A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(60)

“Tomorrow afternoon between two and three.”

“Same street as before?”

“Yes.” The last part was barely discernible. “Chet,” she said more clearly, but he heard the hesitation in her voice. He heard the pain too, but ignored it as best he could, which was near impossible.

“Yeah?” he prompted when she didn’t immediately continue.

She was kneeling, he noticed, her face only a short distance from his own. “Do you . . . are you in love with me?”

It didn’t take him long to respond. “I don’t know.” It was the honest-to-God truth. What did someone like him know about love? Damn little to be sure.

“You can’t be any more articulate than that?” The righteous ring was back in her voice and he found himself smiling.

“I like you,” he said, realizing what an inadequate phrase that was.

“In other words I turn you on?”

He wasn’t sure he liked her vernacular, but he wasn’t in any position to be arguing since he was the one who’d taught her everything she knew about the sexual part of her nature. He never figured she’d be such a fast learner.

“It’s more than that,” was about all he was willing to admit.

“How much more?”

He should have known she wouldn’t leave that alone. “I don’t know,” he said, raising his voice more than he’d intended. His words seemed to echo like thunder in the silence of the night. All they needed now was to wake her old man. “I just don’t know,” he repeated, softer this time. “Listen, Monica, it doesn’t help to phrase the same question in different ways, the answer’s going to be the same. I don’t know about love. I’ve never been in love before, so how am I supposed to know if what I feel for you is any different than what I’ve felt in the past?”

“But surely you’ve had some experience with love.”

His laugh was low and husky. “Experience I’ve got, lots of that, but mainly it’s of the physical nature.”

“In other words if . . . if we’d made love, then you might be able to tell me exactly what your feelings are towards me.” The stiff indignation was back as inflexible as always.

“Not exactly.” It did his heart good to hear the outrage in her voice, although he’d never known a woman who could irritate him faster. By the same token he’d never known a woman who did the other things to him she did either. The problem was, he still hadn’t figured out whether he liked it or not. Mostly he liked it, he reasoned, otherwise he wouldn’t keep coming back for more.

“I have my principles, Chet Costello, and I can tell you right now that I refuse to sleep with any man until after we’re married.”

Laughing was a gross error and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. He could have had her any number of times. The only thing that had stopped him was knowing that neither one of them would be the same afterward.

Monica was innocent in the ways of men and he refused to take from her what rightly belonged to another. His thoughts were abruptly ended when Monica slammed the window shut, practically in his face.

Her eyes glared out at him accusingly.

He shouldn’t have laughed and knew it even as the amusement escaped his throat. As means of an apology, he pressed his fingertips to his lips and then set his open hand against the cold windowpane.

Monica’s angry gaze held his in what little light the moon afforded. After a moment, she pantomimed his action and poised her hand on the other side of the glass against his.

Reluctantly, he dropped his hand and turned away from her while he had the strength. He didn’t know where the relationship was leading and as far as he could see they were striding down a dead-end street, but for the life of him he couldn’t make himself terminate it. Maybe he did love her; he didn’t ever want to think about the consequences of that.

“Young man.”

The voice startled Chet. He was getting sloppy in his old age, otherwise he’d never have been heard cutting through her side yard. Chet whirled around to find a thin man standing on the front lawn, dressed in a robe and slippers, holding a flashlight. It could only be Monica’s father.

Chet drew in his breath and waited.

“I’d like to know exactly what you’re doing on my property this time of night?” Lloyd Fisher demanded, aiming the flashlight into his eyes, blinding him.

It was happening, Leah thought. She woke to the buzzing of the alarm and even before she opened her eyes she realized how queasy her stomach was. Was it possible? Could she be pregnant?

Mentally she tried to calculate the dates of her last menstrual cycle, and couldn’t. Sometime the first part of November, she guessed. It would help if she hadn’t tossed her notebook in the garbage.

It was wishful thinking, she finally decided. Or the flu. Probably a nasty virus, she mused, yawning.

“Morning,” Andrew said, cuddling her. His hand automatically slipped over her abdomen as he scooted closer to her side. Leah savored his warmth. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hmmm.”

“Me too.”

Leah smiled. Their routine was the same every morning. It was these small things, these everyday habits that had become a part of the structure of their marriage.

After Andrew had gone to make the coffee, Leah decided to take her temperature for old times’ sake, not that it would tell her anything.