Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3

by Christina Hovland

  What event planner didn’t need notes?

  “Okay, then,” Velma started. “What were you thinking for this wedding?”

  “Simple,” Sophie replied. “But special.”

  Simple was good. Simple wasn’t tens of thousands of dollars on exotic orchids shipped in from the tropics.

  “How’d you two meet?” Brek asked, his arms dangling over the top of his chair like a hooligan. A really hot hooligan, but still.

  “At the Reach the Peak Marathon. Sophie handed out water bottles at the end of the course. I took one look as I ran by and knew she was the one for me. Corner of Broadway and Fourteenth Street, my life changed forever.” Troy visibly squeezed Sophie’s hand and pulled it to his knee.

  “He was thirsty, that’s all.” Sophie bumped her shoulder against his and then cuddled closer. They were really sweet together, now that she wasn’t so caught up in the whole bride-on-a-rampage thing.

  Troy looked at Sophie with intensity. Velma and Brek should probably excuse themselves. “Asked her out on the spot,” Troy continued.

  Except. “I thought you worked for her father?” Velma asked.

  Brek shot her a look. Crud. She had interrupted their moment.

  “That was after we’d been dating for a while.” Sophie glanced to Velma, breaking Troy’s spell. “And Daddy was going to make him partner anyway, even if we didn’t get married. I didn’t know that. Troy wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “What budget are we looking at?” Brek asked, still entirely too relaxed. They were supposed to be planning a wedding, for goodness’ sake. Weddings were serious.

  “About a quarter of the previous.” Troy looked sheepishly at Sophie. “We’ll be paying for this one on our own.”

  “We were hoping that you two might come up with something. We can just show up and get married.” Sophie gestured her French-manicured fingernails between Velma and Brek.

  Velma squinted at Sophie. “You want us to pick it all?”

  “We just want it to be memorable.” Sophie smiled enthusiastically.

  If it went anything like the previous version, it would definitely be memorable.

  Brek glanced to Velma and raised his eyebrows. “How many guests?”

  “No guests. No bridal party, either. Something special for just us.” Troy wrapped his arm around Sophie.

  “Do you have a date in mind?” Brek’s phone buzzed, and he reached to his back pocket to silence it.

  “We were thinking the middle of next week. Troy’s got some time off, and we don’t need it to be on the weekend since it’s just us.”

  Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Less than a week to plan a wedding. Impossible. Brek had to tell them it wasn’t possible.

  “Got it. Do you need a dress?” Brek asked, not telling them it was impossible.

  “I still have my dress. It just needs to be cleaned. From the, ah…tree house,” Sophie replied.

  “We’ll have it picked up. Troy, you good with your tux? We can send it for cleaning with the dress.” Brek could not be serious. So, they had a dress and a tux. They still needed flowers, and a minister, and a freaking location.

  “Perfect,” Sophie replied.

  “Great.” Brek clapped his hands together. “I’ll let you know where to be and when.”

  Velma sat still, lips parted in shock. How could they plan a wedding with just that? They needed ideas for flowers and location. With less than a week, there wouldn’t be many options.

  “I’m going to run and get my notepad.” Velma hopped up, scooted down the hallway, snatched her stuff, and turned on her heel to hurry back to the reception area, wobbling only slightly on her heels.

  No one was there. She glanced out the window.

  Sophie and Troy were already at their car in the parking lot, chatting it up with Brek. He leaned against the passenger door of a black sedan, arms folded across his chest, a huge smile on his face.

  Velma let out a long breath. She hugged the notepad to her chest and stepped out into Denver’s latest heat wave. Beads of sweat immediately formed along her tense neck. The scent of French fries from a fast-food place nearby permeated the air. A delivery truck on the street blared its horn when the car in front of it slowed to turn into the pay-by-the-hour parking garage across the street.

  “See you next week, Velma,” Sophie hollered as she climbed into the black Lincoln sedan.

