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

by Christina Hovland

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Two Weeks After Claire & Dean’s Wedding

  Velma sat at her desk and checked her cell phone. No voice mails. Despite Brek’s cease-and-desist request, she continued calling him every night.

  A week had passed, and he still didn’t answer. A little twinge of pain hit every time she got his voice mail. The delete icon was likely his favorite button these days, and he probably didn’t even listen to the messages.

  Her gut said to keep calling, so she did.

  “Velma?” The receptionist’s voice came through her desk phone.

  Velma pushed the talk button. “Yes?”

  “Dean asked to meet you in the conference room.”

  “Oh. Okay,” she replied.

  They’d been working on a proposal for a new client this week. She headed to the conference room and pushed open the door. Claire sat beside him, with Aspen on a chair to her right, baby in her arms. Pam sat to his left, with Jase beside her.

  Velma had been ambushed. Crud, she didn’t have time for this.

  “Pull up a chair.” Dean pointed to the chair beside Aspen.

  “What’s up?” Velma asked, suspicion continuing to rise in her blood. Cautious, she sat and crossed her legs under her black pencil skirt.

  “Here, would you hold him?” Aspen plopped the baby right into Velma’s arms.

  “What?” Velma glanced to the squishy bundle of snuggles.

  Oh, hello. She inhaled the scent of baby powder.

  “Now she won’t run,” Aspen said, clearly proud of her ingenuity.

  “Run from what?” Velma did the bounce thing that came naturally when holding a baby. “And why do you all look so guilty?”

  “Well…here’s the thing…” Jase grimaced.

  Pam and Aspen didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Anyone going to tell me what’s going on or should I just hang out with Bronson?” Velma asked, looking down to admire his teeny-tiny nose.

  “We’ve decided it’s time for you to stop sulking.” Dean leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

  She ran a fingertip across Bronson’s chunky cheek. “I’m not sulking.”

  Sad, yes, but that’s because she felt like her heart had been ripped out and put back in upside down.

  “Claire says you don’t eat.” Pam slid a paper grocery sack across the table toward Velma.

  “It’s true,” Claire chimed in. “I saw your fridge. And your cupboards. There’s no food.”

  All right, well, she hadn’t had much of an appetite since Brek took off.

  “I eat. Is that why you came here, to tell me not to skip lunch?” Velma raised her eyebrows at the paper bag and glanced back to Pam.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Jase accused.

  Well, yes. One of the byproducts of heartache was apparently dropping a pant size. All those years of dieting, and in reality, she only needed to get her heart crushed. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Brek’s not here to take care of you, so that’s our job. Mom brought you cupcakes, and I brought baby therapy.” Aspen started digging through the sack and opened a bakery box.

  “Claire?”

  “Just be glad I didn’t call Mom in on this meeting,” Claire replied.

  Their mother worried way more than she should. She’d have Velma’s refrigerator filled with meals from the church ladies if she caught wind that Velma wasn’t eating.

  Velma shook her head slightly. “You came all the way down here to bring me cupcakes and have me babysit?”

  Pam rubbed at her temples, her expression pained. “No, that’s only a temporary fix. We came down here to convince you to go get Brek.”

  “His communication has gone to crap, and we know that, wherever he is, he’s not eating, either,” Aspen added.

  Velma shifted the munchkin in her arms. “What makes you think Brek wants me to get him?”

  “He probably doesn’t know that he wants you to get him. Guys are dense like that.” Dean absently rubbed Claire’s back.

  Velma cocked her head to the side. “He wants me to get him but doesn’t know that he wants me to get him?”

  “Such is love.” Pam dug out a chocolate cupcake, dropped it on a paper plate, and slid it to Velma.

  “First, we’ve got to find out where he’s run off to,” Aspen mused, gazing longingly at Velma’s cupcake.

  “Give me a second.” Velma handed the baby back to his mother. She pushed the cupcake toward her, too. Without another word, Velma pulled the green file folder from her attaché case. She tucked her latest spreadsheet back inside the bag—Pam and Aspen didn’t need to see that.

