I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(43)

Based on his grimace I know I shouldn’t have asked. Chase pushes away his plate of half-eaten grilled cheese, and it’s not because he’s saved some for me. No, he looks upset. He leans back in the booth and scrubs his hand down his face. “What do you want to know exactly?” His tone is flat.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess…just what it was like in general.”

When he doesn’t answer right away, I hastily amend, “Look, we don’t have to talk about it.” I push my own plate away and almost knock over my glass. I stop it from falling and keep my eyes glued to the table. “I’m sorry, Chase, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Hey, hey…” He places his hand on mine. It’s rough and calloused in places, but also smooth in others, and definitely warm and strong all over.

“I don’t mind you asking.” He squeezes my hand gently. “But there’s nothing really to tell. Whatever you imagine prison is like, Kay, however horrible. Multiply it by a hundred times, maybe a thousand, and you still won’t even be close.”

“Chase…” I glance up and we hold one another’s gaze.

A dozen emotions pass. The resulting connection gives me the confidence to flip the hand that’s under his over. Our palms touch—rough against soft—and it feels so very right for some reason. Before I even know what I’m doing I wrap my fingers around Chase’s hand and squeeze lightly. And for about thirty seconds, there is no one in the diner but me and my wayward boy. Or so it seems.

His eyes hold mine, his mouth opens. I fear what he might say. Reject me, or not reject me. Both are equally scary at this point.

Fear overrides everything else and I yank my hand away. “Sorry,” I mumble, my gaze skittering away.

Chase says nothing, but I feel him watching me. At the same time, the lingering warmth from his hand having been on mine has my whole arm tingling. When our hands were touching, and our eyes meeting, something happened, some stronger bonding. I mentally chastise myself for chickening out and not letting the moment play out.

Under the table, out of sight, I hold the hand touched by my complicated and beautiful friend. I cling to the possibility that something—something that gives me butterflies in my stomach and skipped beats in my heart—may be starting here.

Without looking up, I whisper, “We should get back.”

As we head back to the church, nothing further is discussed regarding the whole sort-of-but-not-really-hand-holding exchange. We amble back, side-by-side, in somewhat awkward silence, until Chase notices me trying to readjust the tie holding my ponytail in place.

“Here, let me,” he offers.

Suddenly, there’s mischief in his blues. I grin in relief. This is Chase getting us back to where we need to be. So it’s an easy decision to accept his assistance, even though I know some sort of tomfoolery is afoot. Truthfully, I have no idea what he’s up to, but I can’t wait to find out.

I turn so my back is facing Chase, but instead of adjusting the hair tie, like he’s supposed to, he slides the band all the way down my hair in one smooth move. Then, he promptly takes off.

“Hey,” I call out after him.

Stopping several yards away, Chase turns back to me and dangles the hair tie from his fingers. “Come and get it, sweet girl,” he purrs.

He’s talking about the hair tie, I remind myself, momentarily wishing he meant something else entirely.

“No fair, Chase. I have a dress on here.” For emphasis, I flip up the hem of my eyelet lace dress. “How am I supposed to catch you when I’m wearing this?”

Chase cocks his head to the side, his hungry eyes on my bare legs. “I don’t know, lacy girl. Why don’t you hike that pretty dress up a little higher and try to catch me.”

Oh. My. God.

I want to hike my dress up for Chase, and, damn, do I long to catch him. Hearing him say these things though, in that sex-promising voice, makes me have to remind myself to breathe.

“I dare you,” he taunts. And that’s all it takes.

For Chase, I accept dares, I’m learning to take chances. He makes me feel unafraid. I’m willing to let go and live when I am with this man. So, with no further hesitation, I lift white lace up with abandon, and take off after my favorite Chase—playful Chase.

Thankfully, I have on flats and I miraculously manage to catch him. Well, okay, he lets me catch him. But it still feels good. I play-punch him in the arm with one hand, while making sure my dress hem is back down and in place with the other.

“Ouch.” He pretends like my play-punch really hurts, which makes us both laugh, because, really, who is he kidding?

“Okay, tough girl, turn around,” he says, spinning me so my back is facing him and he can put the tie he stole back in my hair.

I stand perfectly still while Chase works my hair back into the tie. His fingers work adeptly, but also gently and carefully, never pulling or tugging. It amazes me that hands that punish and perpetrate violence against men—I’ve heard of how brutal some of his fights have been—can touch me like this, tenderly, so sweetly. But I already know Chase is complex and his actions are sometimes contradictory. After all, the same hands that break bones also create beautiful art. Yet another contradiction of this complicated man. This complicated man that I am really starting to like.

Chase’s fingers graze the back of my neck lightly as he secures the tie and the hair around it. I shiver a little, my body instinctively leaning back into him.