“Jase already gave me a load of shit about it, right before he followed all my boards,” he grumbled. “This isn’t my normal gig, but Brides Number One and Two both said I needed to follow them to keep up with their themes.”
“Brides Number One and Two?” Velma squinted at him.
He lifted a corded shoulder. “Numbers are easier than names.”
“You sure know how to make girls feel special.” She forced herself to glance away from the way his shirt highlighted his muscles to focus on his eyes.
“You want me to make you feel special?” The intense way he stared at her gave every indication he was more than happy to follow through if she said yes. Oh, she wanted to say yes. Her subconscious screamed for her to say yes.
She wouldn’t say yes.
“No.” She tossed him a don’t-go-there look. “Let’s talk about rules. Starting with your usage of expletive nouns and adjectives.”
He scrunched his eyebrows. “What kind of nouns?”
“Cussing. It makes me uncomfortable.” She shifted a row of cans in the cupboard to make room for more.
He rested his shoulder against the wall. “You’re cute, you know that?”
Gah, it was like talking to a middle schooler. She pressed on. “Roommate ground rules. We need to go over them.”
His face went blank. “What kind of rules?”
“Showers and groceries and laundry?” And all of the other things that were driving her crazy about having a roommate.
The sexiest of grins crossed his face. “You want to shower together? I’m down with conserving water.”
This man was impossible. And distracting. And heck yes, she wanted to shower with him. But no, she wouldn’t.
“That’s not what I meant. I mean using up all the hot water. Eating all the groceries. Forgetting to swap your laundry from the washer to the dryer.”
“Fair enough. I’ll keep showers under five minutes. Throw in for groceries, and only do laundry when you’re not home. That work for you?”
“Throw in for groceries?” The way he kept staring at her raised her body temperature past comfortable levels.
“You cook. I don’t. I’ll toss in cash if you cook extra of whatever you’re fixing for yourself.”
She stood straighter. He could be reasonable. “There was a bunch of stuff in the sink and peanut butter on the towel. Can you put your junk away and not leave sticky stuff on the linens?”
He glanced to the now-empty sink and a sly smile tickled the corner of his mouth. “Where exactly would you like me to put my junk? And…uh…sticky stuff.”
Heat crept up her neck to her hairline. “You don’t have to be juvenile about it. If you could just load the dishwasher, that would be great. And paper towels for peanut butter. That’s all.”
“I can do that.” He studied her in that way of his that made her squirm.
“Appreciated.” She unloaded a box of pasta from her shopping bag and grabbed the little B&V labels she’d made up earlier.
Brek grabbed a mesh bag of tomatoes from the sack and tossed them in a bowl. “What’s with the labels?”
“So we know what belongs to whom. Your stuff gets a B, mine gets a V. Things we share get both.” She’d made his B labels an appropriate black Hells Angels font, and her V labels got a pink swirly curlicue.
“You’re dedicated to labeling. I’ll give you that. Couldn’t we just use the honor system?”
She shook her head. No. No, they couldn’t. Her method would keep everything in order and boundaries in place.
He reached over her for a sheet of labels.
Gosh, he smelled good. He didn’t wear cologne. The scent was 100 percent Brek. Someone should bottle it and sell it on the black market.
“Labels will make things easier for everyone.” She peeled off a B&V to stick on the loaf of wheat bread.
“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.
Frankly, neither was she.
“I put extra in here.” She tapped the front of a drawer.
“Extra labels,” he confirmed.
“That’s what we’re talking about, right?”
“Is it?” His expression changed, subtly, but she noticed. “Or are we talking about how you’re scared to trust me?”
Had he moved closer? No, she still had her space. But holy crud, it didn’t feel that way anymore.
“Definitely talking about labels,” she said on an exhale, breaking the link between them to finish labeling so she could get the heck out of there.
“You ever think about loosening up? Lettin’ down that guard of yours?” His expression softened.
The quiet concern and sincerity in his tone wasn’t harsh or mean, but she’d let others in before and it never turned out well for her. Life worked better if she kept her distance.
Especially from guys like Brek who didn’t fit into any version of her five-year plan.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Velma replied.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that.” Brek’s phone rang, facedown on the counter. He glared at it. “It’s probably Bride Number Two. She’s extra needy today.”
“You’ve got Brek.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hey, Aspen. Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
He stared at the ceiling while Aspen said whatever she said.
“No. Skittles… That’s what I said… Goldfish… She said she wants goldfish now… Well, fuck if I know… I’ll find them… I’m hanging up now… Nope… I love you, and for your own good I’m hang—”
He glanced to Velma and rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk to the magazine people… I said I’ll do it…”
Velma couldn’t hear everything that Aspen said, but she caught something about how he better not hang up on her. There also seemed to be a threat about castration.
“Bye, Aspen,” Brek said before hanging up and cussing a slew of expletive nouns under his breath.
“Magazine?” Velma asked.
“Rosette whatever.” He fumbled with a head of broccoli and a label.
The bridal blog? “Rosette is covering one of your weddings?”
“Claire and Dean’s wedding. Aspen set the whole thing up.” He laid aside the produce he’d been unable to label. “You don’t happen to know where I can get twenty pounds of Skittles and forty goldfish, do you?”
