“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
She gave him a look that made it clear she knew that was a lie. He’d always been anywhere else.
“I’m in a bind.” She twisted to her side in the rumpled white sheets. “It’s my business.”
“Aspen, now’s not the—”
“It’s important.” One of the monitors pinged. She glanced to it. Worry etched across her forehead, but the little heartbeat continued to thump. A long breath escaped her lungs, and she shut her eyes. “I jump every time it does that.”
“Talk,” he said softly.
She ran a hand over the elastic on her stomach. “They’re putting me on hospital bed rest. I can’t even get up to pee, and I’ve got brides—”
“Cancel.” He leaned in toward her. “Nothing’s more important than you and the kid.”
“Dimefront is on break, right?” she asked.
The band was on hiatus for the next few months before their big tour kicked into gear. That didn’t mean he’d get much of a break. Between the boys’ constant threats of disbanding and their perpetual run-ins with law enforcement, Brek was always on when it came to them.
“Yeah, why?” He stretched out the last part, his intuition not liking the vibe he was getting from her.
“And you plan their concerts and stuff, right?”
He supervised them, anyway.
“Yeah, why?” Now he was really disliking the vibe in the room.
“I was thinking that maybe you might be willing…”
Shit. He knew where this was headed.
“No way. I’m not dealing with brides.”
“Brek…”
“Nuh-uh. Not happening.”
“It can’t be worse than a concert. Everything’s mostly done. All I need is someone to carry out what I’ve already planned.”
“Ask Ma.”
“Mom’s got her own business to run. You’re on break. You can do this. I have faith in you.”
Good thing one of them did.
“Aspen...” If there was one thing worse than a celebrity rocker on a four-day bender, it was a bridezilla who wanted the perfect wedding.
“Please.” The plea in her eyes nearly did him in.
He handled sound systems, parties, drunk-off-their-ass musicians. He made good money doing it. More than that, though, he loved the thrill of his work. What he did not enjoy was an overly emotional woman in a poufy white dress.
“Business has been bad for me the last couple of seasons,” Aspen said, her voice cracking at the end.
“Bad how?” The sinking feeling in his bones settled deeper.
“Competition is ridiculous right now. People are planning their own events more and more. The accounts I’m able to land just aren’t spending what they used to on weddings.”
He squeezed her hand. “You shoulda said something.”
“I know.” A tear slid from the corner of her eye.
He was a sucker for tears. Especially from his kid sister.
Working with her brides might give him cold sweats, but for her, he’d do it. “Fine. Yes. I’ll help you out.”
“Thank God.” She relaxed into her nest of pillows. “I have a plan to turn things around.”
“What’s the plan? I’m good with plans.” He was shit with plans. He was more of a just-go-with-it kind of guy.
“The family of one of my brides has loads of connections. Her mother’s been chatting Montgomery Events up through their circle. Next season is booking like crazy from her referrals. That wedding is almost here. It has to be perfect.”
“Wedding. Perfect. Keep the mom happy.” He could probably handle that. “What else you got?”
“An opportunity came up this week. Rosette is coming to do a spread on Claire and Dean’s wedding. They had an unexpected opening, and I pitched their ‘Purple Rain’ idea to the editor. She loved it. They’re featuring the whole thing on the blog and in the magazine…everywhere. The publicity could fix everything.”
“What’s Rosette?” he asked.
“Like Rolling Stone but for weddings.”
“So, it’s a big deal,” he said as a statement, not a question.
“It’s a huge deal. You sure you can stay in town that long without caving in to the desire to take off?”
“I’ll manage. Mom’ll be thrilled if I stick around. Your brides have fangs, but they don’t scare me.”
“Liar.” She closed her eyes briefly. “This’ll be worse than the time I made you play Fairy Princess Baseball Golf when we were kids.”
He chuckled. “I won’t wear fairy wings this time. It can’t be worse.”
