I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (14 page)

Even if I paid my own bill, I’d still make the copies for Chase. But since he seems so determined, I accept his proposal. In doing so, I am a little saddened that no crazy-good sex is in my future. But I’m also really curious to see this apartment. Anything has to be better than mine. Maybe I can afford what Chase is asking and he won’t have to even bother with flyers.

“May I?” I ask, my fingers grazing the edge of the paper.

“Sure.”

I slide the flyer out from under Chase’s hand. All the apartment specifics are listed, as well as a price, and a very sharp, colorful picture.

But, wait…I take a closer look.

The picture isn’t a copy of a photo, not one taped to the flyer either. Nope, it’s an actual drawing, an incredibly good drawing. It’s very detailed, better than a photo. It is art; real, true art.

“You drew this?” I ask on an exhale of air. I am beyond impressed.

Chase just presses his lips together and gives a quick nod.

This guy across from me isn’t just an artist; he’s an insanely talented one. He just draws a little? Yeah, right. Obviously he played this talent down back at the school. Not only is the rendering of the place he wants to rent amazing, but the apartment itself is incredible. It puts my basement atrocity to shame.

My apartment is dark and stuffy, whereas this one appears bright and welcoming. Skylights line the low, sloped ceiling, showing off a rather nice living space. It’s not huge, but it’d be more than adequate for a person living alone, a person like me. On one side of the space, there’s a living room area, complete with a sofa, coffee table, and even a TV. On the opposite side, separated by a breakfast bar, there’s an adorable little kitchen. If Chase’s drawing is accurate—and I feel sure it is—then all of the appliances must be new, they look immaculate.

A working oven! What a dream.
I hold the flyer close to my face. Like when Chase was checking out Timmy’s drawing in my classroom, it’s now my turn to evaluate and assess.

There’s a kind of half-wall drawn between the living room and bedroom, but Chase has made it transparent so the details of the sleeping area are on full view. The bedroom is as nice as the living room, kind of a retro shabby chic. There’s a double bed with an iron headboard, a trunk at the base, and a nightstand with an old-fashioned lamp.

“This is amazing,” I exclaim. “It’s really a great place, Chase. I’m sure you’ll find a tenant in no time.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he replies.

I glance at the price, wishing that the future tenant could be me. But what he’s asking is out of my price range, at least until I have more money saved.

Maybe Chase sees how I bite my lip in contemplation, or how my eyes fill with disappointment. In any case, he ventures, “Are you looking for a place?”

I start to shake my head, and he quickly adds, “We can always negotiate on price, Kay. My first rate was lower. I’d be more than happy with that.”

I see Chase is sincere, but I can’t ask him to take less than what he will surely get for such a fantastic space. Even the higher price is a deal…for someone who can afford it.

Chase must misunderstand my reticence, for he tries to convince me. “This place is completely private, Kay, if that’s what you’re worried about. The garage sits away from the main house, with a whole separate parking area branching away from the driveway. So, it’s not like you’d be stuck seeing me around all the time, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s not that,” I slowly answer, since it’s not, not at all. “It’s just…” I trail off.

Chase waits for me to continue, one eyebrow lifted, like he’s saying,
Yeah, so what’s the problem?

I try to explain, without bringing up the money part. “I may be looking for a place in the future. Like, this fall. But right now I’m stuck with what I have.” I sigh. “But I have to admit”—my eyes settle longingly on the flyer—“this place is much, much nicer.”

I realize then that Chase has no idea where I live; it’s not yet come up. It’s kind of common knowledge where the Gartner property is, out on Cold Springs Lane. But my place…ugh. It’s not like I run around announcing from the rooftops, “Hey, everyone, guess what? I live in a dump down in the scariest part of town.”

However, there’s no avoiding the subject now. “Wait. Where do you live?” Chase asks.

With a lot of dread and hesitation, I tell him. And—big surprise—his expression morphs from mere curiosity to out-and-out disturbed.

“You’re kidding,” he mutters in a low voice. “Kay, that’s no place for a woman to live, especially by herself.”

