I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (26 page)

“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She shakes her head slightly. “I was just thinking, remember how I told you I was planning to leave Peetie at Sarah’s grave…but I couldn’t?” I nod. “Do you think I’m wrong to keep him, Chase? Do you think he should be with Sarah?” Her face is panicked, but I sense this isn’t really about Peetie. “What if I’m making wrong decisions and don’t even know it? Maybe I’m just selfish, keeping things for myself—no, keeping things
to
myself.” Her caramel-browns implore. “What if you found out something about me, and then realized I am not the person you think I am, Chase?”

I place the album on the desk. “Come here.”

I give her the biggest hug possible, which is pretty huge since my arms encompass her.

“I know you, right?” I whisper into her ear. She nods. “Well, I love that person, the person I
know
you are, Kay. Don’t ever doubt that, baby. Now, what’s this really all about anyway?”

Kay holds on to me like she fears she’ll lose me if she lets go.
Never going to happen.

“I have to tell you something, Chase,” she begins. “Something about the night Sarah died. The story you heard isn’t the truth, and I need to tell you what really happened. I made a horrible mistake that night and it cost Sarah her life. You deserve to know what it was, but I…I…I’m terrified to tell you.” She finally breaks her hold and leans back.

She can tell me anything, there’s nothing to fear. I brush her hair back and say all this and more, but every time my girl attempts to divulge this secret, it’s like she
physically
can’t get the words out, like she’s been traumatized or something.

“Why are you so afraid?” I ask, since I know it can’t be me that’s intimidating her. I’d never judge her, and she knows it.

She takes a deep breath. “I told someone once, and…it didn’t go so well.”

“Your mother,” I guess.

“Yes,” she answers listlessly.

Fuck, her mother really does blame her for Sarah dying. Father Maridale was right. I sigh and shake my head. “And this secret is why this woman won’t speak to you?”

I’d like to get “this woman” alone in a room for a few minutes to shake some sense into her. Hurting my girl like this—wounding her, really—talk about a bitch move of epic proportions.

Kay nods, and I bring her to me once again. I tell her she doesn’t have to
ever
share this secret if she doesn’t want to. I’ll love her no matter what she decides to do—tell, or not tell. But if she feels she must disclose whatever it is, I think she should hold off for a while. Hell, she’s just getting over what happened at her apartment building last night. And, sure, her cheek may only be a little red and swollen today, but I can see there’s still a bruise on her leg, and surely there’s a bruise that’s not visible, but still there, on her psyche. She’s wounded. Waiting is best for now. After I say all of this, Kay whispers, “Thank you, Chase,” against my chest.

We sit quietly for a few more minutes, but then Kay slides off my lap and takes the photo album back upstairs. Even though she swore she wasn’t hungry when she first came down earlier, I figure a piece of toast and some juice might do her some good.

I go into the kitchen and place two slices of bread in the toaster, and pour some juice for each of us. Kay comes into the room just as I’m buttering. With emotions now settled, we sit at the kitchen table, eat buttered toast, and talk about getting my girl moved into the apartment above the garage.

“I can’t wait to finally see the apartment in person,” she tells me between bites. “It looks so awesome in the flyers.”

“You’re going to love it,” I tell her.

A short while later we head next door to Kay’s new living space, her “awesome” new apartment. I carry her suitcase in one hand, and, in the other, a duffel bag that looks like it’s been beaten to hell and back. Kay follows me across the driveway and up the wooden steps trailing along the far side of the detached garage. When we reach the top and step inside the apartment, my girl’s eyes grow wide.

“Oh my God, Chase, this place
is
incredible,” she gushes as she spins around, taking everything in.

There’s a lot of light coming in through the skylights, so there’s no need to turn on any of the lamps. I point out some things I think she may like in the little kitchenette, and when I open the door to the still-brand-new oven, she peeks in. “You never cooked when you lived here?” she asks, disbelief on her face.

I shrug. “Uh, I wasn’t too into cooking when I lived over here. But, does toast count?”