  Velma gave a small, shocked wave. Brek shook Troy’s hand before heading in Velma’s direction. He tipped his sunglasses and smiled at her. He had no right to be that attractive when she was annoyed with him. Troy turned on the car and pulled out of the lot.

  “How are you going to plan a wedding without any information?” Velma looked up to Brek, who towered over her even when she wore heels.

  “Got an idea,” he replied, holding the door.

  The phone in his back pocket rang again. This time, he answered, leaning against the handle of the glass door as she passed through to the air-conditioned building.

  “Eli, just the one I needed to talk to. I’ve got a wedding with a tight timetable. Thinkin’ we’ll do it like that time on Colfax… Nothing yet… About a week… Gonna need a bread truck, some of those orange cones you use in your parking lot, and…right...hold on.” He covered the phone with his hand and glanced to Velma. “You think you can get your grandpa to perform the ceremony without any of that counseling bullshit?”

  Pops was a retired minister, and he was thrilled to perform Claire’s wedding. He probably wouldn’t like premarital counseling referred to in that way. But he loved performing weddings, so he would probably do it. “I can ask. I’m sure he will, but, Brek—”

  “Got the minister, dress. Will talk to Jase about flowers. Still gotta figure out the photographer. We’ll need to be fast. In and out. You’ll handle the transportation? Yup. No police. I really don’t think anyone’s gonna call them this time.”

  He paused, his forehead scrunched at whatever Eli said.

  “Veal and tea cakes with the cucumber shit,” Brek replied and shoved his thumb against the off button.

  “Planning a wedding takes time. You can’t do it in less than a week.” Velma slumped to the love seat and fell back against the cushions, knees together, ankles wide.

  “Eh. We’ll make it happen.” He sat down next to her, squishing her against the armrest. Remarkably unconcerned. “Dang. We’ll need a cake. I’ll have to figure that out.”

  If he wasn’t careful, he would end up making it worse. What if the whole thing blew up in his face? Shooting from the hip at this point was a horrible idea. Calculated effort. Careful preplanning. Those were needed now, not gut feelings.

  “I set up the conference room for a reason. Why couldn’t we have met there?” She angled herself away from him.

  “Velma,” he said calmly. Too calmly.

  She ignored him.

  He turned her face toward him with a fingertip on her chin. “Did you see how close Troy and Sophie were? If you buy into that love language stuff, Sophie was absolutely into his touch. Makin’ ’em sit on the sofa here meant he had to keep touchin’ her. Moving to the conference table meant space. They didn’t need space. They needed touch. Which, by the way, for the record, my love language is fuc—”

  “What do you know about love languages?” she asked, ignoring the fact that he had a point about Sophie and where they should’ve held their appointment.

  “I know your love language is acts of service. Which, if you’d just relax a bit, I’d service you. Here. On this couch.” He pressed on the cushions, bouncing them in illustration.

  “We’d have to close the blinds.” She tried really hard not to smile at him. She failed. Perhaps she had a dirty love language, too.

  “Good thing I brought the remote.” He clicked something and the shades on the front windows slid down.

  He kissed her shoulder, working his way along her neck.

  “Is what you’re planning for Sophie and Troy even legal?”

  He s
miled a devilish half grin. “Nope.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brek shifted the phone against his ear, signed the credit card slip, and grabbed the pink garment box from the counter at the bridal salon. “Really need to lock in that contract. Anything I can do?”

  “Can we meet up in Kansas City when I stop there? Hash out the details?” Hans asked.

  “Right. Can’t do that. I’ll be stuck in Denver for a few more weeks.”

  “Let me check with the boys, see if anyone wants to swing by Denver.” Hans hollered something to one of the band members spending the week with him. “Maybe play a club. Remind the boys why they play.”

  “That’d be great. See what you can come up with.”

  “Will do. We’ll catch up later.”

  “Sounds good.” Brek ended the call, let out a breath, and frowned at the counter.

