I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(35)

I smile to myself. No wonder I can’t wait to see him today.

A little while later, after I’m safe and settled at Connie’s desk in the church office—well, my desk for the summer—time becomes a countdown of hours, a race with the clock. I take a few calls, type up a memo for Father Maridale, and make some last-minute changes to June’s online church calendar. But other than those minor tasks things are slow and the morning hours seem to drag on. Needless to say, the second noon arrives I jump out of my seat and race over to the school to find Chase.

The man I seek is standing outside the principal’s office, amid drop-cloth-covered furniture he’s dragged out to the hall. Chase is turned so his back faces me. The first thing I notice is his tawny hair. It’s far messier than it was yesterday, but in a very sexed-up, delicious kind of way.

Chase is busy doing something with his cell and doesn’t notice me right away. Fine with me. I stay put and check him out. I love the way the worn and faded denim of the jeans he’s wearing seems to hug his ass. Everything looks so firm and taut. And I can’t help but notice how his black T-shirt pulls tantalizingly at his wide shoulders, especially when he sets his phone down and moves a couple of paint cans from the table in front of him to the floor. The sleeves of his tee ride up slightly as he moves and the edges of two tattoos become slightly visible. There appears to be one tattoo on either arm. I lean forward and squint, quietly. I don’t yet want to be discovered.

The ink on Chase’s right bicep appears to be a number, but I can’t be sure. However, when he wedges a screwdriver under one of the paint can lids and pops it loose, his arm muscles flex and the sleeve of his shirt inches up, revealing more of the tattoo. It’s definitely a number, a seventy-two, I think.

Over on Chase’s left bicep, the tat is much harder to see. It’s a scroll of words, that much is clear. But the letters are small and inked in a dark script, making it too hard to read from where I’m standing. And I can’t move or he’ll hear me. So I just watch for a few seconds, enjoy the view, and then take a tentative step forward.

Chase hears the tap-tap of my sandal heels and turns around.

“Hey,” we both say simultaneously.

For every one step I take, Chase takes two. I count three of my own and then I am face-to-face with this stunning man. Even though he’s obviously been painting all morning he looks great. Neither of us says anything at first, but then Chase smiles and asks me how my day has been.

“Good, it’s been good,” I reply.

Chase is so close and his eyes—more blue than gray in the hall lighting—make a pass over my body. Quickly though, so quickly I almost miss it. But I sure don’t miss the heat in his blues when they catch and hold my gaze.

Chase takes me in and stirs me up. He makes me feel special, just with the look he’s giving me, like I may be one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen. I know I am not, but I like how he has the power to affect me like this. And I like the fact that—though it may be fairly demure, in length and style—the thin straps at the shoulders of my sundress and the cross of fabric in the back have me displaying far more skin than yesterday. I don’t quite know why but I want to bare even more for Chase Gartner. My body, maybe my soul—

“You’re looking pretty today,” Chase says softly, breaking me away from my errant thoughts.

His voice is seductive, unintentionally I’m sure. Still, his words warm my cheeks.

I thank him, and hope against hope that I am not blushing beet red. But I suspect I am.

And then I’m certain of it when Chase dips down and bumps my shoulder playfully with his own shoulder. “Come on, shy girl,” he says, a smile playing at his lips. “Let’s get this party started.”

Oh yeah, the tour. Party, indeed. I laugh a little. “If only,” I mumble under my breath.

Sadly, my tour hardly qualifies as fun. But nevertheless, Chase gives me his full attention from the moment we get started. He’s already been through the administrative offices, he informs me, the storage areas too. So I skip those rooms and lead him around the corner to the classrooms that are scattered along the long hall to our right. It takes all of about five minutes to walk past and peer into twelve square rooms filled with empty desks and empty chairs.

“Which one is your classroom?” he asks when we reach the end of the hall.

“Oh,” I breathe out, surprised, but pleased that this gorgeous man is interested enough to make such an inquiry.

I point to where the tour started, at the other end of the hall. “It’s down there. It’s the first one we passed.”

We start back down the hall side-by-side, our bodies parting the gray sea of lockers once more. When we reach the first classroom on the right, I say, “This is it.”

Chase nods and we step inside. This is the first day of break, but nostalgia washes over me. I glance over at my desk wistfully, and then to all the little, empty desks. Chase, meanwhile, walks around the front of the small classroom, examining and touching everything. He taps the chalkboard with his knuckles, picks up and checks out a dried-up potted plant on the ledge beneath the windows, and then flips an eraser sitting on a desk over. Chase appears to be very hands-on.

When my hands-on companion reaches my desk, he picks up a big, shiny red ceramic apple that is sitting next to a pencil sharpener. There’s a goofy, lopsided smiley face on one side of the apple. Chase turns to me and quirks an eyebrow.