Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1)

by Christina Hovland

  “What are you doing?” She shifted her arm away.

  “Warming you up.” He continued his exploration by massaging a pressure point at the base of her neck.

  She swallowed a moan. “I’m fine.”

  He raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying her declaration. The pads of his thumbs did things to her muscles that should probably be outlawed.

  “We’re in public.” She didn’t need to look down to know her nipples had pebbled beneath her silk blouse. Air conditioning did that to a girl. Also, Brek’s hands working their magic. Not a whole lot she could do about either.

  “No one’s here.” Brek’s breath whispered against her earlobe.

  “Which flavors did they pick?” Velma shrugged off his hands.

  He let them drop. “Chocolate, vanilla, lemon drop, coconut cream, and confetti cake.”

  “Did they really ask for confetti cake for their wedding?” Velma asked.

  “Yep.” Brek slipped the menu from Velma’s fingers and placed it on the counter. “I’ve got a theory about cake and marriage.”

  Velma laughed, the sound uncomfortable to her ears. “I bet you’re going to tell me all about it.”

  He shrugged. “You read articles. I have theories.”

  “What’s your theory, then, Mr. Montgomery?” She flipped through a photo album filled with pictures of multi-tiered wedding confections.

  “Vanilla? Boring. They’ll be divorced within a year,” he replied.

  Sheesh. His body remained only millimeters from hers. The scent of him mingled deliciously with the frosting and carbs. She fixed her attention back on the album, shuffling through the pages.

  “You still with me?” No touching, but the lack of contact was nearly as erotic as the neck massage.

  “Chocolate?” The word was a tad squeaky.

  He chuckled. “Passion. The marriage will be filled with it. Kitchen table. Washing machine. Everywhere.”

  “Like sex on the kitchen table?” He couldn’t be serious. That was highly unsanitary.

  “All. The. Time.”

  Oh.

  “See now, lemon?” he continued. “They’ll hit their fiftieth wedding anniversary without issue.”

  Lemon cake sounded lovely. Respectable. Not at all dirty. Lemon cake would be served at her wedding. Someday. When she found a groom. “And the…uh…confetti cake?”

  “Means they’re swingers.”

  The air weighed heavy against her. No way would her sister pick a swinger cake. “What about coconut cream?”

  He scratched at the back of his neck. “Infection. Avoid that one.”

  A laugh rattled her chest. She held the back of her hand to her lips.

  His expression gentled. “Good to see you laugh, V.”

  She fiddled with a plastic edge of the photo album.

  His phone chimed. He glanced to the screen. “I’ve gotta take this.”

  He strode outside, stopped at the picture window, and leaned against one of the pillars.

  “You must be Velma?” a woman asked, hustling from the back room. She held a tray of cupcakes and set it down at a table near Velma.

  Velma looked from Brek to the young, petite redhead with striking green eyes. “Yes. Hello.”

  “I’m Maggie. Brek said you’d be helping him out today. I understand you’re the maid of honor?”

  “That’s me.” Velma scooted the chairs out of the way as Maggie pushed two tables together.

  “Hey, Maggie.” Brek reentered the room and tucked his phone into the pocket of his jeans. He dropped an air kiss on Maggie’s cheek.

  An unreasonable sting of jealousy settled in the center of Velma’s chest.

  “Brek.” Maggie’s eyes sparkled. “Always good to see you. Everything’s set. Let me know when your couple arrives. I’ve got a few projects in the back I need to wrap up. Nice to meet you, Velma.”

  “You, too,” Velma replied, refusing to further acknowledge the possessive streak that had come over her.

  Brek stared at the screen on his phone. His expression had gone tight.

  “Everything okay?” Velma asked.

  “Band problems.” He thumbed through his contacts.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not unless you can figure out why my drummer wants to sell his drum set and move to Belgium. Or my lead singer wants to try out for a Food Network cooking show when we’ve got a tour starting soon. I knew things were too quiet. They need to be practicing and relaxing. Not threatening to jump ship.”

  That was bad. “What are you gonna do?”

  Brek cursed inventively under his breath. “I have no idea.”