  Velma dropped the file onto the table. “Brek is on the Western Slope. A little town called Collbran. He’s been there since he left Denver.”

  “How the fuck’d you find that out?” Jase snatched the file and flipped through it.

  “I called his band members.” She glanced around the table. “You’re not the only ones who care about him.”

  “Asshole’s staying at a bed-and-breakfast while we’re all sitting here worried? I’m gonna kick his ass.” Jase scanned Velma’s notes and came to the confirmation for Velma’s airline tickets.

  Her legs suddenly shaky, she leaned against the cool metal of the table.

  She’d bought the tickets online as soon as she’d found out where he had gone. She hoped like heck Brek would still be there when she arrived on Friday night. Even more, she prayed he wouldn’t immediately send her packing.

  “You’re going to Collbran?” Dean asked, holding up the paper.

  “Let me see that.” Jase reached for it.

  Velma shrugged. She refused to think anything more about it until she was waiting for takeoff on the tarmac. “Well, he hasn’t come back. So, I’m going there. Any idea why he’d be there?”

  “Tucker McKay,” Jase said offhand, still reading her flight itinerary.

  “Who’s Tucker McKay?” Velma asked.

  “Shut up. You don’t know who Tucker is?” Aspen gaped.

  “Clearly not,” Velma pointed out. “Seriously, who is he?”

  “Five-time Grammy nominee, three-time winner. Used to be with the Skintight Bandits but went out on his own.” Jase gave her the evil eye. “Seriously, you don’t know him?”

  Velma shook her head. “No.”

  Jase threw his hands up in the air. “He and Brek are buddies, but I wouldn’t have suspected Brek would go visit him. Guess that’s why he went.”

  Aspen shifted her son and laid a kind hand on Velma’s shoulder. “Thank you for going to get Brek.”

  “Do you have a plan for when you get there?” Pam asked.

  Velma let out a worried breath and shook her head. “No.”

  No plan. That was the plan.

  It had to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Three Weeks After Claire & Dean’s Wedding

  Bullets of sweat beaded along Brek’s hairline. His big plans for the night included a beer, his guitar, and dinner. He paused on the concrete sidewalk outside the bar up the street from where he was staying and checked his phone again. No voice mail.

  His hands shook, which was unacceptable. He had moved on. Velma was free to be happy. Free to live her life.

  He shoved the phone into his pocket and reached for the door. Except, she called every night at seven. On the dot.

  But not tonight.

  His throat constricted like it had when he’d seen the score on Velma’s spreadsheet. He should probably touch base with Jase to make sure Velma was okay.

  A coat of regret covered his tongue. He swallowed and looked back to his bike. The thing had taken a beating in the elements over the past week, but it had held up. His mind worked to calculate the distance back to Denver.

  Five hours. Way too long.

  Maybe he could call Ma and have her go check on Velma? Nothing major, just a Hello, I’m making sure you’re not dead in a ditch or something welfare visit.

  His cell buzzed against
his palm.

  He practically jumped out of his fuckin’ motorcycle boots. Velma’s name and picture showed up on the caller ID. The pic he’d snapped when he brought her tacos for lunch the week before everything had gone to shit.

  Thank God. Not that he was a praying man or anything, but he sent a silent salute to whoever the hell was in charge. Gratitude and all that. He itched to answer the phone. Hear her voice in real time.

  Her smile lit up the screen, and his dick stirred with the hope he might actually call her back this time.

  He couldn’t. She deserved her ten, and it wasn’t him. Acceptance would come eventually, and they’d both figure out their lives.

  The stucco siding of the bar dug into his leather jacket when he slumped against the building. He would get dinner and head someplace quiet so he could listen to Velma’s voice mail over and over again, like every other night since he’d left.

  He had become a pussy-whipped pansy. Soon enough he would be doodling hearts with her name in the middle like a lovesick idiot.

