Angels Everywhere - Debbie Macomber [44]
The man was full of surprises. She certainly hadn’t counted on him making amends any more than she’d expected him to chase after her. Monica wasn’t sure how to react, or what she should do. She was more comfortable believing him to be a hopeless Neanderthal. His sincerity went against the assumptions she’d made about him.
“You want to go for a walk?” Chet asked before she had time to sort through her feelings. “It’ll be a test of our control to see how long we can go without finding something to argue about.”
“Where do you suggest we walk?” Monica asked, as if that were her only concern. She looked up at him and found his deep blue eyes intently studying her.
“The waterfront’s as good a place as any. There’re always lots of things going on down there.”
“All right.” Her words were little more than wisps of sound. She hurriedly looked away because she found his gaze mesmerizing and buried her hands in her pockets. Chet followed suit, his own hands waist deep in the pockets of his beige coat.
“You seem to know a lot about me,” she said as a means of opening the conversation, “it only seems fair for you to tell me something about yourself.” She wasn’t sure, but this sounded like a good place for them to start. Her only concern was in knowing exactly what they were starting. She didn’t know if she could be friends with this man, and anything else was impossible.
“I’m thirty-three and have never been married,” Chet said, cutting into her thoughts.
“Why not?”
“You’re twenty-five and I didn’t ask you that,” he barked, then seemed to regret his tart remark. “I never found a woman who’d be willing to put up with me.”
Monica smiled to herself. “I guess you could say the same thing about me. I don’t seem to communicate very well with men. I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
“That sounds like you’re speaking from experience. I take it someone’s hurt you.”
She shook her head. “We’re talking about you, remember?”
He frowned as if he found the subject boring and was much more interested in her. “What do you want to know about me?”
She shrugged, not knowing what to say. “Where’d you go to school, that sort of thing, and how you got into the detective business.”
“All right,” he said, releasing a beleaguered sigh. He seemed eager to get this part over so he could learn what he wanted to know about her. “I graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in criminology and took a job with the local police force. After a few years I decided I’d rather strike out on my own.”
Monica speculated that there was a great deal missing in this story, but she didn’t feel she should pressure him for details, not when she was unwilling to supply the missing pieces of her own story.
“Did you enjoy police work?”
“Yes and no. When I was shot—”
“You were shot?” Monica couldn’t hide her alarm. She studied him for any evidence of permanent injury, and her heart raced at a furious pace.
“It was little more than a flesh wound, nothing to worry about physically, at any rate.” He hesitated as if he’d said more than he intended, more than he wanted her to know.
“What do you mean?” she probed, not willing to drop the subject.
“Nothing. We’ll leave it at that, all right?” The way he said it told her she wouldn’t get any more information out of him. Knowing that he’d been physically injured had a curious effect on Monica. A strange sick feeling attacked her. Knowing he’d suffered terrible pain greatly distressed her.
They reached the waterfront, the day was cold and gray, and the angry sky reflected on the waters of Puget Sound. The sidewalks were crowded with the heavy tourist and Christmas traffic.
“What made you decide to become a private investigator?” she asked as they stood at the end of the pier. The wind buffeted her and she turned her back on its force. Chet, however, leaned against the rough wood railing, his hands clenched.
Chet glanced her way. “You aren’t going to like the answer to this one.”
“I asked the question, didn’t I?” His attitude irked her.
“All right, since you asked,