“No, silly boy, Toast absolutely does not count.” Kay reaches up and tries to mess up my probably already-crazy hair, but I dodge her hand. She swats my ass instead. “Ohh,” I drawl. “Into the kinky stuff, I see. Hmm, wish I’d known that last night.”

I am totally teasing, but sweet girl’s cheeks pink all the way to red.

“Chase, you’re bad,” she says in this trying-to-be-but-unsuccessful chastising voice.

I know she loves the “bad” side of me, very much, based on her reactions in bed last night. I tell her exactly that, using very graphic words. She can’t disagree, but she sure blushes crimson red. Damn, she’s adorable.

I’m still smirking, smug, as we step into the living room area. There’s a ton of sexual tension in the air now, so I keep my distance. Otherwise, there’s a good chance we’ll end up on the couch, doing what I’d like to be doing right now. But I meant what I said last night—I want everything to be perfect for Kay when we consummate this relationship.

From a safe distance, I watch as Kay makes her way slowly around the living room. She pats the dark blue cushions on the couch. She sits down, stands up. Too-cute girl steps over to where the TV sits on a stand. She runs her index finger along the top. Smiling, she gives me a sidelong glance. “Did you dust recently?”

I admit I stopped over before she was up so I could make sure everything was spotless for her arrival. This earns me a kiss on the cheek. “So sweet,” she murmurs.

We wrap up the tour with the bedroom and a peek into the bath in the back. Kay turns back to the full-sized bed and plops down on the plushy cover. She tells me she loves the refinished antique iron headboard, and then adds while glancing about, “In fact, I love the whole place.”

“I’m glad you like it,” I say. “I kind of figured you would.”

“There’s only one thing.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“There’s nothing on the walls, Chase, nothing. They’re way too bare.”

I shrug, but she’s absolutely correct. There is nothing on the walls, not in this room or any of the others. I just never got around to hanging anything up when I lived here. But what Kay doesn’t know is that I have a plan to remedy these empty walls, I just can’t tell her yet. It’s part of my surprise for her, part of making everything “perfect” for my girl. And if it’s going to be ready for this evening, which I hope, then I really need to get started on it soon.

I lift Kay’s suitcase up onto the bed, and she starts taking out her clothes. It doesn’t appear as if this task is something she needs my help with, so I tell her I have a few errands to run and ask if she’ll be okay if she’s alone for a while. She rolls her eyes and laughs at me.

“Just checking,” I say.

We’d originally planned on a going to a movie this afternoon, but I’d rather have my girl alone later this evening. I ask her if she still wants to hang out, but maybe more toward dusk. “And do you mind if we just stay in tonight?” I ask.

“That’s fine,” she says, pushing my shoulder playfully.

“Just checking on that too,” I tease back.

I give her a good-bye kiss, and then leave Kay to her unpacking. I head back over to the house to start researching the surprise I’m planning for Kay. I haven’t forgotten how she said on the day we first kissed that if we could go anywhere she’d have us go to Paris. Well, I don’t have the means to take her there, but I may have a way to bring Paris to my girl.

Once I’m back in the living room, I sit down at the computer and start researching all the famous Parisian sights. I print out a few of the most well-known; I know I’ll need them for reference. Next, I look up grocery stores in the area. There’s one north of here that sells gourmet items. I print out the address. The grocery store is near the dollar store where Kay bought the sunglasses the junkie destroyed last night. I decide I’ll stop there, as well, so I can buy my girl a new pair.

Fuck, this girl owns my ass. But do I care? Nope, I fucking love that she has this kind of hold on me. Simply because I love her right the fuck back. And I’m going to show my girl I can make her happy if it’s the last thing I do.

Tonight, I will give Kay Stanton her “perfect” evening.

Chapter Twelve

Kay

After Chase leaves, I get to work on unpacking and settling into the space above his garage, my new apartment, the one I secretly hoped to end up in someday. I think back to the first day we went to lunch at the diner, when Chase first showed me the flyer. I thought his apartment looked amazing then, but here, now, in person, it’s so much better.