  “I am here for cake.” Jase’s announcement boomed through the little shop.

  Eli stood beside him at the doorway. “Let’s do this.”

  Where were Claire and Dean? Velma glanced to the parking lot. “We should probably wait for the bride and groom.”

  “Alternatively, we could pick their flavor for them. Save them the trouble.” Jase sat at the table, apparently ready for his cake.

  “They’re here.” Brek strode to the door and held it open for them.

  Claire, Heather, their mom and dad, and Dean all hit the cake shop, ready for sugar.

  So far, Claire preferred the coconut cake and Dean liked the vanilla. The motley crew of helpers sat around a table at Maggie’s bakery, helping Dean and Claire pick their final choices.

  Brek didn’t seem to have an opinion, as long as they said, “I do.”

  “Maybe we could do two tiers of each?” Claire suggested, wiping a stray smear of frosting from Dean’s lips with her thumb.

  “As long as there’s vanilla, I don’t care.” Dean kissed the pad of Claire’s thumb.

  Velma never would’ve pegged Dean as a vanilla guy—more of a vanilla with a chocolate swirl guy.

  Dean whispered something to Claire. She grinned.

  Velma looked away. That was what she wanted—someone to kiss the pad of her thumb when they ate cake. And smile at her the way Dean smiled at Claire. And whisper things that made her smile.

  “Don’t you think vanilla’s a little dull for a wedding cake?” Velma’s mother asked as though she’d read Velma’s mind. “I mean, it’s your wedding. The cake should exemplify all you are as a couple.”

  “That is a lot of responsibility to put on a cake, Mom.” Velma flipped through the flavor menu. Perhaps they’d just narrowed their choices too far. Cookies ’n’ cream looked yummy.

  Dean helped himself to another sample. “Vanilla’s not dull when it’s done right.”

  Oh.

  Well, lucky Claire.

  Velma tossed Brek a look. He was holding back a laugh.

  She held the menu for him to see and whispered, “I like the cookies one. What do you suppose that means?”

  Brek’s breath whispered across her cheek. “Whatever you think it does.”

  She shivered.

  “Tell Eli about your work, Velvet,” Dad said around a bite of confetti cake. “He’s a chef, did you know that?”

  “I did, his artichoke dip is really good.”

  “Ah, so you’ve had his dip. That’s lovely.” Her mother looked between Eli and Velma and gave her dad a knowing look.

  “Velvet is a financial planner. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Her father was ready to lay it on thick, she could feel it.

  “No one wants to hear about me. Today’s about cake.” She lifted her fork. “Yum!”

  “Nonsense.” Her father wrapped an arm over her mother’s shoulder. “We couldn’t be prouder of both our girls. Velvet’s made a name for herself in Denver. Works with all the high-up mucky-mucks and all that. All the big names. She handles their accounts. Don’t you, dear?”

  “You’re embarrassing her, Walter.” Mom loaded Dad’s plate with another sample of the sprinkle-filled confection. “Have more confetti cake.”

  “Oh yes. That one’s my favorite.” He shoveled it into his mouth like a man who hadn’t
had cake in a decade. Which, Velma knew, given his sweet tooth, was not true.

  “I thought you liked the lemon one?” She didn’t want to think about her parents being into confetti cake. She glared at Brek. This innuendo was all his fault, putting thoughts of what cake might mean in her head.

  “Not a fan of lemon.” Her father hadn’t touched the lemon sample Maggie had added to his plate. “You’ll really like our Velvet, Eli. She’s quite the catch. Doesn’t ask for anything. Always self-sufficient. She put herself though school, got herself a mortgage. Now, Claire. That’s another story.”

  Gah. Her father had to stop. Claire had enjoyed her twenties, and her parents hadn’t let her live it down.

  “We’re just pleased as punch she’s found Dean so she’ll settle down—”

  “Dad,” Velma said, lowering her voice in warning.

  “Walter. Knock it off.” Velma’s mother poked at her samples with a fork.

  “Velma’s funny, too,” Brek added. “And she can cook.”

  Aw. He thought she was funny?

