“Brek. No,” she said with a gasp. “I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me.”
Too late. Brek raised his fist, and it connected to the other man’s face with a sickening thud. Blood spattered across the wall and onto Brek’s shirt. Drunk guy whimpered and slid to the ground.
Brek cussed a string of creatively combined curses. He curled his fist around the guy’s collar and yanked him back up. “You need more schooling? Or we done here?”
“Done,” he whimpered.
Well, thank goodness for small miracles. At least one of them was finished.
“What the hell?” the bartender yelled, pushing through the group of people. “You with this guy?” He glanced from Brek to Velma.
She opened her mouth to explain, but Brek got to it first.
“Yeah. She’s with me.” Brek spat the words.
“Wow, Brek. Nice.” Chelsea huffed and walked away.
Drunk guy stumbled, one hand against his nose, the other pointing to her. “They assaulted me. I’m pressing charges.”
The idiot could not be serious.
The bartender shifted uneasily. “We don’t need the cops involved.”
Blood flowed between the guy’s fingers. “They broke my nose.”
Brek grabbed napkins from the wait station and threw them so they rained down all around the bleeding jerk. “That’d be me, asswipe. But if you want Velma to get the credit for knocking some sense into you, I’m sure she’d oblige.”
He didn’t just say that. She absolutely wouldn’t “oblige.” Blood thumped uncomfortably in her temples.
Velma glanced to Brek. He had turned a strange shade of pissed-off red. Not good, not good at all.
“Hey.” Idiot guy grabbed Brek’s arm. Velma may not have been schooled in bar fights, but one could guess that was not a good idea.
“You got something to say?” Brek jerked his arm away.
“This.” The man scrunched his hand into a fist and drunkenly aimed for Brek’s face.
Fortunately for Brek, he had absolutely no force behind his punch.
Brek made his fist, pulled his arm back, and landed another blow to the guy’s nose.
Bone crunched as his knuckles made contact.
“Now there’s no question who broke it.”
She was going home. And when she got there, she was going to have some serious words with her roommate. Velma plopped her derriere onto the cold bus bench. They’d all been tossed out of the bar. Brek had disappeared. Claire was on the phone with Dean—their designated driver for the night—calling for an early pickup.
“Dean’s on his way. I can’t believe you got kicked out of a bar.” Claire slipped beside Velma, her arm draped around Velma’s shoulders.
“Be real, who thought we’d get tossed out on girls’ night because Velma got in a bar fight?” Heather leaned against the bus stop sign.
The roll of an engine cut her off as a motorcycle pulled up to the bus shelter.
Brek’s bike.
Now, she wasn’t into motorcycles, but his was vintage cool. Like something James Dean would have ridden—shiny black and loads of chrome with one large circular headlight. His spectacularly male set of thighs nearly covered the Harley-Davidson nameplate.
“On the bike, V.” Brek handed her a half helmet that would cover the top of her head and nothing else.
Um. No. She absolutely wasn’t getting on his death trap, especially without a full helmet.
“What happened to your date?” Velma pulled her purse over one shoulder and stood.
“Bike. Now.” Brek shoved the helmet toward her more forcefully.
“I don’t do motorcycles.” She glanced between him, the helmet, and the ground.
“You should get on the bike,” Claire chimed in.
“If you don’t, I’ll totally get on the bike.” Heather grinned like a loon.
“Swear to God, V. Get on the bike, or I’ll toss you on the bike.” Brek’s glare turned fierce.
“You wouldn’t dare.” She glared right back.
“Five bucks says she doesn’t get on the bike,” Claire said from behind.
“I’ll take that bet,” Heather replied. “If he tosses her on the bike, I get double.”
Velma turned and hushed them. “You’re not helping.”
“I kinda think we are.” Heather shrugged.
The bike motor seemed to get even louder. Oh dear. Given the expression that crossed Brek’s face, he absolutely would toss her on his bike.
