“Like I said, I figure I’ll start with a black light. Any other ideas?”
He grinned his darn half smile. Her body responded with ridiculous tingles.
“What if you had Jase hang purple tulips from the ceiling of the church, so it looks like it’s raining flowers? You could do that all the way down the aisle.” Velma abandoned her breakfast. She dipped her metal tea diffuser in and out of her cup, studying the tea leaves in the bottom. “And at the reception you could use purple candles and those big vase things, fill them with water, and dye the water with food coloring.”
“Perhaps you should write this down.” Pam raised her eyebrows at Brek.
He cocked his head at Velma. “What else you got in that noggin’ of yours?
“What about a grape juice fountain?” Brainstorming was kind of fun.
“Um.” Pam squinted toward Velma.
“I mean if they’re going for a ‘Purple Rain’ theme, you could do lots of things that are purple and drippy. Grape juice. Purple popsicles. Jell-O.”
“Grape juice might stain.” Pam ran her finger around the rim of her glass.
“V, even I know grape juice and other…purple, drippy things…is a horrible idea.” Brek gave her a look like she’d suggested they tie-dye puppies.
“I’m not the one who came up with the theme.” Velma shrugged.
She could appreciate that her sister wanted a nontraditional wedding, but she wouldn’t choose that for her nuptials. That event would be classic elegance—red roses, her grandmother’s white wedding dress, a string quartet, Dom Pérignon, and three hundred of her closest friends, colleagues, and clients.
Now she just needed a groom.
Chapter Six
Velma gripped the metal handrail and slogged up the stairwell to her apartment. Brek’s mom had worked fast and come through with a date for Velma in under three hours. The guy, Paul, was perfect on paper. In person? Not so much.
After a day of brainstorming wedding ideas for his brides with Brek, she’d met Paul for dinner. He was a handsome pediatrician who liked salsa dancing and fancy dinners at Brio. Yes, he was Dr. Perfect, down to his chiseled chin and well-manicured hands. They’d chatted about his long-term financial goals and insurance between appetizers and dinner.
Unfortunately, the chemistry piece Pam had mentioned that morning was disappointingly absent. As much as Velma enjoyed Paul’s company, it was like having dinner with her cousin. Nice, absolutely, but not in the maybe-we-could-make-babies-together way. When he held her hand, the whole thing was awkward and uncomfortable. No tingles or curiosity as to what lay under his starched white button-down shirt. Probably pale skin with a smattering of hair. Nothing like Brek’s menagerie of ink. She could get lost in his tattoos for days.
The fact that she was thinking about Brek’s tattoos on a date with Mr. Maybe Right was not okay. She didn’t even like tattoos. At least she hadn’t cared for them before she met Brek. Now, if she was honest with herself, she was on the fence about the whole ink thing. Needles were still the devil, and tattoos cost way too much money. But the way Brek wore them? Oy vey.
Thankfully, the hospital called Paul in for an emergency. The relief she experienced was absolutely unacceptable. He had asked if he could call her again. She said it probably wasn’t a good idea.
A lavender-scented bubble bath and perhaps a lobotomy were on the agenda for the night—something to help her get over her unhealthy infatuation with her roommate and back into her search for the future.
Key in hand, she walked along the beige carpeted hallway to her door. The television blared through the door of her apartment, sounding ominously like a frat party. She turned her key and hustled inside.
“Brek.” She set her purse on the kitchen table, which was almost completely covered with bowls of chips, casserole-style dip, pizzas, and an assortment of beer bottles.
Brek, Jase, Dean, and a guy she didn’t know were playing a video game, smashing cars into buildings. Clearly, her life had become part of The Twilight Zone—her perfect date having no attraction whatsoever and the hot-guy brigade making messes in her living room.
She glanced from the debris surrounding them to the fireplace. What the heck? A new painting had been hung over the mantel. The colors were right for the room, but it was a canvas print of a pigeon wearing a ruffled lace ascot. The bird was positioned as though sitting for a traditional portrait with a captain’s hat on his head and an old-style mariner jacket. The painting looked like something found on the ceiling of one of those kitschy restaurants with all the flair. Definitely not living room artwork.