What I said to my boy is true: I love my new home already.

Streams of sunlight pour through the skylights above me as I glance around, soaking it all in once more. Everything is as it appeared in Chase’s sketch—bright, warm, and welcoming. This space has the makings of a happy space, the antithesis of the basement apartment in which I lived for a full year. I stayed there too long. I should’ve left sooner, money issues or not. Well, one thing for sure—I will never again step foot in that place. I plan to compose a letter to notify the property group that, as of last night, I have vacated the premises. The key, I’ll return with the letter.

I take a break from unpacking and step back into the living room. When I sit down on the sofa, I run my hand along the soft, smooth fabric. I lean back, turn my head, and breathe in deeply. No stale odors here. This sofa smells terrific, fresh and clean, with maybe a hint of the guy I love.

I straighten. I just can’t believe this place is all mine now. I spend a few minutes just letting all the newness sink in, then I get up and return to the bedroom so I can get back to unpacking my things.

It doesn’t take long to put away my stuff, there’s really not all that much to organize. I utilize the small closet and wooden dresser, folding and hanging various articles of clothing and placing them in appropriate spots. When I’m done, I flip the lid up on the trunk at the base of the bed, half-expecting to find some of Chase’s stuff—and hoping a little that I do—but it’s completely empty.

Not for long, I decide. It’s there that I carefully place my Sarah journals, as well as the small photo album I shared with Chase this morning.

Once my bags are empty and everything is in place, I consider myself officially moved in. Acknowledging this brings a smile to my face. I know in my bones I am going to love living here, especially since I’ll be in such close proximity to my blue-eyed boy.

My mood lifts even higher as this thought sinks in, maybe it even soars a little. Heck, such a good mood washes over me that I plop down on the edge of the bed and decide to text Missy. I don’t mention last night at all, nor do I bring up what happened with her, Nick, and his cousin. And I most definitely do not utter a word regarding my encounter with the junkie. It’s none of her business. What I do text is that I once again have access to a working oven and can bake cookies, if need be, for the upcoming Fourth of July carnival bake sale.

It takes only a few seconds for Missy to reply with,
Great,
can you do snickerdoodle cookies?

After I breathe a sigh of relief that, like me, Missy has made no mention of the events last evening at the Anchor Inn, I answer back,
sure can.
I even include a smiley face for good measure.

Missy sends a return smile, and our texting concludes.

I hold the phone contemplatively. The head of the bake committee wants snickerdoodle cookies, so snickerdoodle cookies it shall be. I am completely fine with her request. Lord knows I’ve made enough cookies over the years that I have the recipe for snickerdoodles memorized. Baking them will be a snap.

I type a quick note in my cell as a reminder to pick up the necessary ingredients Monday after work. The fourth isn’t till Thursday, but the carnival begins Tuesday evening. Missy will want the cookies Tuesday morning—that’s how we always work things like this—which means I’ll most likely be baking well into Monday night. This could work to my advantage though. Every good baker needs a taste tester, right? And luckily I know just who to ask.

Chase is perfect for the task. Not to mention, he’s sure to love every minute. Based on his penchant for sugary lemon-lime soda—and the more than occasional ice-cream cone from the place across from the church—I am well aware my guy loves his sugar.

Speaking of Chase, I hear his truck backing out of the driveway. Guess he’s leaving to go out and run his errands. I have to wonder what he’s really up to though. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s putting together something for me—for us—for tonight. Probably working on that “perfect” something he has promised. If that’s the case, then I know I better rest up while I have the chance.

I lie back on my new bed and burrow under the fluffy down comforter covering the top. I am already relaxed, but wrapping up in clean-smelling, fresh linens ensures sleep finds me rather quickly.

I sleep soundly, and don’t wake until hours later.

There’s a soft, waning glow edging through the skylight directly above me when I open my eyes, bathing me in what I estimate to be early evening light. Stretching and yawning, I check my cell. I am right—it’s almost seven o’clock in the evening.