Velma took the helmet, put it on, and clipped the chinstrap.
“We all need to go out more often.” Heather sighed.
Velma stepped closer to Brek, so they were nearly nose to nose. “Why are you doing this?”
Exasperated waves of frustration poured from him. “You wanna talk this out? We’ll do it at home.”
“You think they’re really going to talk this out?” Claire stage-whispered to Heather.
Velma ignored her.
Brek did have a point. Bickering on the corner made no sense. She gestured to the seat. “I’ve never been on a bike before. How do you…you know?”
“I feel like my baby sister is growing up before my eyes.” Claire laughed. “I’m so proud of you, Velvet.”
“Climb on. Hang on. Don’t let go.” Brek held Velma’s gaze with his own.
“Right.” She could do that. She fixed her bag to cross-body and not so gracefully swung her leg over the seat to settle against his back, attempting to keep a modest space between them.
He pulled her arms around his waist, erasing any space. She tried to move farther back, but the engine growled, sending interesting vibrations between her legs.
Okay, so she was beginning to understand the draw of motorcycles.
The bike lurched forward. Fine. That worked, too.
“Have fun with your talk!” Heather shouted over Brek’s engine.
Velma squished her eyes closed and held on tighter.
The first block flew by before she finally peeked out from beneath her lashes. They stopped at a red light, and Brek stuck his foot against the pavement to hold them up. She gripped his waist harder. She wasn’t going to biff it at a red light wearing only half a helmet. His jacket was unzipped, and sheesh, he had amazing abdominal definition—the ridges prominent even through his shirt. Of course she had seen them before. But she’d never felt them.
Perhaps the Brek Express was a good option. A car ride had never turned her on like this.
Brek pulled into his parking space, right beside hers. He cut the engine and put down the kickstand. She climbed off, lost her balance, and fell helmet-first against his chest.
His arms caught her, and he didn’t release his grip. Her rapid heartbeat echoed in her ears. Surely, he could hear it, too. She clutched the soft leather of his jacket as his hand at her waist slid higher. His other hand unclipped her helmet and tossed it to the asphalt. She focused on where it landed near the painted yellow stripe delineating their parking space. Brek’s finger traced her chin and lifted it so her gaze met his, which was a really bad idea because the heat from his anger melted into a different kind of fire. A warmth that somehow amplified his intense blue eyes.
She stood frozen in his gaze as he dipped his face until his lips barely brushed hers. Testing. Examining. She opened her mouth to tell him this was a bad idea. Supremely bad. Epically bad.
He must have misinterpreted her response because his lips urged for more and opened further. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea. Nice, actually. Perfect amount of pressure. Oh, some tongue. Dear goodness, he tasted delicious. Cardinal sin, mistakes, and all the things she never let herself feel. In other words, he tasted amazing. Amazing with a subtle hint of wintermint gum. She adored wintermint gum. Of all the mints, that one was her top choice. He pulled his tongue back, and that was no good. No good at all.
She tilted her head and sought him out again with her mouth. He responded with a vengeance, tongue and hands everywhere. Her fingers still clutch
ed him close and, oh my, she was panting. Whatever. She blamed it on the motorcycle engine purring between her thighs for three miles.
Except, they were roommates, and this was inappropriate. She broke the kiss, still breathing hard and more than a little shaky. She could blame it on the bike ride, but the truth was the Tilt-A-Whirl inside her had nothing to do with a motorcycle and everything to do with the man she was still hanging on to.
Step one. Release Brek.
Step two. Apologize for leading him on.
Step three. Insist it never happen again.
Step four. Well, she would figure that one out eventually.
She dropped her hands. Miraculously, she did not fall over. “I, um—”
“Don’t say it.” The fire in his eyes turned angry again.
“Say what?” She tugged at the hem of her shirt.
“Whatever bullshit you were about to say to ruin what just went down,” he clipped.
Oh. No apology this time. Onto step three.