  Time for dinner and to figure out his next move.

  Tucker was happy to entertain him, but Brek had taken enough of his time already. Tucker didn’t need a moping jerk wrecking the little time he had with his family.

  Brek headed inside and waited the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Typical dive. The scent of grease hung heavy in the air. Low lighting slipped through a handful of small windows, slicing through the air where the dust motes swirled. A couple of pool tables sat on one side, and music blared on the jukebox—country, this time. Along the edge of the room was a long bar with the resident jackass trying to pick up a pretty blonde. Perfectly combed hair, a pink sweater and skirt, and matching Mary Janes. She had clearly wandered into the wrong place.

  He couldn’t make out her face because she was turned away from him, but he could’ve sworn she looked like Velma. Except Velma was tucked away in Denver. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thick molasses that seemed to always be trapping his thoughts lately.

  Everywhere he turned the past week, he could swear he caught Velma’s scent or her image out of the corner of his eye. Once, he’d followed a woman into a gas station when he thought she was Velma, but the chick standing between the display of Bugles chips and the fountain drinks was brunette and definitely not Velma. He’d stomped out in a worse mood than when he had started the day. But that wasn’t today. Wasn’t now.

  This woman wasn’t Velma, either. His brain was mind-fucking him again.

  Except…

  She laughed, and a zing of awareness shot straight through him. He knew that laugh.

  “Velma?” he asked, positive his brain was tripping.

  The blonde turned on her barstool. Velma’s gray eyes met his.

  “Brek?” He did know that voice, and those eyes, that mouth, that body. Hell, he’d spent months tasting every inch of her. How had she found him?

  Brek swallowed hard. He’d learned long ago that certain events burned themselves onto the retina to be taken out later and mulled over—the memories that never fade. No, they always stayed as crisp as the original memory. This was one of those times. The image of Velma sitting at a bar in the mountains with a small stream of sunlight playing across her face would stay with him forever.

  He was fucked, and he didn’t even care.

  “You with him?” Jackass jerked his chin toward Brek.

  “I’m not sure.” Velma shifted and toyed with the white paper wrapper from her straw.

  She looked smaller, her eyes haunted.

  Jackass stepped back, and Brek got the full punch of Velma. Fuck, he missed her.

  He was lost. No point in fighting it. He wouldn’t be able to walk away again.

  “Am I?” she asked.

  “What?” he replied.

  She tilted her head to the side. “With you?”

  Brek briefly studied the dried mud caked on the toes of his boots.

  “I need to talk to him,” Velma told Jackass. “Alone.”

  Dude got the message, because he grunted in disgust at a conquest lost, grabbed his beer, and headed for the pool tables.

  Brek strode to her, his boots stuck against the sticky floorboards from spilled drinks and God knew what else. He planted his ass on the stool next to her and inhaled her scent.

  Strawberries and Velma.

  “I just called you.” She dropped the paper straw wrapper and angled her body his direction.

  “I know.” He rolled his shoulders, but he couldn’t meet her eyes again. Not yet.

  “Some things can’t be said on a voice mail. I figured I’d come tell you in person.” She placed her hand on his and linked their fingers together.

  He let her.

  The wall in front of him held a huge mirror and an assortment of whiskey to numb the type of pain he had experienced. Her thumb stroked his knuckles, and his heart stalled.

  “I think I figured out when I fell in love with you,” she said finally.

  “Velma.” He dragged his hand from hers and ran it through his hair. God, this hurt.

  “It happened around the time you decked that guy for me.”

  He glanced to her. The light in her eyes caught in his heart. They couldn’t do this. “Velma, don’t know what you’re here searchin’ for, but it’s pretty clear lookin’ at your spreadsheet…you don’t know a thing about me.”

  “You’re Brek. We went up to Red Rocks together.” She hauled a zipped canvas bag onto her lap, dug through it, pulled out a bound report with a clear cover, and handed it to him.