“Brek.” She tried again, but Jase let out a “whoop” as she spoke. Brek didn’t hear her.
She stood in front of the television, hands on her pencil-skirt-covered hips. The boys grumbled in unison. One of them paused the game.
“Hey, Velma.” Dean lounged on her couch, his controller in hand.
“Everything okay, V?” Brek grabbed the remote control from Jase.
“Fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just really loud, the apartment’s a wreck, and there’s a strange picture over the mantel.” She pointed to the portrait.
“Figured it’d brighten up the place. Add character.” Brek grinned a sly smile that made her knees and her heart all wobbly.
See? Why couldn’t she have this reaction to the pediatrician?
“You’re home early. Grab a beer and try some of Eli’s chips ’n’ dip and pizza. He’s an artist in the kitchen. We let him hang out sometimes, though that decision is presently being questioned due to his inability to keep his virtual car on the road.”
“Bullshit. They adore my wit and humor,” Eli said, deadpan, as he crossed his tennis-shoe-covered feet on her Ethan Allen ottoman.
“Eli?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows in response. His grin could only be described as wicked. Women probably threw their panties at him regularly to see that little bit of a lip twitch.
“Take your shoes off my furniture, please?”
Without shifting his gaze from hers, Eli slipped off his tennis shoes and dropped his sock-covered feet back on the furniture.
Jase smacked Brek’s shoulder. “You’re right, man. She’s totally fuckable.”
“Dude.” Dean glared at Jase.
Velma’s heart stumbled inside her chest. She dropped her hands from her hips. “You did not just say that.”
“What? Am I not allowed to go there?” Jase asked.
“No.” Dean rubbed his forehead.
Brek dropped his elbows to his knees, controller dangling in hand. “Don’t say it in front of her. Hey, Velma, glad you’re home. Sorry dickhead here’s bein’ a dickhead.”
Velma opened her mouth to reply—with what, she had no idea—but Brek spoke first. “Jase, you owe money for the swear jar. Gotta pay to say ‘fuck’ around her.”
That was nowhere near what she was going to say.
Brek tossed his controller to the side and rose. He grabbed the beribboned jar from the counter and moved back to Mr. Cussy McCusserton.
Jase grudgingly tugged out his wallet. “You’ve been cussing all night.”
“I prepaid for the month,” Brek said seriously.
He had, and he wasn’t even trying to keep his potty mouth under control.
Jase shoved his wallet back into his pocket and winked at Velma. “Sorry if I offended. I’ll use a different compliment next time.”
“Using the f-bomb is never a compliment,” Velma replied.
“Whatever you say.” Jase pointed his finger at her and made a clicking sound with his tongue.
Brek moved the jar to Eli. “You, too.”
“What’d I say?” Eli lifted his shoulders in defiance.
“Not what you’ve said, but what’s gonna come out of your mouth at some point tonight.” Brek shook the jar so the dollars and change rattled.
Eli reluctantly dropped in a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Can I say she’s fuckable now that I paid?”
“No. No one says she’s fuckable.” Brek set the jar on the coffee table. “Dean, the jar’s here if you feel the urge to say ‘fuck.’”
“Noted.” Dean nodded.
“Brek’s the one who said it first.” Jase slipped off his shoes and set his feet on her ottoman.
“Did you really say I’m f-able?” Velma couldn’t hide the shock from her tone.
“I’ll take my Fifth Amendment privilege not to incriminate myself by answering.” Brek shifted uncomfortably. “What happened to your date, V?”
“He had to go to the hospital.” She evacuated from the television to the food table so they could continue burning brain cells with violent video games. She took a bite of Eli’s casserole. Artichokes and melted cream cheese. Oh man, it really was yummy.
“You sent a guy to the hospital?” Jase asked with what sounded like awe.