“That can’t happen again.”
“There it is.” He pressed his lips together and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“There’s what?”
“Your bullshit.”
“It’s not baloney. I’m serious. That was a lovely kiss.”
“Lovely?” He looked less than impressed.
“Amazing. It was amazing,” she corrected. Well, it was. “Also inappropriate.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Inappropriate?”
“What would Dean think about us?” she asked.
His expression went dark. “Why would Dean have anything to say about us?”
Velma held herself back from the urge to lick her lips. “Nothing. I just mean...”
“Wait.” Brek’s eyes widened. “No. That couldn’t be.”
His whole vibe changed.
“What?” she asked.
“It’d make sense though,” he continued.
“Brek, what?” He was putting the pieces together for something.
“Your reaction when your sister got engaged.”
Oh no.
His palm hit his forehead. “Tell me you’re not into Dean. Is that what this is about?”
“What? No.” Not anymore. She shook her head for good measure.
She needed to deflect this conversation. No way could she tell him about her previous Dean-plan. “This is about tonight. I wasn’t your date. What about her? How would she feel about what happened just now?”
“You’re serious?” He glanced up to the stars. “She’s fuckin’ serious.”
“I am serious,” she confirmed.
“Chelsea left. I was a shitty date because I couldn’t get my mind off you.”
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. Everything was so messed up. All because she’d actually considered his proposition. “Let’s go back to the way things were before,” she heard herself say. The words sounded hollow and vacant.
The lines at the edges of his lips turned down, then smoothed. “That’s what you want? Because that’s what you say, but thirty seconds ago, your lips told a whole different story.”
She sucked in a breath but didn’t respond. The air between them hung like an itchy wool blanket.
“That’s what I thought.” He moved away to pick up the helmet and tuck it in one of the saddlebags. “Go on ahead.”
She didn’t linger. Step four officially involved hustling to the entrance of their building without further contact. The security door was nearly within reach when the engine on his bike rumbled. She entered her code, and a pull she couldn’t quite decipher stopped her. She turned, but Brek was already gone.
Step five was apparently disappointment. In herself.
She went through her nighttime routine and crawled into bed, tossing and turning, waiting for him to return.
He didn’t.
Chapter Eight
Brek was over the bullshit of the night before. After spending the night at Jase’s, Brek rolled the tension from his shoulders and studied the license plates on the ceiling over Jase’s couch. Jase had collected a motley assortment from all fifty states, and then some—enough to cover all the plaster. The result was impressive, and a decent distraction from Velma. Brek had needed space to think.
Jase’s family owned a slew of flower companies throughout Denver, Fort Collins, and Colorado Springs. Jase managed the Cherry Creek store.
The whole florist thing was very not Jase. But when he had returned from Afghanistan, he was done with defusing roadside bombs and tossing grenades. Swore he needed simplicity.
“Roses don’t blow up,” he had said. “They’re simple.”
After last night, Brek needed a little simplicity. Chelsea had found out he was back in town and called yesterday. He’d met her to purge Velma from his head. The last thing he had expected was to find the woman he was trying to forget serving up attitude three tables over. Chelsea was pissed about the whole night. Rightly so, because, hell, he hadn’t even kissed her.
He’d saved that for Velma. She was a siren wrapped up as a good girl. But only girls with a streak of bad could ever use a tongue the way she did. Which was why he had needed to get out of there, away from temptation and the taste of her. The story of his life: distance was a good thing. Freedom meant not being tied to anyone. He itched again for the independence that came on the road, traveling between gigs.
Funny thing, if he ever decided to stay in one place, he’d always figured he’d buy a bar just like Hank’s. Great bands. Good booze. A solid location where he could settle down.
It was a good thing he didn’t have any desire to stay in one place.
“Don’t you have clients to meet?” Jase emerged from his bedroom, yawning and scratching at his tee.
Brek groaned. “Yeah.”