“No. Why do you— You know what, I don’t need to know.” She finished loading the cupboard.
“What’re you doin’ later? Jase and Dean are stoppin’ by for a bit. You’re welcome to hang out with us.” He grabbed a spoon and dove into the new pint of Ben & Jerry’s she had just labeled with a B.
“I’m headed out for the night.” On a first date with a guy named Nathan who seemed nice enough on his profile.
“Big date?” He asked around a bite of Cherry Garcia.
Hopefully. “Something like that. Maybe you could use a bowl for the ice cream?”
“Nah, I’m good like this. Want some?” He lifted the loaded spoon in her direction.
“No, thank you.” She rolled the tension from her shoulders. “One other thing. We haven’t talked about this, but I think we should. No hookups at the apartment. I don’t want to come home to some…” Random chick prancing around the apartment in nothing but her thong and your leather jacket. No. Velma couldn’t say that. “Someone drinking my milk.”
Much better.
“I will protect your milk. And I agree, no outside hookups.” His gaze stayed intent on hers.
Wait. Did he mean…? He couldn’t seriously be propositioning her. Oh heavens. The heat.
“No hookups at all.” Not for her. Nopers. Not with a roommate. Especially not with a guy like Brek. A dangerous guy. The kind who made her question her commitment to finding the right guy to settle down with and make babies. Brek was a for now guy. She didn’t need that in her life.
“Bummer.” He didn’t glance away. He simply held her stare. “Guess I’ll have to hook up on the back of my Harle
y.”
By golly, she didn’t need to sort out that visual. The logistics involved for intercourse on a motorcycle would certainly require preplanning and a diagram.
“Having sex on the back of a motorcycle is impossible.” She was nearly certain.
His smirk scared the living snot out of her. “Wanna bet?”
Chapter Four
Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 7 Weeks
Two of the many benefits to Velma’s apartment complex were the gym and the heated swimming pool. Brek pulled himself from the pool and glanced past the hot tub to the clock. He’d made ample use of both amenities while he settled in at Velma’s place. No one else used the rooftop pool late at night. Not that he minded the quiet. In fact, he preferred it. At least until his mind wandered back to Velma—which it always did.
Velma said she was dating, and that declaration sat on his chest like a fifty-pound dumbbell. Sometimes she didn’t get home until late.
And who the hell was he to play hall monitor to her dating habits? He shook his head.
He had stayed up, listening for her. Most of the time he convinced himself he was just doing his neighborly roommate duty to ensure she made it home alive. But the number of times he ended up stewing alone in the dark over what she was doing with some jackass grated on him.
Montgomery Events kept Brek so busy he hadn’t had time to ask a woman out—not that one had caught his attention. Normally, he didn’t have a problem finding a willing partner. All that had changed the second he’d knocked on Velma’s door. His dick seemed to think she owned it.
His dick was a traitor.
He snagged his towel and headed down the elevator, back to the apartment. Velma wouldn’t be home for a while. He probably had enough time to watch at least two episodes of The Walking Dead while he put together the invitations for Bride Number Three, also known as Velma’s sister. Although, tying little ribbons and affixing gold stickers wasn’t his idea of a good time. That’s why he’d add zombies to the mix. Zombies made everything better.
He shoved his key in the door and turned the knob. His gut took a hit like it always did when Velma was in the room. The lights were on, and she sat at the table with a girly teacup next to her laptop.
She wore pink flannel pajamas and her fuck-me glasses—the rimless kind that sat high on the bridge of her nose. Every so often her glasses would slip, and she would haphazardly push them back, making her look like a librarian. A sexy librarian who did dirty, dirty things to rebels who returned books late and didn’t pay their fine.
“Hi, Brek.” She glanced up from the light of her computer screen, a sucker stick poking out of the edge of her mouth. She popped the lollipop from between her lips, and his dick stirred to life. Down, boy. A few days ago, he’d found a canister in the back of the pantry filled with all sorts of candy. He’d never seen her enjoy her private stash, but he resolved right then and there to keep it stocked.
“Hey.” Bare-chested, he tugged his towel around his neck and held it at the ends. He couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought, so he evacuated to his room to change into a dry pair of shorts.
With a firm word that his dick needed to behave, he grabbed his post-workout recovery shake from his shelf in the fridge and shook it. Velma had labeled his black mixer bottle with a sticker that read B.
Early on, he had decided to find her love of labels cute. That and the swear jar she’d decorated with multicolored ribbons and placed in the center of the kitchen counter. He had already prepaid by dropping in a hundred-dollar bill. She hadn’t found that cute at all. Nope, she threw a tizzy about it. Didn’t matter, though. Her tizzy was fuckin’ adorable.
“You’re home early.”
“Tonight was a bust.” She screwed up her face.
“I need to kick the dude’s ass?” He would take entirely too much joy in beating the jerk to a pulp.
She shook her head without glancing up from the monitor. “No. Claire and Heather already took me out for a post-date ice-cream-infused dissection. You don’t get to flex your caveman muscles on my behalf this time.”