I rub sleep from my eyes and check the cell more thoroughly—there’s one missed text, from Chase, sent just a few minutes ago. It reads:
My house, eight o’clock, sound good?

I text back:
perfect
.

Not yet, bb, but it will be,
is my boy’s cryptic reply, leaving me simultaneously thrilled, nervous, and infinitely excited
.

Five minutes later, I am in the shower, taking an extra-long time, savoring the steady, hot stream of water. It’s been so long since I’ve experienced anything more than ten minutes of tepid flow. This, in contrast, is heaven. Utilizing my recently unpacked toiletries, I shave everything that needs shaving and deep condition my hair. Once I’m done and out of the shower, I dry off and go back into the bedroom. There, I slip a cute linen sundress over my head—the shade is pale pink, a color I know Chase enjoys seeing me in.

I debate on how much makeup to wear. I never wear a lot, but tonight is a special evening. Plus, I’d prefer not to show up at Chase’s doorstep sporting the mark left by the junkie. But when I pull a tube of concealer out of my makeup bag, and prepare to dab a glob on my cheek, I notice the swelling has subsided completely, and the mark itself is almost completely faded. Since there’s no need for cover-up, I wipe my fingers on a tissue and toss the tube back into the bag.

In the end, I just go with a tiny bit of liner, a sweep of mascara to each set of lashes, and a touch of clear gloss to my lips. With my minimal makeup complete, I slip on a pair of flat sandals.

It’s almost eight by the time I’m ready, so I leave in a hurry and head across the gravel driveway to where I suspect “perfect” awaits.

When I reach the porch, I notice the front door is wide open and the screen door is unlocked. I think about just going in, but decide to ring the doorbell, lest I catch my guy off guard. The last thing I want is to ruin any surprise he’s planning.

After a beat, Chase yells down from the top of the stairs that he’ll be right down in a minute.

I duck down slightly and peer through the screen. I catch a quick flash of Chase walking by in nothing but a towel, looking all lean and muscular. The temperature, though not exceptionally hot this evening, suddenly seems to rise. A quick minute or two passes and, while I’m still fanning myself with my hand, Chase starts down the stairs.

My beautiful boy is as breathtaking as ever—freshly showered, hair slightly damp and tousled, and face clean-shaven. He’s dressed casually this evening, which always suits him best. Faded, worn jeans hang low on his hips and he has on a nice dress shirt.

On his way down the stairs, he lifts up the hem of the button-down he’s wearing, seemingly debating whether to tuck in or not. In that flash of seconds his taut abs are left exposed.
Oh my.
Sadly, my peek is too brief, as Chase lets the hem drop back into place, opting to leave his shirt untucked. As he reaches the last step, Chase rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The shade of this particular dress shirt is a light bluish-gray, a perfect match to his gunmetal blues. Just as I think that, Chase turns those stunning eyes on me, holding me captive as his gaze so often does. I smile, he smiles, yet we don’t say a thing. Sometimes words are just not necessary.

Chase opens the screen door and steadies it with his hip. In order to step past him and into the hall, I have to brush up against his body. He’s solid and firm and smells deliciously fresh and clean. I hesitate. We are chest to chest, but only half so since he’s so much taller.

“Hey,” I murmur, glancing up.

“Hey back at you,” he quietly responds, catching my eye.

He grins at me. Well, he actually kind of smirks, all knowing-like. I sense my boy is confident his surprise—whatever it is—will impress me, which only serves to ratchet up my curiosity.

I step the rest of the way in and, in doing so, purposely bump his leg with my hip. He closes the screen door and I playfully ask, “So, what are you up to, sneaky boy?”

He laughs. “Dying to know, eh?”

Why play coy?
“You know I am, so tell me. What do you have planned for our evening?”

“I’m not giving it up yet, curious girl. It’s a surprise.” Chase’s blues sparkle playfully. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Must be something
really
good,” I reply, basing my comment on the smug look he’s shooting my way.

“Oh, it
really
is. Only the best for my girl, you know.” He delivers a feather-light kiss to my cheek, and then his fingers pass lightly over the faded red mark. “This looks much better.”