“I’ll touch base with you. Make sure everything’s going okay.”
“That’s a negative.” Jacob slipped through the door, letting it latch quietly behind him. “No stress. That’s what the doctor said. No brides. No work. No stress.”
“Brek’s going to need to consult with me.” Aspen got all huffy like she did when she wasn’t getting her way. She’d had the same annoyed sigh since she was three. Hell, she’d probably stomp her foot if she wasn’t tied down to the bed with monitors.
“Nope. Everything he needs is on your laptop. Brek is a big boy. He can handle things.” Jacob usually gave his wife whatever she wanted, but he was clearly sticking to his guns. “Tell her, Brek.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle things.” How hard could it be?
“See? He’s got it.” Jacob crossed his arms.
Brek kissed her forehead. “On that note, I’ll go get Ma.”
“Brek?” Aspen asked.
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t take off,” she whispered.
Her plea punched him straight in the gut. Shit, was that what his family thought of him? He would take off without warning? Yeah, so his history wasn’t exactly stellar in that department. He had given them plenty of reasons to believe he might leave. Rock shows, fireworks, and stadiums were in his blood. He wouldn’t change that for the world, but this time he would stay. Every single one of her brides would get the wedding of her goddamned dreams—even if it killed him. Which, given the nature of some of Aspen’s clients, was not out of the question.
“I’ll stick around. Promise.” He would do anything for his baby sister. Apparently, even plan some damned weddings.
Chapter Three
Velma tugged at her rubber gloves and plunged the last of the plates into scalding water. The hot water stung, but she ignored it and scrubbed off the crusted remnants of mashed potatoes. A night spent faking excitement for her sister’s wedding had left her drained.
Not that she wasn’t happy for Claire. If anyone deserved to win the husband lottery, it was Claire. Velma just wanted her shot at happiness, too. Maybe not with Dean—for the obvious reasons—but with a guy like Dean.
“I hope Brek’s sister is okay.” Dish towel in hand, Claire glanced to the living room where Dean and Brek huddled after he’d returned.
Dean frowned. Velma’s hand would’ve usually twitched to smooth the creases on his scrunched-up forehead. But he was her sister’s future husband. Thoughts like that were not allowed. Besides, tonight her thoughts kept drifting to the rock ’n’ roll–loving Brek, not to Dean.
Brek was wild where Dean was stable. Brek was someone for sexual fantasy dreams—not for her current project of finding herself a husband.
“Brek’s interesting.” Velma handed her sister the plate to dry.
“He’s fun. That’s for sure.” Claire ran the towel over the dish. “I’m pissed he tried to convince you I’m pregnant.”
“He wasn’t serious. I knew that.” Velma stared at the film of bubbles popping along the surface of the water. “I still can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“I know, who would’ve thought it’d be me? I always figured you’d crack that code first.” Claire bumped her hip against Velma’s like they’d always done when doing the dishes as kids.
Velma laughed, like she’d always done. Her sister was pretty aweso
me. She popped by with dinner when Velma’s work schedule got nutty. She surprised Velma with theater tickets—they both loved the same old musicals. Claire also never forgot Velma’s birthday, given they shared the day. It was nice to have someone always in her corner. And now, she’d do that for her sister. She’d be the best maid of honor Claire could have ever imagined.
“Aspen’s going to be okay.” Dean strode to where they worked. “Brek’s staying in town for a while. He’s handling the weddings for her.”
“That’ll be good. His family misses him.” Claire set a crystal wineglass next to the others in the cupboard.
Velma hesitated, tilted her head to the side, and gestured to the biker talking on his phone in her living room. “We’re talking about the same Brek. He’s planning weddings? Your wedding? That Brek?”
The Brek stalking across her living room toward the kitchen. Toward her. She glanced away from the intensity of his examination.
“Wait. Our wedding.” Claire turned to Dean, her eyes huge. “You said no. Right?”