“Bummer.” He moved to stand behind her. “What’re you doin’?”
She pushed the screen closed. “Nothing.”
The way her cheeks burned red told an entirely different story.
“Porn?” The idea of Velma watching anything indecent was laughable—she had a thing for old movies with dudes who sang about being in love.
“No.” Her nose wrinkled.
Some might call him a bastard for pushing her buttons. Didn’t mean he was going to stop.
“Ms. Johnson, please show the class what you’re hiding.” He reached to open the screen.
She smacked at his hand. “It’s a spreadsheet, you oaf. Nothing special.”
“A spreadsheet, huh? I don’t believe you.” He leaned over her to get to the computer.
Her hair smelled like strawberries again. He had always liked strawberries, but they’d never given him a hard-on before.
“Shouldn’t you go shower or something?” She turned her head, and her lips were barely a centimeter from his. Her eyes went wide. Her throat bobbed.
His lips twitched. The attraction wasn’t as one-sided as he’d believed.
Without hesitation, he moved closer, brushing his lips in the air over the apple of her cheek. They didn’t make contact. Still, though, a little moan escaped her throat that practically broadcast kiss me.
His mouth reached her ear. “What’s on the spreadsheet, V?”
She pulled her head away, breaking the intimate moment. “Are you always like this?”
“Yes.” He straightened and jerked his head toward her computer. “Spill.”
A sound escaped her throat that was a cross between “urg” and “gah.” She opened her laptop. “It’s a dating spreadsheet. See?” She pointed to the screen. “Nothing special.”
There were a lot of rows with male names. And by a lot, he meant a lot of them. That shouldn’t have stung the way it did, but…there it was.
He squinted at the screen. “Velma, the serial dater.”
“I’m trying to find the right guy. Unfortunately, it appears my Prince Charming’s riding a snail instead of a steed, because he’s taking his time.”
Each column had a numbered rating and a final score at the end. With an elaborate color-coding system. He couldn’t quite pull his gaze away from the insanity on her screen. “You keep a log of all your dates?”
“Well…yeah. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. So, I write everything down and add up the pros and cons.”
Her system was crazier than his mother’s matchmaking business. And he’d always thought her business was whack. “I thought my mother was the queen of the dating scene.” He narrowed his eyes in on the first few columns of the spreadsheet. “But I’ve never heard of her ranking guys on the diversity of their retirement portfolios.”
“Life insurance isn’t a joke. Actually, you and I should talk about your coverage.” She gave him a look that, in those glasses, made him actually look forward to a conversation about death.
He shook off her suggestion. No way was he talking about retirement bullshit.
“Conversation ability and height?” He continued through the columns. Those were just the first three. There were many more.
“That’s a personal preference. Personality is weighted heavier. See, look.” She tapped through some screens, her finger clicking the mouse. “Everything gets a rating, and then they feed into the algorithm for a ranking between one and ten. Anything over an eight gets a second date.”
Brek let out a whistle. “Tonight’s guy is at a three. Poor dude.”
Velma studied the monitor. “The formula I created does all the heavy lifting.”
She deserved an A for effort, he gave her that.
“What were tonight’s cons?” He pulled a chair up next to hers. She had special padded cushions for her chairs that matched the curtains. A lot of work, he figured
, but what the hell? They were comfortable.
“Well, he still lives with his parents. That’s a big red flag.” She tapped on the keyboard to fill out a few more of the columns with number ratings. “He kept checking Facebook and asked if he could post my picture so his friends would believe I went out with him.”
“Definite minus. He pay for dinner?”
“No. I did.”
“Add a column for that and give him a zero. Guy’s a prick, he doesn’t pay for dinner.” Brek pointed to an empty cell.
She crossed her legs. The flannel made a whisper of a sound that his body responded to as if she were wearing a see-through lace nightie.
“I’m not adding whether he bought me dinner, that’s insane.”
Right. That would be the insane part of the spreadsheet dating system.
“The man pays for the meal.” Didn’t everyone know this?
Velma scrunched up her forehead. “That’s sexist.”
“It’s life. Add that to a column and do your algorithm-whatever so it’s weighted heavier than the 401(k) bullshit.” Brek settled his elbows on a red placemat she’d laid out earlier. It also matched the freaking curtains and the chairs. “What are the pros from tonight?”
“He has a job.”
Brek chuckled. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Employment is a good thing.”
“What about last night’s date?” he asked.
“Hmmm?” As she typed, she ran the tip of her pink tongue along her bottom lip.
He ignored the desire to do the same. To her.
“Two. Ouch. Poor guy didn’t even have a job?” Brek pointed to the row above.
“Nope.” She shrugged.
Brek snagged the box of partially folded invitations from the table and headed for the couch. “Wanna catch a couple episodes of Dead with me?”
“Dead?” she asked.
“The Walking Dead.” He concentrated on the slight dimple he had never noticed before at the tip of her nose.
“I’m not into zombies.” She turned off her computer and slipped it into a padded black case. “You go ahead.”
“They’re not real,” he said, the vanilla liquid sloshing against the sides of his mixer bottle. “C’mon, we’ll cuddle if you get scared.”
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 4
