“I’m not cuddling with you.”
He shrugged. “Your loss. You can help me fold invitations.”
“What the heck happened to those?” Velma stared at the mess of gold-foiled cardstock he’d tied pink ribbons around earlier. Tried to tie ribbons around. His hands weren’t exactly made for ribbon tying. He’d come up with a sticker system that seemed to work okay. Forget about the tissue-paper envelopes they were supposed to slide into before the mailing envelopes. Who the hell needed two envelopes? Especially with thin-ass paper that wrinkled whenever he breathed?
Her eyebrows fell together. “Are these Claire’s? They’re all crumpled.”
So maybe a couple had suffered collateral damage while he figured shit out.
Velma bit at her bottom lip. “Let me help.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He sauntered to the couch and flipped on the television. “And the show’s good. Way better than that crap you put on with dudes singing about their feelings.”
“Musicals are cultured.” Frilly blanket over her lap, she made herself comfortable on the other side of the white leather sofa.
“Eh.” Brek brought up the next episode. The start of the third season. “This, this is good stuff.”
Stack of invitations in hand, she tied the silk around one without any issue.
The damn paper didn’t crumple at all. “How’d you do that?”
She held up the invitation in illustration. “It’s easy. You make a bunny ear, go over, go under, around, and through. See?”
Fuckin’ serious? “I know how to tie my shoes, V. How’d you do it so easy? Around the card?”
“Luck?” Apparently, it was no big deal to her.
“You’re in charge of ribbons. I’ll put on the stamps.”
“You’re not using the Love stamps?” She nodded to the stack of American flag stamps he’d picked up earlier.
“What the fuck are Love stamps?”
“They’re the stamps with hearts and they usually have ‘love’ written on them. They coordinate better. I’m pretty sure that’s what Claire wants.”
The stamps he’d grabbed had Old Glory blowing in the wind. Fuck. Aspen’s notes said nothing about special stamps.
“A stamp’s a stamp.” He stuck a stamp on the corner of an envelope. “They’re patriotic.”
Velma didn’t look convinced.
“You might want to make that a little straighter.” Velma reached for the stamp and peeled it off, repositioning it exactly where he’d put it before.
“That’s how I had it.”
“Yours was crooked.”
The zombies on TV were more and more interesting. “You gonna yap the entire show?”
“No. But don’t you want to put on a shirt?” She waved a hand at his bare chest.
Sprawled out on the couch, he pressed more patriotism onto the froufrou envelopes. “I’m good. But if you’re uncomfortable, you can always take off your top. Won’t bother me.”
A frustrated gurgling, gagging noise came from her throat. Still, she settled against the throw pillow beside her. Fuckin’ cute.
“Velma?”
“Hmm?”
“What happened to that picture over the fireplace? The one with the pansy-ass dude dancing with the hot chick showin’ off her legs?”
“Okay, one, that was a limited-edition Jack Vettriano signed print. Two, the dude was not pansy-ass. And three, the woman’s dress was appropriately modest for living room art.”
Living room art had a modesty level?
“Where’d it go?” he asked.
Blanket readjusted, she continued, “I bought it as an investment a while back. I finally found a buyer for it.”
They settled in and finished the invitations. One episode morphed into two, and two into three. She stretched out on her side and yawned. Turned out Velma liked zombies after all. She didn’t talk the whole way through the show, either.
Her feet crept closer and closer to his cutoff-sweatpants-covered thigh. He took a breath and focused on the images on the television.
This was not a date. Running his hand along her calves would probably land him out on his ass without a place to live.
So, he refrained from touching her. Barely.
Chapter Five
Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 7 Weeks
Velma flipped a pancake on the skillet and checked the tomato-bacon-spinach quiche in the oven. Not ready yet.
Zombies were so cool. It didn’t take much to understand the plot of Brek’s show. Zombies are bad, people aren’t always good, and when the world ends, you should stock up on bullets and find Rick Grimes. The date-from-heck last night had miraculously transformed into a nice evening at home with Brek. The whole thing was very domestic with a side of comfort she refused to formally acknowledge.