Dean shrugged. “He plans concerts and manages a band. It’s practically the same thing.”
Velma didn’t know much about planning weddings. But it couldn’t be the same as managing a band. Not even a little. Not any more than Velma planning finances was like wedding planning.
“You still looking for money, Velma?” Brek tugged on his leather jacket.
Uh. Yes. But the way he said the words sounded slightly indecent.
“Real estate?” he clarified.
“I’m still exploring options for implementation of my five-year plan, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched at the edges.
“I think what Brek’s trying to say is that we’d like to ask you a favor.” Dean settled his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
Velma kept her expression as neutral as possible. She always felt as though she came across too eager with Dean. She needed to rein that in. “Sure.”
Dean dove into full sales mode. “Brek needs a place to stay while he’s in town for the next couple of months. We were hoping you’d let him stay in your guest room.”
A wineglass slipped from Velma’s soapy fingers and clanked against the sink. Um. No. Big ol’ negative. She did not need her sexual fantasy living in the room across the hall from hers.
Brek’s expression turned serious. “Aspen’s out of service for a while. I’m going to stick around and help with her weddings. Figured I’d take your spare bedroom for a few months. Help with the rent and all that.”
“Mortgage. I have a mortgage. Not rent.” The distinction gave her a grown-up feeling she liked.
“Then I’ll help with the mortgage,” he corrected.
“That’s not a good idea.” With him, anyway.
He was rough. Not felonious rough, but still. He was a guy. If she went with a roommate, a female would be better. Someone who cleaned up after herself, kept to her shelf in the refrigerator, didn’t steal chocolate pie or play loud music.
“Way I see it, you’re raising money. I have cash. I need a place to sleep, and you have an extra room. Everybody wins.” He gave her some serious bedroom eyes.
“That’s not a good idea.” Claire’s expression turned serious.
“Why can’t you stay with your family?” Velma asked, rinsing the glass and carefully setting it on a drying mat.
Brek leaned his shoulder against the refrigerator. “Aspen’s got too much going on right now.”
“Where are you staying now?” There had to be someplace else he could stay. Anywhere else.
“My mom’s…” Brek slid a glance to Dean.
“Can’t you just stay there?” Claire slid her gaze to Velma and back to Dean.
“His mom’s is out of the question long term.” Dean stepped behind Claire and laid his hand against her waist in that proprietary way men did when they loved someone.
That was what she wanted, that feeling of being desired. A man who would place his hand on her and guide her into a room. She was going to “Dean” her life—find a man who treated her just like he treated Claire.
She forced herself to stand tall. No moping. This would be her new mantra. “Why is his mom’s out of the question?”
“She’s trying to set him up so he’ll settle down.” Dean chuckled. “You should see her when they’re together. She’s a real matchmaker. She’s always got prospects marching through wherever he is.”
Matchmakers were a real thing? Velma made a mental reminder to check into that. Perhaps a matchmaker was the ticket to her meeting a good guy. Online dating had proven to net a load of not-so-nice guys.
“So, what do we need to do to get a yes on this?” Dean asked.
He had a look he used at the office. An expression he saved for when he wanted something—a ham sandwich from the deli or backup with a difficult client. The look, a combination of pleading eyes like a golden retriever paired with a subtle wink, had always worked on Velma.
Not this time. Things were changing. “You both have apartments. He can stay with one of you.”
“I already gave up my lease.” Claire stroked Dean’s hand.
Velma tried not to stare. She really did.
“And Dean’s place doesn’t have a guest room,” Claire continued.
Because Dean’s place had a home gym where Dean worked out. Frequently, Velma guessed, given the size of his biceps. They were almost as muscled as Brek’s. Almost.
Biceps were officially going on her list of must-haves. Biceps and the wink thing.
“Your place is close to the hospital,” Brek announced. “That’s why I thought of it. And the whole five-year thing. Figured we could help each other out.”