“Sexist, much?” I scoff and level him with a no-nonsense stare.

He scrubs his hand over his face and leans back in the booth. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He sounds sincere and I know he didn’t intend any offense, but I just wish he’d drop the subject. I can’t meet his blues; I stare down at the table instead.

“It’s just that it’s not safe down there for anyone, really.” Softly, he adds, “I know exactly where your building is. I used to, uh… I guess you could say I used to hang out down there a lot. That was a long time ago, sure, but the whole area was bad even back then.”

I glance up and something flashes in Chase’s eyes. That something tells me he knows all too well the kind of people who hang out on my side of town—junkies, people searching desperately for their next high. Maybe Chase once sought to score there too? Why else would he be so familiar with the area? I know his past, I know why he went to prison—convicted for dealing Ecstasy. But beyond what’s common knowledge there’s too much knowing in the gunmetal blues of the man sitting across from me.

There’s a well-known dealer that lives just down the street from me, not far from the closed-down glass factory. It’s probably not a far-fetched guess to assume Chase has spent time at that dealer’s house. It’s a popular party spot, and has been for years. I’ve personally never ventured down the dirt road that beckons the drug-needy, but many, many people have, looking for the false salvation the dealer’s selling. Was Chase once among that crowd? I can’t help but think yes, most likely.

The waitress arrives to take the check and I smoothly change the subject. Things lighten up from there. On the way back to the church, Chase and I exchange phone numbers. We start joking around again, flirting like we were doing earlier.

At one point, I ask Chase why there’s no paint on him. After all, he’s supposedly been working all morning. With a smirk he says he’s just
that
damn good and knows what he’s doing.
Yikes
. That comment—and the suggestive way it’s delivered—elicits my third blush of the day. And I am quite sure—from the smug look on my flirtatious new friend’s perfect face—that it’s the exact reaction he intended.

I may be blushing, this is true, but I decide that I like this playful version of Chase Gartner the absolute very best.

And so it continues…

Tuesday I get a text, a little before noon:
Hey, sweet girl.

The cute endearment makes me grin, but it also thumps my heart.

Hey, artist boy. How goes the painting today?

It’s going
, he texts back.
Are you
hungry? Want to see what’s up at our diner?

Now, my heart actually skips a beat. I like this “our” stuff.

Before the first text arrived, I’d taken a tuna salad on wheat out from a brown paper bag. Now, I hastily stuff it back in.

With an uncontained smile, I text back:
Absolutely. Meet you out front in a few.

Five minutes later Chase and I are walking down to the diner, “our” diner. I’m kind of quiet, deep in thought, thinking of how I really like spending time with this guy at my side. A bee buzzes a circle around my head and Chase waves it away, all protective-like. I smile in gratitude.

Chase gives my shoulder a bump with his arm. “Ah, now I’ve got your attention. Not much to say today, huh, quiet girl?” He raises an eyebrow. “Everything’s okay, right?”

Walking next to Chase, things are so far beyond
okay
I can barely contain myself.

I return the bump, with my hip to the top of his leg. “Maybe I’m just saving all my talking for when we get to the diner,” I shoot back. “Just wait, soon enough you’ll be missing the quiet me.”

“Any you you’re giving, Kay, is fine with me,” is his quiet retort. His words make my heart skip two beats this time.

Despite his ability to say these things that make my heart thump and skip, I am actually growing more comfortable around Chase. This complicated guy may have moments of intensity that catch me off guard, but there’s this current of ease—of rightness—I feel in just being around him. You know how once in a while you meet someone you just connect with, right from the start. Well, it’s like that, but…more. I feel connected to Chase, but pulled to him as well. Something is developing here, something intoxicating. Whatever it is it makes me positively giddy. I don’t want this feeling to pass, but I sure hope Chase feels something similar.