All four of them focused their attention on her.
“He’s a doctor. He got called in.” She dipped another tortilla chip, the homemade kind, into the pan.
Jase took a swig of his beer and set it on her end table—without a coaster. “Bummer. See, now, if I had a girl like you, I wouldn’t let anything call me away. Because, as Brek pointed out, you’re totally—”
“Dude.” Dean glared daggers at Jase.
“Is that all you guys think about?” Velma asked.
“Yes,” three of them replied in unison.
An eye roll and she grabbed her laptop bag from the counter. “I’ll leave you to rot your brain cells with senseless violence.”
“Much appreciated.” Jase fist-bumped Eli, and they went back to their game.
A bubble bath sounded better and better. Velma could escape to her room for the night so she didn’t get anxiety over the lack of coasters and the abundance of feet on furniture. She shut her door, propped her coral-colored throw pillows behind her on the bed, turned on her laptop, and clicked open her spreadsheet.
Someone knocked lightly against her door.
“Come in,” she called.
Brek poked his head into the room. “You’re not havin’ all the fun without me, are you?”
He clicked the door closed behind him and strode to her bed with a jar of Nutella marked with a B&V label in one hand and two spoons in the other.
“Fun?” she asked as he crawled onto the bed beside her.
“Fillin’ out your spreadsheet. I’m here to help.” He stretched out and propped the Nutella between them. “What’ve we got so far?”
“Nothing. I just turned it on.” Velma wiped at a fleck of dust on the monitor with her thumb.
“Perfect.” He rolled onto his side so he could see her screen and dipped one of the spoons into the jar before lifting it to her lips.
She moved her head back. “What are you doing?”
“Sharing.”
When she literally didn’t bite, he moved the spoon to his mouth. The way that man ate. She could watch him lick cutlery all day long.
Ack. No. No. No. Not her focus tonight. “Shouldn’t you go play with your friends?”
“Nah. Usually Dean and I team up against Eli and Jase. Dean had to take off. Which means we’re down a player. Which means, they’re playin’ one-on-one. I’m guessing, since you’re here, you didn’t get your post-date dessert with your girls. So here I am.” He glanced to her screen. “Whatcha got so far?”
“Okay. So, we have height, which was acceptable. Employment, he’s a pediatrician. Bonus points there. A good investment firm manages him. I’ll give him an eight on that. I deducted two points because it’s not my firm. Housing, nine. He said he’s got a place in Cherry Creek.” She tapped in the scores.
“Transportation?” Brek read the heading in the next column.
“Definitely a nine. He drives a Mercedes. Sleek but not the highest safety rating.” She clicked away on the keyboard, adding up the numbers. Her heart dropped. He was already at a nine-point-five, which really wasn’t a surprise.
Brek shoveled more Nutella. “What’s the ‘style’ column for?”
“Like does he wear a suit? Regular haircuts. That stuff.”
“Well?” Brek asked.
She sighed. “Nine. And attraction is at a big ol’ zero.”
“His name’s Paul. You should deduct points for that.” Brek pointed at her screen with his spoon.
“Why would I deduct points for that?”
“It lacks creativity. A name like Breckenridge. That’s creative.” He nodded along with his assessment.
“Where’d your mom come up with it anyway?” She continued adding numbers in the columns.
“She named both of us after where we were conceived. A condo in Breckenridge for me and Aspen…well, you get the idea.”
Velma giggled. “You’re serious?”
“Not something I’d lie about,” he said, deadpan.
She picked up the other spoon and scooped a small amount onto it, licking off the hazelnutty chocolate.
His gaze fell to her lips.
“What?” she asked around the bite.
“I don’t get it,” he announced.
“Get what?”
“Why you don’t have a guy.” His eyes didn’t move from her mouth.
“I’m not exactly tons of fun, Brek.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s official. I’m gonna teach you the hokeypokey.” The light in his eyes twinkled dangerously.
“Is that a kinky handcuff game?” Knowing him, that was exactly what it’d be.