Oh dear. She was sunk.
“It’ll only be for a few months while he’s helping Aspen. You’re family. He’s practically family. What do you say?” Dean dropped his hand from Claire.
No way she could actually be considering this proposition. Then again, Brek wanted a room, not a prostitute.
“Okay. You can stay.” The breathy words escaped her lips.
Brek grinned, a flash of white teeth against his lips.
Her stomach flipped over.
“You’re the best little sister-in-law ever,” Dean said, like she was five. The only thing missing was a gentle noogie on the top of her head.
Maybe she was the best little sister-in-law ever. But days of awkward cohabitation with a virtual stranger had Velma ready to tell Dean where he could shove his request.
Velma adjusted the groceries in her arms and kicked the door to her apartment closed. She was rolling with life and doing her best to be flexible. Starting with the roommate situation. No nagging. No telling Brek what to do.
With him across the hall, she barely slept. He’d brought his guitar with him, and sometimes when he’d play late at night, she’d lay awake listening. Even when she managed to drift off, he permeated her subconscious. Things weren’t better when she woke up. He walked into the room, and she practically wanted to inventory his ink with the tip of her finger. Memorizing each swoop and line of the tattoos could be her new favorite pastime.
There was one good thing about the situation—with her hormones hyper-focused on Brek, inappropriate Dean thoughts were at a minimum. Those thoughts mostly focused on the broken hopes of her five-year plan, which disappeared the moment Brek walked into the room.
“You have got to be kidding me.” She glowered at the dirty plates in her sink and dropped a canvas sack of groceries on the kitchen counter. The dishwasher was right there, for goodness’ sake. She pointed at it for good measure—even if she was the only one in the room.
Earlier she had tripped over Brek’s muddy boots in the middle of the floor, and his jacket seemed to have a perpetual aversion to being hung.
Claire assured her, Brek would come around to her way of doing things.
Velma wasn’t convinced.
Patience. She would need a truckload
of the stuff because, no matter what, getting used to each other took time. Brek deserved some leeway while he got situated.
“It’s only been a few days,” she said in a failed attempt to convince herself.
She yanked open the stainless-steel door to the dishwasher, rinsed and loaded three plates, four glasses, an abnormal number of forks for one man, and a shaker bottle with a little wire ball inside. None of that had been in the sink that morning when she’d left the apartment.
Brek had somehow dirtied enough cutlery to fill the entire basket in her dishwasher.
A splash of whatever the heck the bottle contained dropped on her palm. The thick liquid smelled like vanilla.
“Crud,” she mumbled, rinsing her hand under cold water.
She wiped her damp hands on a towel. Something squished between her fingers. Peanut butter.
Okay, they had to chat about this and lay down some ground rules.
“Brek?” she called, rinsing off the mess.
“Hey, V,” he hollered from his bedroom.
Her breath stuck against her ribs, and her cheeks heated. The feeling had, unfortunately, become normal whenever he was around. More frequently since he’d started using the nickname.
“What the hell is Bohemian chic?” he asked. “Bride Number Three said she wants it, but fuck if I know what that means.”
Cue the cussing, all the cussing. The man invented more ways to drop an f-bomb than anyone she’d ever met.
“I have no idea.” She dried her hands and pushed a stray hair from her forehead. “Can we talk?”
He strode around the corner in a tight, long sleeve T-shirt that did amazing things for his arms and a pair of jeans that did even more amazing things for his thighs. First rule of them living together: stop noticing things like that. Easier said than done.
“Hang on, I’ve got to pin this.” He tapped the screen of his phone.
“What?”
“Bride Number One said she pinned something about wineglasses with Skittles in ’em.” He dropped the phone next to her purse and made exaggerated air quotes. “They’re ‘cute.’ As are champagne-flavored gummy bears, apparently.”
“Wait.” Velma couldn’t hold in the laugh. “You’re on Pinterest?”
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 3