  He glanced at the rows and columns…another fuckin’ spreadsheet. Her spreadsheets didn’t know jack shit. He pushed it away. “Not interested.”

  Clearly ignoring him, she continued on as though he hadn’t spoken. “I printed it. Not really logical to lug my computer all this way.” Carefully, she flipped through the pages and landed on the last one. “You’re on this page. I highlighted your row.”

  She had added columns, including number of orgasms given, spontaneity, creativity, and about a dozen other things.

  “I went back through and added everything I could think of that really matters. Then I updated the algorithm. You got a five thousand six hundred and ninety-two.” She squinted at the number as she read and traced the tip of her finger over the number highlighted in yellow. “You lost a few points for taking off and not telling anyone where to find you.”

  His throat worked as he swallowed. He caught the bartender when he moved past and ordered a Jack on the rocks.

  “Also, I talked to Wayne. Jase told me what he said to you. You’ll be happy to know my algorithm gave him a negative ten thousand. I showed him the spreadsheet, so he could see he doesn’t have a chance.”

  Brek blinked quickly and snagged the report. “You showed the guy who wants in your pants a spreadsheet that details how many times I’ve made you come?”

  Velma drew little circles on the bar with her fingertip, and a sly smile touched her lips. “I don’t think he’ll bother either of us anymore.”

  Holy shit, Brek would have loved to be a fly on the wall when that had gone down.

  “Also, I got inked.” Velma’s cheeks flushed.

  “What?” He took the glass the bartender slid his way. She got a tat?

  “Your lily...” The sleeve of her pink sweater dropped, and holy hell, she was serious. The lily he drew for her stretched across the skin of her shoulder, up toward the back of her neck. The artist had even included Brek’s signature.

  She’d marked herself for him.

  His blood heated, and his dick asked for permission to come out and play. Brek had never been more turned on by anything in his life. And given his experience with Velma’s tits on the couch, that said a lot.

  He reached out and ran a fingertip along one of the petals. She winced.

  He jerked his hand back. Fresh ink stung.

  She considered him, her expression soft. “You should know, I
also figured we should get married.”

  He stilled. “Say again?”

  “You know. Married. Like husband. Wife. Someday kids.” She shrugged but wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Velma Johnson, are you proposing to me?” He couldn’t help the grin playing on his mouth. Picture-perfect, little-miss-traditional proposing to him? In a bar?

  “Well…yeah.” She lifted a shoulder. The one with his ink.

  Yeah, he would marry her. Right there in the middle of the bar if she’d have him.

  “You’re not on one knee,” he pointed out.

  She grimaced. “Have you seen the floor in here?”

  “This proposal wasn’t very well planned out.”

  “The best things never are,” she said on a breath.

  He cocked his head to the side. “Did you at least get me an engagement ring?”

  She paled. “Um…no. I hadn’t figured…”

  Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he grabbed the box with her grandmother’s ring and set it in front of her. Pops had asked for it back if Brek didn’t intend use it, but Brek couldn’t bring himself to send it.

  “Brek?” Her fingertips twitched as she weighed the box in her palm.

  “Open it.” He took another swig to calm the sudden case of nerves tromping around in his stomach.

  She flipped the lid up and gasped. Tears misted her eyes. “This is Gramma Velma’s.”

  He lifted the band from the box, his fingers clunky and big against the thin band. Standing, he pushed his barstool back with the bottom of his foot. Then he got down on one knee. In a bar. For Velma.

  “Velma Johnson. Will you marry me?”

  “Always.” Velma held her left hand to him, and he slipped the ring over her knuckle.

  It fit.

  “There’s an inscription, too.” He squeezed her fingertips. “It’s short, ’cause Pops was bein’ cheap. But I’ll add somethin’ to it before the wedding.” He paused. “You really love me?”

  She nodded, reaching a hand to the stubble of his cheek as he stood. “Yes.”

  “I love you, too.” With everything he had.