Yes, he was.
With traffic, he would barely make it on time to the party rental warehouse to meet with Bride Number One…and maybe Velma.
Brek was late by the time he got to the event warehouse off Colfax. He hurried through the entrance and headed straight for the showroom. Velma stood with the bride and the groom. A weight of stress rolled off of him at the sight of her.
Bride Number One held what he could only imagine was a dog—one of those teeny-tiny teacup canine things. A tornado of fluff and yap.
They all focused intently on one of the place settings Aspen had requested for the big tablescape decision. Sophie, the soon-to-be Mrs. Murtz, was a young, pretty, rich girl used to getting her way. Her groom? An aspiring junior partner at daddy’s law firm who had no clue what he was getting himself into.
The groom, Troy, studied a fork like it was engraved with Megan Fox’s personal phone number. Velma’s expression puckered in concentration at something Sophie said.
Velma’s white dress getup had an entirely too-high neckline, a skirt that brushed her calves, and a thin belt that cinched her waist, accentuating her ass nicely. One glance at her, and his pulse beat against his throat and lower in his—
“Brek, you made it.” Velma beamed at him, her expression covering the clear concern in her eyes. “I explained to Sophie and Troy about how bad traffic has been downtown today.”
“Yeah. Sorry, I got caught up.”
Velma hesitated for half a second before putting on that fake grin she liked so much.
He might’ve been pissed at her. But she was still V, and he was still Brek.
The future Mrs. Murtz didn’t glance up from the place settings. Her oblivious groom gave a little wave and set down the Megan Fox fork.
“We were discussing napkin rings.” Velma held up a gold one with thin silver wire twined through it.
He fuckin’ hated napkin rings. Fold the damn thing and lay it across the plate. Or, better yet, save everyone the trouble and wrap a paper napkin around some silverware.
Velma slipped the dog into his arms. The thing smelled like fancy perfume. The dog glanced up to him with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen on a canine, and son of a bitch, he was a goner. So, he liked the dog? It wasn’t that big of a deal.
“Hey there, little miss.” He tickled under her chin.
“Little dude,” Velma corrected. “He’s a boy.”
No way.
“His name is Buttercup.” Velma practically dared him to say something.
Brek tucked the little guy under his arm like a football. “What’d you come up with so far?”
Velma hesitated and glanced to Sophie, who, for the first time in his presence, went quiet.
“Sophie mentioned the flowers changed to orchids, so she’s feeling more of a tropical vibe now.” Velma’s attempt at cheerful didn’t work.
Brek let out a breath through his nose. Sophie was two weeks away from her big day at a mountain resort in Estes Park that Aspen had reserved over a year ago. How the hell would they make a log cabin tropical? Then again, given Sophie’s ability to pitch a fit, it wouldn’t shock him if she requested all the pine trees be uprooted at the resort so they could transplant palm trees.
“We’re brainstorming ideas.” Velma dropped the rings into a bowl.
“Tropical log cabin?” he asked Sophie, using his best you’re-a-bride-so-I-have-to-be-nice tone.
“Exactly.” Her face brightened. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Troy?” Brek asked her groom. “You okay with this?”
“Whatever she wants.” Troy shrugged and went back to investigating spoons.
“Could you get some of that grass thatch and cover the roof of the cabin? We could hire some of those hula dancers to perform at the reception. Maybe even roast a whole pig? Would your caterer do that?” Sophie was on a roll with ideas. Which would’ve been great—six months ago.
Brek held in the sigh threatening to spill out. Aspen had booked the band Sophie insisted on last fall, and Eli had spent the last month sourcing the ingredients for her extremely specific menu. “You don’t want the swordfish and grass-fed buffalo steaks anymore?”
She shrugged. “Buffalos aren’t tropical. Swordfish is still good, though.”
He pasted on his best attempt at a placating smile and scratched at his temple.
“It’s like Swiss Family Robinson in the mountains?” Velma piped in. “You could keep everything the same, but we have Jase add palm leaves to the table decorations and Eli can have the bartender add umbrellas to all the drinks?”
Sophie’s eyes went dreamy. “Champagne with little umbrellas?”
“We could even have a tree house. Everyone could take photos with it. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Velma was on a roll again. The kind that went right downhill.