  He had done his best to keep Aspen’s business alive, but his was suffering. One of his boys had checked out of rehab two days ago, which meant Brek needed to be on damage control, not schmoozing editors for a bridal blog. Presently, he couldn’t leave town. Not until Dean and Claire’s wedding was over.

  “Thanks again,” he said to the woman behind the counter.

  “Hope she likes it,” she replied.

  So did he. Damn, he hoped Velma liked it.

  Brek expected Velma would be home from work by the time he got there, but the apartment was empty. He dropped the box on the counter and was midtext to find her when the door opened. Velma came through with two oversized Macy’s bags on her arm.

  “I have news.” Her cheeks flushed as she tossed the bags and her purse onto the couch and entered the kitchen.

  When she buried her head against his chest and squeezed him, he smiled and held her close.

  She planted a kiss on his cheek and filled a glass at the sink.

  “I got you something.” He picked up the box with the red lettering and slid it across the granite countertop.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” She set down her cup to untie the satin ribbon.

  He shifted and shoved his hands in his pockets, worried that she wouldn’t like his effort. That she might misunderstand. Blame him.

  She removed the lid, rooted through the white tissue paper, and paused. Eyes wide, she stood entirely too still. “Oh.” Her fingertips traced the fabric.

  He’d seen the way her smile had fallen when Claire had talked about the dress. And the way she’d picked it right back up and played along, as though nothing were wrong.

  “I noticed you looked a little sad when Claire talked about the changes she made. Figured the dress meant something to you.”

  With Dean’s help, he had tracked down the lace from her grandmother’s dress and had it prepared so Velma could turn it into something later. He figured she might want to use it as a veil or whatever for her wedding.

  Velma stayed still. Her expression unreadable.

  And he’d fucked up.

  Of course, she wouldn’t want chopped-up lace for her wedding dress. His heart clenched uncomfortably.

  Her wedding. To a groom. A groom that would be a man. And, holy crap, the apartment started to spin because, fucking hell, he couldn’t let her wear her grandmother’s lace to marry a man who wasn’t him. Which meant…he was fucked.

  Might as well hand her the wire strippers to attack his nuts now. Get it over with.

  Her gaze never left the package. “Grammy’s lace,” she murmured, lifting the fabric and holding it against her chest.

  His throat bobbed against emotions that seemed to mirror hers. He was turning into a total pansy. One with feelings and shit.

  “Figured it’s important to you. Thought you could do something with it if you wanted, when you…you know…church bells and an aisle and all that.”

  Had the room gotten hotter? He ran a finger along the collar of his tee. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “married” in her presence. It wasn’t like he was dropping on one knee right here, right now, asking her to be with him forever. Except he did want to be with her forever. But marriage? He never figured he would get married. He’d just get laid. A lot. Then he’d die a happy, happy man.

  She nodded, still admiring the fabric, not meeting his eyes. He should probably go to her now. That was what a guy did when he realized he was in love with a woman. A woman holdin’ her fuckin’ wedding lace. The “Wedding March” seemed to play on repeat in his head. He yanked his hands from his jeans and tapped his thumbs on the counter.

  He couldn’t go over there. Couldn’t make this a bigger deal. Not until he figured out what the hell to do about himself. And her. And them. Shit just got deep because he’d tracked down some old lace and let his guard down.

  She carefully folded the fabric back into the box, tucked the tissue across it, and returned the lid. Still, she didn’t glance up.

  The air in the room went thick. He should have opened his mouth. Said something. But he waited with a hope that she would speak first. Whatever came out of her mouth would probably made a fuck of a lot more sense than what would come out of his. At this point, if he started talking, he’d probably end up reciting some sonnet about love or other bullshit.

  She hiccupped and held the back of her hand to her lips. Then her shoulders started to shake, and fuck him, she was crying. Two strides and he was on her side of the counter, wrapping her in his arms, letting her tears soak into his T-shirt. There were a lot of tears.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I thought you’d want it.” He’d really fucked the toaster on this one—presenting her grandmother’s wedding dress massacre all wrapped up in tissue and ribbon. Yeah, Brek. Great thinking.