“Morning.” Brek emerged from the back hallway.
Oy vey. The man was wearing navy-blue boxers and nothing else.
She stared at the pattern on his arms, abs, and everywhere in between. The amount of ink he sported never ceased to amaze her. It must’ve hurt like the dickens getting all those tattoos. There really were a lot of them. The tribal doodles even led down to the waistband of his boxers, which led to his—
He cleared his throat. She jerked back to reality. She should probably make a new rule about requiring pants if she wanted to get anything done. Ever.
Velma stacked the pancakes and clicked off the burner. “I made extra if you want, and there’s a quiche in the oven. And, Brek…seriously, it’s cool if you don’t want to wear a shirt, but pants aren’t optional.”
She liked his chest. He could display it all he wanted. Truly, he could’ve been a model for one of those marble statues in Rome. Tourists would flock to see him.
He grunted. “Give me a minute to make some coffee before you lay in about dress codes.”
“I quit buying coffee and threw out what we had left. I read an article about how bad caffeine is, so I figured we wouldn’t keep it in the house anymore. There’s some tea in there, though.” She pointed at the cabinet to his left with the herbal loose leaf and the everyday mugs.
“You threw out the coffee?” His morning voice was rougher than usual, which she hadn’t thought possible until she heard it for herself.
“Uh-huh. Try the tea, though. It’s good for you.” She lifted her Saturday mug in a mock toast.
He stared at her, unresponsive, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“You shouldn’t put that in your body, anyway. The article said too much caffeine causes stomach problems and irritability.” It also mentioned insomnia and headaches. She’d given up the stuff a few days ago, and already she felt loads better. Not that her health had been bad before, but, you know, little steps, an ounce of prevention, and all that.
Brek opened the fridge and poured orange juice into a glass. “Know what makes me irritable?”
“Hmm?”
“You throwin’ out all the coffee.” He downed the juice.
Holy moly, the way the muscles of his throat pulsed as he swallowed. Mesmerizing. Then again, it’d be less mesmerizing if he put on some darn pants so she could concentrate.
“New rule,” she declared. “I’ll keep coffee on hand for you, if you wear pants when you’re outside of your bedroom.”
“I’m wearin’ shorts.” He raised his hands in illustration, which meant the boxers stretched over his thighs, the bulge in the center on display.
“That’s underwear,” she pointed out. Not literally. She didn’t point or anything. No need to draw more attention to his already on display bits o’ glory.
“You’re the fashion police and the beverage police?” he grumbled.
Before she could respond, the doorbell chimed the special new “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” theme she had programmed yesterday.
“You want to put on pants before I get that?”
“No.” He poured more juice, filling his cup up to the rim.
Good.
Maybe the juice would raise his blood sugar so he wouldn’t be so grouchy. Velma checked the peephole—a woman dressed in a smart blue business suit, complete with coordinated low-heeled pumps, stood on the other side. The Dooney & Bourke purse on her shoulder matched her shoes. Curly, strawberry-blonde hair barely touched her shoulders. Velma pulled open the door. “Hello?”
“You must be Velma.” The woman quirked her head to the side. “I’m Brek’s mom. Pam.”
Well, huh. Pam seemed so…normal. How did a woman with a Dooney bag produce a biker son like Brek?
“Brek. Your mom’s here.” Velma moved to let her through. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Breckenridge Montgomery, where are your pants?” His mother admonished as she walked in the room.
He scowled. “Ma, this is a surprise.”
Velma shot him her best I-told-you-so look.
“If you called your mother more often, I wouldn’t have to surprise you,” Pam replied.
Brek had her blue eyes. They were as striking on her as on him.
He crossed his arms. “We had lunch together yesterday. You hungry?” He grabbed a piece of bacon from the plate. “Velma made pancakes and some French thing.”
