clear she was in for a long wait.

“You go on,” she urged Chet. “I’ll be fine.” But he refused to leave her and after waiting a half hour, Chet shook his head.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, “I’ll drive you home myself.”

“But it’s snowing, and the road conditions might make that impossible.”

“We’ll wait out the craziness and once everything settles down I’ll get my car out of the parking garage.”

He didn’t leave room for her to argue, and she doubted he would have listened if she had. Chet steered her toward the exit and reached for her hand when it looked as if they might be separated in the crowd.

“Where are we going?” she asked while they were making their way down the street. The conditions were blizzardlike. They were bent nearly in half as they walked against the brunt of the storm.

Chet didn’t bother to answer until they entered a redbrick building. In the foyer, he stamped the snow from his shoes and led the way to the elevator.

“Where are we?” she asked, obediently following him.

“My building, and before you get that outraged virgin look I promise I won’t so much as touch you.”

“I’d better call my father or else he’ll worry.” Monica sincerely doubted that he’d ever dated a woman who needed to check in with her family. She was pleased she couldn’t read his thoughts.

“No problem,” Chet said. At his floor, he took her down a narrow, dark hallway. His office had his name painted on a milky white door. Chet inserted the key and opened it for her, letting her precede him.

The first thing Monica noticed was the calendar with a naked blond woman sprawled out on a blanket of black velvet. The year 1963 was printed in bold letters down the side. His desk looked as if it had weathered a war on the losing side. It was scarred and battered and so cluttered it was impossible to see any part of the surface. His chair came straight out of the 1920s. A row of antique slot machines lined one wall.

Chet made his way around her and Monica realized she’d been blocking the doorway. “This is my office,” he explained.

“Your calendar’s for the wrong year,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He laughed. “Only a woman would notice that.” He walked over to the other door and opened it. “Home, sweet home,” he said, gesturing for her to go before him.

Monica was just getting accustomed to the disarray in his office. She held her breath as she stepped into his living quarters, preparing herself for the worst.

She hesitated in the doorway. “It’s not so bad,” she said, then realized she’d verbalized the thought. There appeared to be some order to his studio apartment, compared to the chaos of his office.

Dishes were washed and stacked on the drainboard and the only food on the counter was a bowl with three overripe bananas. The sofa was a large overstuffed one with a stack of laundry—she couldn’t tell if it was clean or dirty—piled in one corner.

“The phone’s by the television,” Chet said. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

“All right,” she said, taking several tentative steps into the room and reaching for the phone. Her father answered on the second ring.

“I got caught in the snow,” she explained.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t leave with the others.” Her father was rarely angry, but he was close to being so now. “Just how do you propose to get home?”

“I’m an adult, Dad, I can take care of myself. Stop worrying. I’ll call again if I run into any problems.” Rather than get into discourse that required explanations, she quickly ended the conversation. When she’d finished, Chet brought her a steaming mug of coffee.

“It’s instant,” he said, and with one sweeping motion of his hand, he cleared the surface of the sofa.

Monica sat close to the edge of the cushions, cradling the mug with both hands, her back straight, her knees together. Rarely had she felt more out of place. She’d never been alone with a man in an apartment before and her sensibilities were badly shaken. Chet had promised to be a gentleman, and to her dismay she was sadly disappointed by his assurance.

“Relax,” Chet said, sounding irritated. “You look like you’re waiting for me to pounce on you. I said I wouldn’t touch you.”

She decided to ignore the comment. “Do you have any idea of how much snow is forecast?” she asked, looking for a means of light conversation. She wished now that she’d stayed and waited for a bus. No matter how tardy the transportation it would have saved them both this awkwardness.

“Sweetheart, the weatherman didn’t know about this. You don’t honestly expect me to figure it out, do you?”