“Velma?” he replied.
“You keep touching me,” she pointed out.
He ran his thumb along her jawline. “You’re very touchable.”
She gurgled a frustrated sound. “We’re professionals.”
“You’re touching me, too.” He wrapped his hand around hers—the one on his chest—and moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Do something different. Something crazy. Get a tattoo. Your plan hasn’t panned out, so do the opposite.”
“Mistakes cost. Planning works. It just takes time.”
He set her clipboard aside and settled his hand against her waist. “Or...we could make out in the hallway and see where that takes us.”
Her eyes went wide, but a nearly imperceptible smile ticked the corners of her lips. He focused there and settled in, his lips brushing lightly against hers, testing the waters before diving in headfirst.
She responded, opening her mouth and gripping his triceps with the pads of her fingertips, hanging on because she spent her days scared as hell that life would continue tossing her like a rag doll. Their tongues met, and she made the little squeak of a sound he felt in his dick. He wanted her.
Their mouths pressed together, forcing a jolt of desire straight through him. He traced his hand to her neck and rubbed his thumb behind her ear. She moaned into his mouth. He took the kiss deeper, drinking in all she had to give.
“Fuck, you can kiss,” he said against her mouth.
Her response was to kiss him again, pressing her tits against his stupid tourist T-shirt. The wedding was already fucked. Maybe the wedding planners getting caught fooling around in the hallway wasn’t the worst thing that could happen at this point. He moved his fingers to unbutton her shirt.
“I love it when mommy and daddy make up.” Jase’s voice sliced through the moment, severing Brek’s reality and bringing him back to the present.
Velma pulled away and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Her cheeks flushed a deep red.
Jase officially had the absolute worst timing.
“Hope he apologized for being a dick to you earlier.” Jase sauntered by and paused at the doorway to the kitchen. “Don’t put out right away. He needs more time to grovel. Tell him to buy you more flowers first.”
Brek prepared to beat the shit out of his best friend.
“Don’t mind me.” Jase lifted his hands in defense. “I’m just the poor schmuck trolling for leftovers and finding my best friend and his girl in a clinch.”
“Get your dinner, asshole,” Brek hissed, holding Velma so she wouldn’t take this as an opportunity to run.
“Roger that. Enjoy your evening.” Jase gave a two-finger wave and disappeared into the kitchen.
“He thinks I’m your girl?” The little creases between her eyebrows deepened.
“Seein’ as my tongue was in your mouth and you were squeaking, he’s got a point.”
She wiggled in his grasp. “I don’t squeak.”
“V, I haven’t had lots of time to explore the interior of your mouth. But both times I’ve had the pleasure, you squeaked.”
“I did not,” she huffed.
“It’s adorable.” He brushed his lips over hers once more. “One of my favorite things about you. Makes me wonder what noises you’ll make when I’m inside you.”
She gasped. “You need to go talk to the band.”
“Yeah.” He traced her lips with the pad of his thumb before he stood and offered his hand to help her up.
She took it.
The length of her pressed against him. “V, you’re all kinds of fucked up when it comes to what you think you want. But we’re gonna make some mistakes and sort you out.”
“What mistakes?” she asked cautiously.
“The naked kind.”
She stilled. “Oh.”
“Either that or we get you a tattoo. Your call.” Brek headed to the stage.
“What tattoo should I get?” she asked his back.
“Whatever you’ll regret most,” he replied without glancing behind.
Chapter Twelve
Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 4 Weeks
Velma continued to mull over Brek’s proposal. She had said no, but the more she thought on it, the more she did want to do something out of the ordinary. Different. Crazy. The world was moving along, and she was getting left behind.
The sales lady emerged from the back room of the bridal shop with a garment bag. “The designer got started on the concept we discussed. They’ll take it in this week. There will be a few more fittings afterward.”
Velma frowned. When they were kids, they’d talked about wearing their grandmother’s gown in their own weddings. Their mother had worn it, too. Every once in a while, their grandmother let them try it on and pretend to be brides. Velma loved that dress.
Their grandfather, Pops, had given the gown to Claire for her wedding.
Claire was updating it. Making it modern.
Velma paused, blinking away the dryness clouding her vision.
They could still let it out again someday when Velma got married. Put it back the way it was. That would be okay.
Not all changes had to be permanent.
“Let me get the room set up for you.” The sales lady ducked into the dressing room marked with a glittery number two on the door.
“This is exciting.” Claire lifted her plastic champagne flute in illustration, but her enthusiasm was absent. “Trying on dresses. Drinking fake champagne.”
Claire had been off all day. Distracted. Not chatty.
“Everything okay?” Velma asked.
Claire released her breath as the sales lady dropped the tape. “Everything’s peachy.”
“She hasn’t been herself all week,” Heather called from the dressing room where she tried on yet another option for their bridesmaid and maid-of-honor dresses.
Velma hated trying on clothes, so she was happily delegating the task of finding their bridesmaid gowns to Heather.
“Dean and I had a talk, and I’m still figuring it out.”
“What’d you talk about?” Heather hollered over the top of the dressing room door marked with a glitter-encrusted number four.