At the diner, back in the same booth as yesterday, we order food and talk about our mornings. We also eye each other knowingly a while later when our waitress, who has turned into a bitch since shortly after we sat down, ignores us for the umpteenth time. I’ve already told Chase I suspect our disgruntled server’s change in attitude—from overly friendly at the start to progressively dismissive—is a direct result of him not flirting back when we first sat down and ordered. The waitress, a different one from yesterday, worked her game pretty hard initially, giggling and trying to catch Chase’s eye as she took our orders and brought us waters. She gave up though when she realized the beautiful man seated across from me wasn’t going to play with her, a fact that pleased me far more than it probably should have. But it did, especially since our waitress is very pretty.

We finished our meals a while ago, but Miss Disgruntled has yet to clear our plates. I also asked for more water about ten minutes ago, but that’s apparently been forgotten as well.

While we wait, I steal a few leftover fries from Chase’s plate, and we check out the old photographs lining the dividers between the big windows. The photo closest to Chase depicts a part of town that was once all farmland.

“The first house my dad ever built is in the plan that’s there now,” Chase says, unmistakable pride in his voice as his eyes remain on the faded photograph.

Everyone in town knows Chase’s father passed away several years ago out in Vegas. Suicide is the rumor. But even though it was a long time ago, there’s no telling how raw the wounds remaining still may be. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, firsthand, it’s that time doesn’t always heal every wound, especially those on the psyche. Therefore, I tread carefully.

“That’s pretty impressive,” I begin. “I’ve driven by that plan a lot, and those homes are
very
nice. Really well-built, too, I’ve heard.”

Chase’s eyes stay on the photo. “Yeah, I guess they are.” His voice is so low I can barely hear him.

“So, you’re family has always lived here? Like, your grandparents, are they from Harmony Creek too?”

I’m trying to not talk specifically about his father—those wounds obviously still run deep, as I suspected—but I don’t want to change the subject completely. I’d like to learn more about Chase’s background.

“Yeah,” he replies, looking away from the picture and back in my direction. “My grandparents were born here and they lived here all their lives. The house I live in now has been in our family for decades.”

“That’s out on Cold Springs Lane, right?”

I know the answer, but I want to keep the conversation flowing. Chase nods, and then, to my delight, he shares a little bit of detail from his early childhood.

His parents lived with his grandmother in the Cold Springs Lane house right after they were first married. They were young, he tells me, just turned twenty. Chase was born soon after. He says some of his earliest memories are of living in the farmhouse. He recalls his father once putting him up on his shoulders, walking around the property, and telling him it would one day all belong to him.

“Never thought it would be this soon though,” Chase says sadly as he glances back at the picture of the land where his dad built his first house.

Chase seems to become a little lost in his memories as he continues talking, telling me how his mom used to read him bedtime stories when he was really little. She’d tuck him in his covers, kiss his forehead, and promise him their family would always be together.

“We’re strong, honey,” he tells me she’d say. “I love you and your father more than life itself. Nothing will ever tear us apart.”

That’s what she’d tell the little boy who grew into the stunningly handsome man now sitting across from me. But even I know how that turned out.

Chase suddenly looks like maybe he’s divulged too much, and he quickly moves his story forward, detailing instead how his father’s construction business started to do really well. His parents moved out of the farmhouse, stayed here in Harmony Creek for a few more years, and then moved out to Nevada. His little brother, Will, was born out there, back when Chase was nine.

“Las Vegas, wow, can’t get much different than here,” I say. “So, what was it like?”

I mean the climate, the city, but Chase thinks I mean something else, something more personal. He looks away, out the window, to where there’s a family walking by—a dad, a mom, a little boy.

“It was good…for a while. And then, not so much.”

Chase doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. It’s obviously a touchy subject. It’s tense for a few beats, but then Chase asks me if I was also born here in Harmony Creek.

The tension lifts, I pilfer a few more fries, and breathe a sigh of relief. “No, I was born in Columbus. We lived there for a while, and then we moved out here.”

“How old were you when your family moved here?” Chase asks, sliding his plate closer so I no longer have to reach.

I grab another fry, dip it in ketchup. “We moved here when I was ten,” I reply between bites.