  “Indeed.” Her father beamed. “Indeed. Indeed.”

  “You two aren’t shoving cake in each other’s faces, are you?” Velma’s mother asked the bride and groom.

  No, of course they weren’t. This was Dean and Claire.

  “Isn’t that the point of getting married?” Brek asked.

  Velma kicked his leg under the table. “They’re not doing the cake thing.”

  “Claire is in charge of the shoving of the cake. If she wants to do it, I’ll play along.” Dean was totally serious. “Do you think Maggie could make purple vanilla cake?”

  “I bet she could. I wonder what that might mean, though? Hmm.” Velma pinched her lips together.

  “I think I’ve created a monster.” Brek ran his boot gently over her calf.

  Crud. That felt nice.

  She absolutely would not consider how nice it felt.

  Like their kiss.

  He caught her gaze. The moment stalled.

  And she refused to let the feelings inside sink her.

  Chapter Ten

  Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 5 Weeks

  Brek had crazy-ass rockers to manage, but first he had to deal with weddings. The first wedding. Sophie’s wedding. He’d built a fucking tree house for her. Well, he’d helped build the damn thing.

  They’d transformed the outside of the Estes Park Community Church into a bridal venue that would make Aspen proud. He snapped a final picture and texted it to his sister. Maybe that would keep her off his case during the final prep.

  The inside of the chapel wasn’t big enough for Sophie’s guests, so they set up a chapel outside with taffeta-covered fancy bamboo chairs, the makeshift tree house, and a pergola for the vows. Jase had decked everything out with the orchids-from-hell. The fact that Brek could now distinguish taffeta from silk and orchids from dahlias was a testament to the vise grip these brides had on his balls.

  Velma trotted around the corner of the church with a cardboard box filled with chocolates. The dog-slash-ring-bearer trotted beside her in his miniature tuxedo.

  Brek had her on dog babysitting and goldfish centerpiece duty. Also, hanging-around-to-keep-him-sane duty.

  She’d found a source for goldfish centerpieces and Skittles for the champagne glasses. How her guy had both, Brek wasn’t gonna ask. Some things were better left unknown.

  “The chocolates have arrived.” Velma set the box down on one of the chairs. Hands on hips, she took in the scene. “You did good.”

  “Thanks.” He took the leash from her. The dog yapped and did a whole body shake in his tux. The damn thing couldn’t be comfortable, especially in this heat.

  Aspen had told him to wear a tux. He’d told her hell-to-the-no. The best she was gonna get was black jeans and a collared shirt.

  Velma’s getup matched his—black pencil skirt, white tank top thing, and one of her perpetual sweaters to match. Sweaters in the summer made no fuckin’ sense to him, even if they were thin. Then again, if she wore the thin sweater without the tank top underneath, he could be 100 percent on board with that fashion trend.

  Velma cleared her throat.

  He glanced up from her chest and his daydreams about sweaters.

  “Check it out. Aspen gave us these headset radio things. Isn’t that fun?” She held up a set of the two-way radios that clipped on the ear. He used something similar at concerts to talk to roadies and keep tabs on band members.

  “What’s next?” Velma placed the headset in the box with the candy.

  “You got the pearls?”

  Sophie had been abundantly clear about the importance of the pearl necklace. It had belonged to some long-lost aunt, and apparently the happiness of the marriage hinged on her wearing them when Troy tossed his life into the Dumpster and promised her forever.

  Velma grabbed the sleek wooden necklace case from the box of individually packaged truffles and handed it over.

  He shoved the case into his back pocket. “Chocolates go on the chairs for the guests.”

  “Here?” Velma asked.

  “Aspen said chocolates go on the chairs for the guests. These are chairs. Those are chocolates.” One plus one equaled two.

  Velma didn’t look convinced. “Do you think maybe she meant the reception chairs?”

  “No.” He was mostly sure. Guests got chocolate before the wedding while they waited. Yep, that made sense. “Then we’ve gotta head over to the reception hall. Make sure everything’s done. Then we’ve gotta pray Troy doesn’t bail at the last minute.” He started unloading the foil-wrapped truffles Sophie had picked out. “You check on Sophie?”