“Quiche,” Velma corrected.
Speaking of… Velma checked the quiche and tugged on two kitchen mitts in the same pattern as her paisley apron.
“If you call it baked eggs, he’ll eat it.” Pam made herself comfortable on a barstool across the counter.
“I made baked eggs.” Velma held up the pie plate and beamed at Brek.
His eyes crinkled at the sides. “Mmm…eggs sound great. You know what goes great with eggs?” He waited a beat. “Coffee.”
“Drink more juice, Brek. Get that blood sugar up to get rid of the crabbies.” Velma set the quiche on a black metal trivet.
“I’d offer you coffee, Ma, but Velma threw it all out. Juice?”
“Juice would be lovely. Why on earth would you throw out the coffee?” Pam asked.
“She read a dissertation on the problems with caffeine,” Brek replied before Velma could answer. “Ma likes to learn stuff, too. You should tell her about it while I get dressed.”
He grabbed another slice of bacon and left.
“You want to hear about the article?” Velma asked Pam as she cut into the quiche and served up the pancakes.
“Not if it means I won’t like coffee afterward.” Pam smiled politely and sipped at her juice. “How is the roommate situation?”
“It’d be great if your son would wear pants more often.”
Pam snorted an incredibly unladylike sound. “He’s a work in progress, that boy.”
“Brek says you’re a matchmaker?” Velma asked.
“Indeed I am. Are you seeing anyone?” Pam tilted her head to the side, clearly assessing Velma’s potential as a mate for one of her studs. Velma had been through every online dating site, been on blind dates, regular dates, everything—but she had never tried a matchmaker.
“Ah, no. Not right now.” Velma pulled off her oven mitts and hung them on their hook beside the stove. “You know how hard it is to meet the right person.”
“Velma’s got a system, though. You’d be impressed.” Brek had tugged on some jeans and a formfitting black T-shirt with a skull on the back and what she assumed was the name of a band on the front.
“How does the match thing happen?” Velma moved her attention to Pam, away from Brek’s triceps.
Brek groaned and loaded up his plate. “Why’d you have to go and ask that?”
His mother sat taller. “It’s simple. I have a gut feeling when two people are meant to be together.” She glanced between Velma and Brek, her face going blank. “Always have. I made my first match when I was eight. I matched our golden retriever with the neighbor’s German shepherd. When I was in high school, I set up all my friends. I’ve been doing it ever since.”
The spiel was clearly well rehearsed.
“Ma’s got an excellent track record for getting couples engaged. Now, staying married? That’s a whole different story.”
“Hush. My job is to help them find each other. What they do after that is up to them.”
Velma topped off Pam’s juice.
“You should ask Velma about her methods.” Brek pointed the tines of his fork at Velma.
She glared at him.
“Are you interested in finding a match?” Pam asked.
“Here she goes. Hang on, Velma. You’re in for a ride.” Brek sat on the counter, his plate on his lap, bare Neanderthal feet dangling against her maple cabinets.
“Tell me about yourself, Velma.” Pam removed a small spiral notebook and pen from her purse, poised to take notes.
“Uh…” Velma started.
“Don’t be nervous. I do this all the time. Start with your age. How old are you?” Pam asked.
“Thirty.” Velma handed Brek the jar of real Vermont maple syrup.
Pam scribbled something on the paper. “How do you usually meet men?”
“Mostly online.”
Pam tsked. “I’m not a fan of online. You can’t judge chemistry through a computer screen.”
“That’s probably why you’ve had such bad luck.” Brek set the syrup aside. “Show her your spreadsheet. She’ll love it.”
“I’m not showing anyone my spreadsheet.” Velma gave him her best attempt at a withering stare.
He smiled at her in reply.
“What spreadsheet?” Pam asked.
