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turned to look at him in time to catch him staring.
    “See, no mustache,” he teased with a mischievous smile. “No beer breath either, I promise. Do I pass the inspection?” He winked, and Micah felt heat rising in his cheeks.
    “Um, yes. You’re a very attractive man,” he stuttered, cringing internally at his own awkwardness. Jeez, he was so bad at this.
    “Well, thank you.” Angel beamed. “I’m glad you approve. Do you have a type when it comes to men?”
    “Not really, no. My last boyfriend was a tall, skinny brunet, but I don’t really… I don’t have a type. Well, unless you count Johnny Depp.”
    “Johnny Depp is everyone’s type. It doesn’t count.” Angel laughed. “So are you a musician? I noticed the piano in your apartment.”
    “Oh, no. The piano was already there when I rented the place. The owner offered to have it removed, but I decided since it was there, I might as well remember what little my mom taught me to play when I was a kid. Turns out it’s much more fun when no one makes you do it, you know? I’ve been getting better and it’s really relaxing, but I mostly don’t have time to practice much. Do you play?”
    Angel shook his head. “I tried, when I was a teen, but I never really took to it and gave it up after a few months.” He parked at the curb and turned off the engine. “Okay, here we are.”
    The trattoria was located between a hardware store and a hairdresser’s in a narrow, quiet street that Micah had never seen; he didn’t know this part of the city very well. Its small windows were filled with a tasteful display of various types of uncooked pasta and dusty bottles of wine, and there was a simple wooden sign above the door. The hand-painted letters spelling the name— Trattoria Mamma Mia— were faded with age. It looked like a cheap, out-of-the-way place that catered to a handful of regulars.
    Angel noticed Micah falter as they approached the door.
    “I know it doesn’t look like much, but I honestly believe this is the best Italian restaurant in the Cities,” he said. “Come on, trust me.”
    Micah hesitated. He promised he would be honest, and right now, a fancy French restaurant suddenly sounded much better than whatever was beyond that door. Angel put a hand on his shoulder, making Micah startle a little.
    “If you don’t like it, I promise we can leave and go to the other place, but give me a chance to show it to you first.” He looked so earnest and confident that Micah nodded.
    “Okay. Lead the way.”
    Inside, they were immediately wrapped in warm air filled with mouthwatering smells and quiet chatter. The space was small; the dozen tables were all occupied, with linen tablecloths and slim vases of daffodils on each. Combined with the dimmed light, the atmosphere was cozy and welcoming. The nervous tension in Micah’s muscles started to ease.
    A waiter approached them, young and Italian-looking, and Angel smiled at him. He was smiling a lot, Micah reflected.
    “Hello. We have reservations for eight thirty. I asked for a table outside.”
    “Of course. Follow me, please.”
    They were led through a side doorway Micah hadn’t noticed before, and he gasped quietly as he stepped out and looked around. It was a tiny square courtyard, like many he’d seen before, and yet so very different. All around the perimeter, lush ivy climbed, covering the iron trellis with its bright green leaves and crawling along the wires spread ten feet above. The result was a private alcove with a green, rustling ceiling that let in the gentle gusts of breeze and enough of the setting sun to bathe the whole space in a warm glow. Quiet instrumental music was seeping from hidden speakers. Candles graced the four small tables, along with red roses in little glass vases. The tables themselves were generously spaced, each just big enough for two.
    Only one table was occupied, in the far corner, where an elderly couple drank red wine, holding hands over the table. The