“Nah. I’m just gonna help you turn yourself around. Your life, anyway.”
She caught his gaze. He was serious. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine.”
“Nah. But you will be. Especially once you help me with all these damn brides.” He rubbed a hand down his face.
“What are you talking about?”
“I need help. I’m glad to tell you, you’re gonna be that helper.” He was totally serious.
“Are you insane?” She knew next to nothing about planning weddings.
“Possibly. But I still need help, and I’m hoping since you like me, and I like you, you might take pity. Don’t you plan things all day, Ms. Financial Planner Lady?”
“I move stocks and set up individual retirement accounts. That’s not the same thing.” Not even close.
“Maybe you could make me a spreadsheet? Run interference with Bride Number One?”
The whole room held his scent—the one that made her mouth go dry.
Funny, when she was around Brek, she didn’t think about her quest to find a man like Dean. And when she was around Brek, even things that had never made sense before started to make sense. Like Nutella in bed. Who would’ve thought?
“How about I teach you how to make your own spreadsheet?” she asked.
They could start with that.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Hang tight. It’s Aspen. She’s been harassing me all day.” He held the phone to his ear. “Hey, Aspen. You’re not supposed to call me. Jacob said—” He leaned away from Velma and squinted. “Whoa. Calm down… I didn’t know they had special stamps for that. Does it matter?”
Uh-oh. Those stamps were a horrible idea. Everybody knew to use the special wedding stamps when sending wedding invitations. You didn’t shove them in the envelopes and affix the ribbon with an abundance of gold stickers. Some of the ones he’d put together had so much gold foil stuck to them, they looked like they should be dancing over at Pistol Polly’s strip club. She’d confiscated those.
Brek flinched at something his sister said. “Tell her to chill, it’s not like—”
Velma could hear Aspen all the way on her side of the bed. And Aspen did not sound happy about those invitations. Velma’s phone beeped with a new text. She glanced at it. Claire. Velma’s heart dropped. Oh no. Brek had found the invitations Velma pulled—and he’d sent them.
“They weren’t all like that. Velma tied some… The stickers held the bows on… I improvised… I kn
ow this is a big deal… I’ll apologize… I won’t fuck it up… Right.”
Aspen apparently hung up. He stared at the phone in his hand. “I’m fucked.”
“Claire’s really upset.” Velma ran her thumb through the messages bouncing back and forth between Claire and their mother.
“That’s the understatement of the year,” he growled.
He had the look of a guy caught in the headlights of one of those Ford Super Duty trucks. “What’s it gonna take for you to help me?”
“I did help you.” Not that it had worked.
“Long term through these weddings. You know things about stamps.” His expression was one of total seriousness.
Velma shifted on the bed. “Brek, I have a job.”
“I need your help so I don’t screw up Claire’s wedding.”
Well…when he put it like that. Gah. “Fine. I’m in.”
He nodded. “What’s it gonna take to get your help with Brides One and Two?”
She sized him up. He really was worried.
“Please.” His eyes were the embodiment of sincerity.
Apparently, she was powerless against needy bikers with Nutella. “You have to wear pants when you’re home.”
“Agreed.” He inched closer to her and gestured to her laptop. “You gonna see this guy again?”
She stared at the numbers on the screen. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Great.” Brek closed her computer and moved it to her nightstand. “Now that we’re working together, I propose you drop the spreadsheet and we hash out a friends-with-benefits situation.”
Her belly went all fluttery. He couldn’t mean those benefits. Not the bedroom kind. Except they were on her bed, in her bedroom.
“Are we friends?” The words came out breathy.
He gestured his spoon to the jar between them. “We sittin’ on your bed eatin’ Nutella?”
She moved to lie on her side so they were face-to-face. “We’re friends, then. No need to ruin that with…benefits.”
“As your friend, I feel it’s my duty to inform you that you’re high-strung.”
Well, that wasn’t very nice. “That’s not kind.”
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 6