  “I did. She’s getting her hair and nails done in the choir room.” Velma took a handful of the chocolates and laid them out on the chairs. He followed suit along the next row.

  “V?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. For all you’ve done to help me.” He stared at her a long moment, his gratitude a very real thing.

  Velma went still, her expression gentled. “You’re welcome.”

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He tugged it out.

  Aspen.

  “You’re not supposed to be calling me,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “The venue looks great. Did you check on Sophie?” Aspen asked. He could hear her clicking away on her laptop in the background.

  “Velma did.” He held the phone against his cheek while he continued tossing truffles on chairs.

  “And Troy, somebody check on him?”

  “He’ll be here later. I took him coffee earlier.” As Aspen had insisted in her ten-page list of the things-that-must-happen-at-this-wedding. “Bachelor party was epic, but he’s not trashed anymore.”

  “You have eye drops in case his eyes are still red?” Aspen was all business.

  “No. His eyes are red? That’s his problem. He can be a normal person and wear sunglasses.” Brek was a wedding planner today, not a frickin’ babysitter.

  “Absolutely not. That’ll wreck the photos. If his eyes are red, that’s your problem. He can’t have red eyes for pictures. Send someone for drops.”

  “Hey V.” Brek held the phone away from his mouth. “We have to run and get Troy pussy-ass eye drops. Aspen says he can’t wear sunglasses like a normal pers—”

  “Don’t say ‘pussy,’” Aspen cut him off. “Don’t say ‘fuck.’ Don’t say ‘shit.’ You’re in a church.”

  “I’m outside of the church.” Therefore, cussing was still fair game.

  “Technicality. You got the stuff I told you to pick up? Tylenol. Granola bars. Sewing kit. All that?”

  No, he did not. She’d sent him a ridiculous list of things—including a shower cap, a variety of Band-Aids, and double-sided tape. These were adults who could take care of themselves. They didn’t need him passing out headache tablets and Hello Kitty bandages—that had been one of the specifics on her list. “Everything’s handled.”

  “Le
t me talk to Velma,” Aspen insisted.

  Gladly. “V, Aspen wants you.”

  He handed the phone over. Velma straightened one of the chocolate boxes so it was perfectly centered. Buttercup ran around her heels as if chasing an imaginary moth.

  “Hey, Aspen.” Velma frowned. “I don’t think so. Hang on.” She put her palm over the mouthpiece. “Did you get the stuff Aspen asked you to get?”

  “Tell her it’s handled.” He didn’t need Aspen’s heat added to the day. The temperature was already well into the nineties.

  “But did you get it?” Velma pushed.

  “Tell her it’s handled,” he said again.

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t get it.” Velma flinched at whatever Aspen said in reply. “I’ll work on it… Okay… Sure… I can’t do that to your brother… Then I’d have to touch it… I’m not touching it…”

  Velma hung up. “Jacob came home. Aspen had to go. You should turn off your phone and stop answering.”

  He tossed a box on the next chair. “If I stop answering, she’ll panic, pull her ass outta bed, drive over here, and then Ma will be pissed at me because she’s not in bed. Jacob will be pissed at me because she’s not in bed, and I’ll be pissed at her because she’s not in bed. So, I keep answering her calls and everyone’s only minimally annoyed.”

  “Mr. Montgomery.” The mother of the bride’s nasally voice was hard to miss.

  He turned.

  Mrs. Winthrop had enough work done on her face to age her down at least twenty years. He knew her type before she set foot on the grass in her red custom Versace gown that came with an honest-as-fuck cape.

  “Be a dear and get me an aspirin. I have a killer headache.” She sat and draped herself on one of the chairs.

  Velma raised an eyebrow at him. She needed to stop turning him on with her facial expressions when he was in the midst of the wedding of the century without any aspirin for the mother of the bride.

  “I have something in my purse. Hang on.” Velma gave him a pointed glance and strutted toward the building.

  So, they’d make a pit stop and get everything on Aspen’s ridiculous list. Point made. Although he had no idea why anyone might need a shower cap at a wedding.