Claire’s face went blank. “Kids.”
In Velma’s Dean Dreams she had planned on three kids within the first few years of marriage. That way they could get the diapers done all at once. Those were steps five, six, and seven of the five-year plan. The free spirit in Brek probably didn’t want children and—holy crap, she did not need to be thinking about Brek’s babies.
“Dean doesn’t want kids.” Claire sounded defeated. “He wants to travel. Maybe move to Europe.”
Whoa. Europe was not a house in Aurora.
“Don’t you want kids?” Velma was certain she did.
“I don’t know.” Claire lifted a shoulder and stood still while the sales lady continued with her measurements. “I never thought much about them. I don’t not want them. But it’s Dean, and he’s the most important thing in my life.”
Velma dropped to a white tapestry chair. “I can’t believe Dean doesn’t want kids.”
Really, with a face as handsome as Dean’s, procreation should be mandatory.
Next thing she knew, Claire would be telling her how Dean’s financial portfolio was all high-risk and not diversified.
“We’ll figure it out.” Claire flipped through a veil catalog. “I want to have fun today. I need to shake it off.”
“What do you think?” Heather emerged from the dressing room in a short, tight purple tube dress that only fit women without any curves. In other words, it wouldn’t work on Velma.
“I love it.” Claire perked up at the sight of the dress.
“It’s the best, isn’t it?” Heather’s eyes lit up.
“Totally the one. Velma, this is going to look awesome on you.” Claire was genuinely excited about the dress.
Except, it would look awful on Velma.
“That dress is not going
to work with my chest size.” Velma shook her head. Or her tush size.
“Give it a try. I bet it’ll look amazing when you get it on. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You will rock the hell out of this dress,” Heather insisted.
Maybe…Velma could try a hemline that short. It might even be fun.
“We’re all ready for you, Claire.” The sales lady stuck her head out of the dressing room.
“I guess it’s time.” Claire turned to Velma and made an “eeek” sound before she disappeared into the dressing room with the sales lady.
“I have gifts for you and Heather,” Claire said over the rustling of the garment bag in her fitting room. “Can you grab them? They’re the white boxes on the counter.”
Heather picked up the two white boxes from the counter and handed one to Velma.
Velma untied the ribbon from her box and removed the lid. An ache formed in the center of her chest. She recognized the handmade Italian lace that had once covered her grandmother’s entire wedding gown.
But the piece in her hand was not on the dress. It had been sewn into a dainty handkerchief. Velma couldn’t seem to move. She wasn’t breathing. She opened her mouth, but air wouldn’t come.
“You okay?” Heather asked, her expression concerned.
“Yes,” Velma croaked, taking in the devastation that was once her grandmother’s bridal gown. Claire was making changes to the dress. Velma knew this. She’d even encouraged it when Claire couldn’t find a dress she loved.
Everything was changing.
Except Velma.
“Ta-da.” Claire emerged from the dressing area.
Gramma Velma’s dress had a train, poufy sleeves, and yards and yards of handmade Italian lace. The version Claire wore used some of the same lace, but the sleeves had been removed and the fabric cut short so it fell at the knee.
Velma’s heart tumbled to her toes. This dress was beautiful. Totally Claire. But it wasn’t her grandmother’s. Not anymore.
Everything was different. Velma had gone blurry from tears forming on her eyelids.
“Velvet?” Claire’s face fell.
Velma hiccupped and pressed the back of her hand against her lips. “You’re so pretty.”
Claire started to cry, too. “You don’t think I ruined it?”
“I think sometimes an update is in order.” Velma stared as the sales lady tugged at the fabric of what had once been a family heirloom, holding it tight and pinning it in place.
Velma’s world was crumbling like the huge sandcastle they’d built too close to the tide when they were little. The whole thing was lost to a saltwater wave.
She gulped against the gritty feeling of losing the dress her grandmother had worn. Claire loved the changes. This was Claire’s wedding. Velma’s job was to support her, not freak out over a cut-up family heirloom. Her heart rate slowed. She could do this.
“What are you doing later, Velma?” Heather sifted through a rack of bridesmaid dresses. “We were thinking about grabbing dinner.”
Velma hedged. “I have plans tonight.”
Downtown at a matchmaker mixer.
“With Brek?” Heather paused, giving Velma the side-eye with a dash of smirk.
“Brek’s overwhelmed with brides at the moment,” Velma dodged. Actually, he was alone, using his mom’s empty garage to change the oil on his motorcycle.
Claire gave Velma a good once-over, the sales lady still pinning the material into place. “How’s helping him out with planning going?”
Well, given that the last bride had bailed, not so good. “It’s going.”
“And the friends-with-benefits situation you’ve been working on?” Heather plucked a mint from one of the crystal bowls.
“We’re just friends.” She needed to keep repeating that.
“A guy like Brek needs a woman ready for adventure. I think you could be that woman.” Claire grinned wide. “You know it’s going to happen. Ditch the dating spreadsheets. Do like the Prince of Pop and just go crazy.”
“I think you mean ‘Let’s Go Crazy,’” Velma corrected.