  She hiccupped, rubbing her nose against his shirt in the process. “It’s p-p-p-perfect.”

  Okay. Clearly, he’d misread something. He sifted his hand through her hair, stopping at the base of her neck and stroking the soft skin there.

  “I can’t b-b-believe you did this for me.”

  So, she was happy? He scooped her up and walked to the sofa, shoving the white sacks with the red stars to the side. On his lap, she cuddled closer, and his dick, always the traitor, responded against her ass.

  “Happy tears, then?” he asked against her forehead.

  She leaned back and studied his face for a moment.

  “The happiest.” She kissed him hard on the lips, using her tongue as she straddled his lap. Her lips were everywhere, the salt from her tears a contrast to the grapefruit lip balm she loved to wear.

  His dick was so confused. Then again, so was he.

  Her mouth stopped by his earlobe. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Salty tears and grapefruit on his lips, the scent of strawberries in the air, and Velma rubbing against his jeans—he was a lucky son of a bitch.

  She sat back so they were nose to nose. “Jase wants me to do a proposal to take over the 401(k) management of all their employees at The Flower Pot. I have to meet his family, convince them to move their accounts to me. It could be a huge account.”

  “That’s fantastic.” He framed her face with his hands. “Let’s celebrate. I’ll take you to dinner.”

  Brek couldn’t look away from the hope reflected in her eyes. “Let’s go have dinner. Then we’ll go for a ride,” he suggested.

  She adjusted herself on his thighs and smiled against his mouth. “That sounds perfect.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Velma nudged Brek and scooted closer to him where they lounged on the boulder. He slipped his arm around her.

  She probably should’ve changed out of her skirt and twinset, but he’d insisted they celebrate immediately. He’d been weird ever since he’d given her the lace, mumbling something about his band. After dinner, they’d taken the long road up to Red Rocks on his bike. There wasn’t a concert tonight, so the roads were pretty much empty. He’d driven past the amphitheater to one of the dirt parking lots overlooking the lights of the city.

  “I saw my first conc
ert up here.” He nodded to where the amphitheater sat beyond the road and the canopy of trees.

  “When you were a kid?”

  He squeezed her tighter against his side. “Yeah, it lit the fire. I wasn’t good enough to go pro, but knew I wanted to be involved in music.”

  “I like it when you play.” He’d play for her at night, before they went to sleep. It was her favorite part of the day.

  “You’re biased.” He didn’t give himself enough credit, she thought.

  “I never went to concerts. Claire did. I was too busy with school and debate club.” Of course she hadn’t gone to concerts. She’d been a good girl all through high school. She’d behaved. Done everything asked of her, and more. “I guess that makes me kind of boring, huh?”

  “V, one thing you are not is boring.”

  That’s not what her ex, Tommy Jordan, had said the night they broke up.

  “It’s okay, you know.” She shifted a little away from him. “I can’t really change who I am.”

  His arm tightened around her waist. Apparently, he wasn’t about to let her scoot away. “Who said you’re boring? I’m gonna kick her ass.”

  “Not ‘her.’” It’s not like Tommy had lied. What he had said was true. “‘Him.’”

  Brek raised an eyebrow. “Amended. I’m gonna crush his skull.”

  She rolled her eyes toward the stars. “Your readiness to defend my honor is duly noted.”

  “This guy really got in your head, didn’t he?” Brek shifted her so she had to meet his gaze.

  He had. His words had embedded themselves in her psyche all this time. Brek made her believe she might be different. Maybe she wasn’t the boring financial planner with the choppy bangs and the turtleneck sweaters anymore. Heck, she was practically a biker chick these days. “Brek?”

  “Yeah, V?” He snuggled his nose against the hairline at her temple.

  She traced a finger along a rip in his jeans. “We’re all alone here.”

  “Yup.”

  “And your bike’s over there.”

  “What’re you gettin’ at?” His warm breath against her forehead sent little pops of fire through her bloodstream.