More brides. They were killing him. How Aspen did this day in and day out, he would never understand. He rolled off the couch and reached for his boots. Velma was supposed to help him out today, but after last night, who knew? Pre-kiss, she had not only created a color-coded spreadsheet of all that still needed to be done for each of his brides, but she had also organized a calendar of individual items to be confirmed and had cross-referenced each of them to the wedding date, venue, and theme. Then she’d printed everything and tucked the pages in bound, laminated covers.
He loved it. Even if he did give her hell about it.
His only regret was not begging for her help earlier.
“How’s the life of Denver’s finest wedding planner?” Jase asked.
“Bride Number Two propositioned me at her cake tasting last week.” Brek tied the long black laces on his boots. “Between the coconut cream and the chocolate decadence, she not-so-tactfully suggested we exchange bodily fluids. Her words, not mine.”
He hadn’t realized a person could choke on coconut cream.
“And since you have a hot roommate and decided to adopt a code of ethics, you didn’t jump at the chance?” Jase ran the tap to fill the coffee carafe with water. Apparently, he didn’t read articles like Velma did.
“I prefer to keep my dick out of other people’s relationships.” That and Brek’s one job over the next couple of months was to ensure every one of Aspen’s brides made it down the aisle, happily ever after. If he nailed one, Aspen would murder him in his sleep. He enjoyed life, so he’d declined. “Did you find out about those lilies Bride Number One wanted?”
“The orchids?” Jase clicked on the coffee maker.
“Sure.”
“Still working on it. Her old man’s gonna keel at the price tag.” Jase sat against the card table he used as a kitchen table.
Bride Number One, Sophie, had what could only be described as an “episode” when she learned the flowers she wanted were out of season and, therefore, cost twice as much. Tears and a substantial amount of wailing quickly ensued. Her father finally pitched in the extra cash to have Jase bring in whatever she wanted. Turned out she could live without out-of-season dahlias if she could ge
t exotic in-season orchids for the same price.
Brek ran a hand through his hair. “Make it happen. Whatever you’ve got to do.”
Jase opened the fridge, took a swig of milk from the container, and offered the jug to Brek.
Brek scowled. “Pour it in a glass. You’re not an animal.”
“The little piece you’re living with is rubbing off on you, isn’t she?” Jase grinned.
Last night, she had rubbed her tongue all over his. So, yeah, she’d rubbed off on him. “Don’t call her a ‘piece.’ Her name’s Velma.”
“Aw, you’ve got a case of feelings. Best cure for feelings is getting laid. Get on top of her to get over her, I always say.” Jase eyed the coffee as it dripped. “Bonus, you’ll have fun doing it.”
“Your advice is crap.” Brek grabbed his keys from the beer box Jase used as an end table.
“You’re welcome to the couch next time you and the missus have a falling out.” Jase moved closer to Brek, his arms wide. “You want to hug it out, Stud Muffin?”
“Asshole.” Brek frowned at his phone. Velma hadn’t texted or called. Not that he expected her to wonder where he went. Chelsea, however, had left five voice mails since she’d left him at the bar last night. Likely a variety of rants, chewing him out.
“Coffee before you face the morning after?” Jase held up a cup.
“Nope. I gotta run. I’m meeting a couple to discuss tablescapes and sample kah-naps.” Not his idea of a good time.
“Kah-naps?” The lines on Jase’s forehead squashed together.
Brek nodded. “Yeah.”
At least there would be food—even if they were presented in miniature. He’d tried a few the other day, and the ones with the apricot and cream cheese weren’t shit.
“What the fuck’s a kah-nap?”
That was exactly what Brek had said when he’d read Aspen’s e-mail with instructions for sampling them. “Small appetizers. They’re a thing.”
“Canapés?” Jase asked.
Brek tagged his wallet and tucked it into his back pocket. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Jase fell against the wall in a fit of laughter like they were in a comedy club. “You are so fucked.”
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 8
