I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(79)

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.