“It does,” I agree, then I step back and lift my dress a little to show him how well the bruise on my thigh is also healing. “See, this one’s really fading too.”

Chase’s expression darkens briefly. “You shouldn’t be marked up at all, baby.” His lips press together, and I know he’s thinking about the junkie and all that transpired last night.

I don’t want the upbeat mood we have going to dampen, so I quickly suggest, “Hey, let’s not talk about any of that, okay?”

Chase nods slowly, and I nudge him, trying to get him to smile again. It works. Thankfully he morphs rather swiftly back to carefree.

“Okay, surprise time,” Chase announces, sending a dazzling smile that could melt hearts my way. It certainly melts mine.

Chase covers my eyes with one hand, and, with his other hand at my waist, he steers me toward the base of the staircase. Walking behind me, he guides me up the stairs, down the hall, and into what I assume is his bedroom. My eyes are still covered, but I know from the warm breeze coming in that we’re standing in front of a window.

My boy lowers his hand from my eyes and tells me I can open them. I do.

The window we climbed out the other night is in front of me, we are indeed in Chase’s bedroom. But before I can turn around to where I feel my boy’s warm body behind mine, he puts his hands on my shoulders and makes me promise to remain where I am.

“Part of your surprise is on the dresser,” he explains. “If you turn around now you’ll see it, and I’m saving that part for later. Okay?”

I am insanely curious to see what Chase has put together, but I murmur an assent and do as he asks. I keep my eyes averted. He steps beside me and takes out the screen, then climbs out onto the roof. With one long leg in and one out, my boy helps me over the sill, just like he did the other night.

When we’re standing out on the flat rooftop, I notice a big, plaid blanket stretched out close to the little ledge up against the house, where we sat the other night and watched the sunset. There are four votive candles on the blanket, one at each corner, keeping the checkered material in place. The flames flicker in the breeze against the backdrop of a setting sun that is streaking this particular evening sky in indigos and violets.

“Is it always this beautiful up here?” I ask, marveling at the second amazing rooftop sunset I’ve been lucky enough to see.

Chase leads me over to the blanket. When a warm gust of air blows a strand of my hair across my face, my attentive boy brushes it back. “It’s usually pretty nice up here, but you make it positively stunning.”

“Chase…” From any other man, Chase’s words might sound cheesy, but his voice holds such sincerity there’s no doubt these words, these consonants and vowels, come only from his heart. And that leaves me speechless, my own consonants and vowels trailing off into air around us.

Chase kneels down on the blanket and reaches for my hand. I place my fingers in his palm and lower myself down next to him. I tuck my legs to one side so I don’t give Chase a show. Well, not yet anyway.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, a smirk playing at his lips.

That smug expression tells me that, despite my attempt to be discreet when I sat down, my boy still caught a peek of the cute pink lace panties I chose for tonight.

“A little,” I reply, getting back to his question.

Chase reaches to under the ledge. There’s a shopping bag tucked underneath and I can’t imagine why. But when my full-of-surprises guy pulls a baguette out of the bag—then a round of brie—my eyes widen.

“Wow,” I say as he places both items on the blanket. “This
is
a surprise!”

He catches my eye and smiles. “There’s more.”

I am already beyond impressed, but Chase isn’t done yet. He pulls two wine glasses out of the bag and places them on the blanket, next to the baguette and brie. With the setting sun as a background, Chase pours white wine into each of the glasses. The candles flicker, making the gold-toned liquid shimmer. My boy begins to add something from a bottle labeled
crème de cassis
, and I raise an eyebrow.

“It’s a liqueur,” he explains. “You add just a small amount to the wine.”

When he sees I’m a little baffled, he elaborates, “I found the recipe on the Internet earlier today. The liqueur added to the wine creates a drink called Kir. The article next to the recipe said it’s popular in France. You can buy it at almost any restaurant or café. And it’s supposedly very good.” He finishes pouring and proffers me a glass. “Guess we’ll find out.”