“Velma’s got a program,” Brek said through a huge bite. “Ranks men on the diversity of their portfolios.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Velma clarified. “The whole thing is part of my five-year plan. I have a spreadsheet so I can compare all the things that are important to me in a man. Financial solvency is a part of that, but it’s a very small part. Personality is ranked much higher.”
“How do you rank attraction on your spreadsheet?” Pam straightened, her full attention on Velma.
“I haven’t gotten that far.” Velma cut into her pancake. “No one has gotten past the first stage of compatibility.”
“Tell me, Velma. When you’re forty years old, sitting next to the man you’ve married, what do you want to feel?” Pam asked.
Velma blinked hard at the idea of actually finding a partner who would stick through everything with her. “Happy. I’d like to feel happy.”
“And you think a man with a diverse portfolio and manicured fingernails will make you happy?” Pam confirmed.
Sheesh. This was like therapy. Deep therapy.
“No. I just think having someone there to enjoy being happy with me would be nice,” Velma said softly.
“You want a guy with manicured fingernails?” Brek paused as he mopped up the syrup from his plate with a pancake. He had abandoned the fork.
“Of course she does,” Pam replied. “I don’t need to see her list to know that’s important to her.”
“Velma, shoot your goals higher than a nitwit with nice fingernails and a pension. That’s all I’m sayin’.” Brek glanced to his mother. “You fix her up, make sure the jerk isn’t a total loser.”
“Do you think you could really find someone for me?” Velma wiped at a nonexistent speck on the granite countertop with her fingers.
“Would you ever consider…?” Pam glanced to Velma, then Brek, then back to Velma.
“Brek? Like to date?” Velma looked to her roommate. Well, yeah, she’d considered him. All night long. But he wasn’t the kind of man who wanted forever. Not with someone like her.
“Leave it alone, Ma,” Brek said on a growl.
“A mother’s got a right to want her son happy, hasn’t she?” Pam raised her eyebrows, practically daring him to contradict.
“I’m happy.” Brek grinned. “See?” He pointed at his smile.
Pam smacked her palms together and ignored him. “I love a good challenge, Velma. Come to some of my mixers, fill out the paperwork, and I’ll see what I c
an come up with. It’s the least I can do since you’re taking care of my son.”
“Mixers?” Velma asked.
“Get-together events for singles. I screen everyone beforehand and make sure there’s a possibility of a match. Then you meet men and see if there’s chemistry—”
“Without having to wonder if he’s a serial killer,” Brek finished for her.
Pam glared at her son.
Velma agreed with Brek. Serial killer status was good information to have on a potential match.
He shrugged. “It’s the truth. Ma screens out all the serial killers and felons.”
“Actually, I have a couple of nice girls I’d like you to meet, Brek.” Pam rummaged through her purse and retrieved a cell phone in a sleek black case. She swiped at the screen and held it up to her son.
“I don’t want to meet nice girls. Thanks, though.” He didn’t even glance at the screen. “Don’t try to match me. I’m not staying in Denver.”
“Matching people is what I do. And you, Son, need a match.” She thumbed through more photos and raised another at him.
He continued to ignore her phone, turning instead to Velma. “Ma’s on a tear about finding me a wife.”
“Sweetheart, you’re over thirty,” Pam said. “The time has come.”
“What’s wrong with a wife?” Velma asked. Falling in love, marriage, family—it’d be wonderful.
“What’s right with one? That’s the real question.”
“I’ll crack him yet. We just haven’t found the right woman.” Pam slipped her phone back into her purse. “It’ll happen. Maybe you could bring Velma to the mixers?”
“No.” Brek tossed his plate into the sink.
Velma cleared her throat. He got the message and rinsed the plate off before putting it in the dishwasher.
“Ma, what ideas do you have for a ‘Purple Rain’ wedding theme? I don’t want to bug Aspen, but I’m coming up empty. So far all I’ve got is lighting the ceremony with black lights.”
Whatever the question, when it came to weddings, black lights were never the answer.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Velma replied. “Some clothes become see-through under black light.”
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 5