“What?” Claire turned so the sales lady could pin the side of her dress.
“That’s the title. Let’s Go Crazy.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like Dean.”
“Either way you say it, I think you should do it.” Heather held up a purple chiffon dress. “Yay or nay?”
“I think we should do the one you’re wearing,” Velma replied. Claire loved it. Heather wouldn’t pick something that would make Velma look bad.
Heather beamed. “Really? You’re going to look amazing in it. Brek’s going to be all over you.”
Velma sighed. Maybe doing something crazy wasn’t such a bad idea. And doing Brek would be crazy. Also, probably fun. She could run her tongue along his abs and all those muscles over and over again. And she trusted him.
Besides, if her grandmother’s dress was getting an update, didn’t she deserve one, too?
Velma’s phone buzzed in her purse. She tossed the used paper cup into the bin and pulled out her phone.
Brek.
“Brek?” she asked into the phone.
“Dinner. You want Chinese?”
“Are you at your mom’s?” Velma’s voice cracked. She was going to do this.
“Why? Everything okay?” he asked immediately.
She gulped back the intensity of all the feelings inside her. She switched the phone to her other ear. “Where are you?”
Heather and Claire paused while she spoke. They hadn’t moved since she’d picked up the phone. They just watched her.
“She’s gonna do it,” Heather whispered. “Our baby girl is all grown up.”
“Changing my oil. V, talk to me. What’s going on?” Brek’s tone sharpened.
“I’ll meet you there.” She clicked the phone off, shoved her purse onto her shoulder. Claire had driven Heather and Velma to the shop. Velma’s car was still at the apartment, so she’d need a cab.
“Do not put this on your spreadsheet,” Claire said with a wink.
With that, Velma let out a breath she’d been holding for nearly thirty years.
Chapter Thirteen
Brek dried his fingers on the grease rag in his hand. Where the hell was Velma? She wouldn’t pick up her damn phone. He tried again. Nothing.
This time he tried Claire’s number.
“Brek?” A female—not Claire—answered.
“Velma there?” He shoved a hand through his hair.
“Hi, Brek. It’s Heather,” still-not-Claire replied.
“She there?”
“No. I think she’s headed your way.” Shuffling in the background, and he was pretty certain she said, “It’s him” to someone.
He cursed under his breath. “Call me if you see her?”
“Absolutely,” Heather replied.
Another incoming call beeped in his ear. He glanced to the screen. Aspen.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone as he clicked to take Aspen’s call. “You’ve got Brek.”
“Would you explain to me why six of my brides have cancelled for next season?” Panic laced her should’ve-been-staying-calm voice. She wasn’t supposed to be getting status reports, and she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be getting upset about them. Sophie’s parents had wasted no time bashing Montgomery Events. “The last one cancelled for this season. I only have Claire and Dean’s left.”
“Everything is under control.” He winced as he spoke.
“I don’t believe you.” A note of hysteria tinted the words. “Brek, I needed those weddings.”
Life was so much easier with pill-popping guitar players and their groupies. If he made it out of this mess without having a stroke, he’d forever consider himself a lucky man.
A taxi pulled into the driveway, Velma in the back seat.
“Aspen. Swear to God, I’ll sort this.”
“You swear on your Harley you’ll fix everything?”
�
�Yeah.” Because if he failed, he’d be selling the thing and everything else he owned to get his sister back on her feet.
He clicked off the phone to head straight toward Velma.
She fumbled with her purse, but he handed the guy a twenty through the window before she even opened her wallet. He snagged the door, opening it wide so she could climb out.
“What’s going on?” He glanced over his shoulder as the yellow taxi backed out of the driveway and turned down the street.
“I’m here to accept your proposal.” She’d gone pale.
“What are you talking about?”
She bit at the side of her lip. “Do you still want to have sex with me?”
Uh. Of course he did. He was a heterosexual male with an abundance of fantasies about her...well, all of her.
This, however, was not a conversation to have in front of his mother’s neighbors.
“Come inside.” He guided her with his palm against the back of her shirt. She was wearing another skirt. This one shorter than her others, midthigh. He stepped behind her into the garage and pressed the black button to close the door.
She drew a quick breath. He helped her sit on the top step heading into the laundry room of the house and then plopped down next to her.
“Well?” she asked. “I mean, if you’ve changed your mind. You don’t have to—”
“I haven’t changed my mind.” He moved his hand to the skin of her thigh and traced his fingertips there.
“Is your mom coming home soon?” She set her purse behind her on the step.
“No, she’s out for the day. Some business thing tonight she’s all wound up about. Won’t see her until she comes up for air when it’s over.” Ma always disappeared before her big functions.
“Okay.” Velma began unbuttoning her shirt.
“Okay?” He couldn’t move his eyes from where her fingers were undoing the buttons.
This was new. He usually made the moves on her…and failed. The last button undone, her shirt fell open. She shrugged it off. His mouth went dry, and he couldn’t pull his gaze from her lacy bra and the rack he’d dreamt about for weeks. The holy grail of breasts presented to him in silk and lace—and it wasn’t even his birthday.
Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3 Page 13