A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(43)

She blinked. Obviously that thought hadn’t occurred to her, and being seen with him would surely be cause for talk. That might put her father and her in an embarrassing situation. Monica loved her father too much to do anything that would hurt him in any way.

“We could find a dark corner somewhere,” she suggested next.

This wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as he’d assumed. “All right,” he agreed, “on one condition. I want you to take the pins out of your hair.”

She looked at him as if he were daft. Her fingers tentatively investigated the back of her head. “You want me to let my hair down?”

It should have been clear, but he nodded.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I suppose not, it’s just that it’s such an unusual request.” Already her fingers were working at the pins, unfolding the thick knot of hair, which streamed over her shoulders in a warm cascade of dark chestnut. She kept her gaze lowered as though she felt foolish.

He was right. Her looks were substantially softened by the effect. She was lovely, more so than he would have guessed. Her face was fresh and scrubbed clean. It didn’t take much to imagine what a little makeup would do for her already appealing good looks.

“Great,” he said, when it became apparent she was waiting for him to say something. “You don’t look like you’re waiting to be thrown to the lions now.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, her eyes snapping.

Chet laughed boisterously and reached for her hand. “Come on, let’s go have that coffee before we start arguing.”

“I’ll have you know I dress this way for a reason. I’m trying to promote a meek and humble spirit. With the world the way it is, with girls looking to Madonna as a role model, I feel I should do my part to promote purity.”

“Sweetheart, listen, you shouldn’t knock those scantily clad outfits until you’ve tried one. Just promise me you’ll let me be there when you do.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

He probably shouldn’t have. She was as skittish as a colt, as well he could understand. This was probably the most daring thing she’d ever done in her life, meeting him this way without her father knowing what she was up to.

“Do you want me to tell you how sorry I am?” he asked, as they made their way down First Avenue. A dingy café he frequented was about the only place he could think of where they’d have a bit of privacy.

“No.”

Her response surprised him. He was thinking she’d demand an apology of him and then proceed to lecture him on the error of his ways. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.

The café was dreary, and he felt a bit embarrassed to be bringing Monica into such an establishment, but since she’d turned down the offer to visit his apartment, that didn’t leave them with much choice.

He led her to a table in the back and called out his order for two coffees. The chef, Artie Williams, who was an old army cook, appeared from inside the kitchen. He wore a grease-smeared T-shirt and apron.

Artie glanced curiously toward Monica when he delivered two ceramic mugs. “You’re out of your element with this girl, aren’t you, Chet?” he said in his gravelly voice.

“Just pour the coffee and keep the commentary to yourself,” Chet barked. He was having trouble enough breaking down Monica’s barriers without his so-called friend’s help.

Monica held the cup between both hands as if she were looking to warm her palms. “What would you like to talk about?” she asked, her eyes nervously avoiding his.

“Why’d you come?” he asked. He’d feel he was making progress if he could get her to admit to their attraction.

“I . . . don’t know. Michael asked me to stop by his house this evening and I had to make up this excuse and the whole time I was on the bus I kept thinking I must be crazy.”

“Then we’re both crazy,” he muttered, and sipped his coffee. It was hot, black, and thick. Just the way he liked it.

Monica sipped hers too, made a face, then reached for the sugar bowl. She added three heaping teaspoons before she sampled the liquid again.

“Where does that leave us?” she asked.

“I was thinking you could tell me.”

“I can’t.” She raised her eyes to his, then quickly lowered them. “No one’s ever kissed me the way you have.”

That didn’t come as any surprise to Chet. “That’s only the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kissing is the tip of the iceberg. There are a dozen different directions we could go from there.”

She looked at him as if she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about and he realized what should have been obvious from the beginning. Monica Fischer, preacher’s daughter, was a virgin. He didn’t know there were any left in the world and damned if he hadn’t stumbled onto the last living one.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look as if you just swallowed a basketball whole.”

“I feel that way.” He stood so abruptly that the chair shot two feet away from the table. Slapping a fistful of change on the table he reached for her arm, practically lifting her out of the chair. “Come on, we’re out of here.”