The little dog squirmed in his arm. Yeah, he could relate. “There’s no way I can build a tree house that quickly.”
“Oh.” Velma pressed her teeth into her top lip.
“I think I want a tree house. It couldn’t be that hard to put together. It’s just wood.” Sophie worked her I’m-going-to-talk-to-daddy-about-this tone.
“Maybe we could just get some estimates. See if it’s even possible?” Velma suggested.
Fuck a duck. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
On no notice.
“This will be so amazing!” Sophie shrieked a shrill “eeek” sound. Troy grimaced.
Brek officially gave them three months before Troy filed for divorce.
“Why don’t you and Troy take a look at tablecloths. Velma and I will talk about the plan?” Brek suggested.
“You’re the best, Brek.” She snatched Buttercup away from him and made kissy noises at the dog’s face. “Isn’t he the best?”
“Of course he is.” Troy’s cell beeped as he spoke. He retrieved it from his pocket and scowled at the screen. Sophie, securely back in in her cocoon of happiness, pulled him behind her across the warehouse.
“Sorry about that.” Velma twirled another napkin ring on her finger, this one dark wood with burnt-on initials. “I didn’t think about how much work it would make for you.”
She slipped off the ring, and, damn, why did every movement she make feel like an erotic invitation to tango naked?
“Major party foul.” He growled. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” She swallowed hard.
Absolutely not. “Nope, but thanks for being here this morning.”
She paused. Took a deep breath. “I want to tell you… You’re right. I used to have a thing for Dean.”
This was not news to him. But it still made his heart shrink.
Her brows furrowed. “I never told anyone. Not even Claire. So, when they hooked up, what was I supposed to do?”
He did not want to discuss her infatuation with his friend. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, you’re right to say something. The thing is, I haven’t even really thought about Dean. Not since you moved in.”
Without breaking the thread of their gaze, he stepped toward her, boxing her in, and dropped his voice low. “That so?”
Her mouth opened slightly. “Yes.”
His blue jeans went two-sizes-too-small in the crotch.
“You want to reconsider how things went down last night?” He grinned his best smile. The one he generally reserved for picking up women.
“Your Jedi mind tricks don’t have power over me.” Her voice faltered.
He chuckled. Once again, her mouth said one thing, but her body betrayed her. “I guess we’ll see.”
“We should, uh, go help the bride and groom pick out their linens.” She pushed at his shoulder to get by.
Fuck, she was cute.
He planted his new motorcycle boots wider. “V, you can keep denying what’s going down between us. But we both feel it.”
She made an odd noise in the back of he
r throat. “I like you. But you’re my roommate and you’re Dean’s friend and—”
He cleared the anger from his vocal cords. “So, it still comes back to Dean?”
The world stopped spinning for an instant. Not enough to throw it off its axis but enough to throw him off his.
“No.” She shrugged her deflated shoulders. “Yes. I mean, it’s complicated.” Her face flushed, and she looked away to the porcelain serving bowls.
Apparently, the elaborate options for silverware held particular appeal to her as well.
His heart skipped several beats. “You said you didn’t think about him.”
She backed up. Her thighs bumped a frilly tablecloth and rattled the wineglasses. “I don’t. I haven’t. But you’re…you’re you.”
His throat went uncomfortably thick.
“I mean you’re not here permanently. You’re leaving soon. And while you’re here, we have to cohabitate. We can’t risk messing that up.”
“You’re shitting me.”
She stared him down. “I assure you, Brek. I’m not shitting you.”
He flinched at her choice of words. Cussing didn’t fit her. He wanted to shove the dirty word back into her mouth. “He on the fuckin’ spreadsheet?”
“Who?”
“Dean,” he clipped.
Her shoulders dropped further as she gripped the round table behind her, her knuckles matching the white lace. “He’s the reason I started the spreadsheet.”
Blood rushed in his temples. Now the universe was just screwing with him. “That so?”
What a clusterfuck.
“Brek!” Sophie squealed from across the warehouse. “I think we’ve found the linens.”
He ground his teeth together. “Be right there.”
“I’m sorry about all this.” Velma’s cheeks flushed. She smoothed her skirt. “You’ve got clients.”
“I’m not giving up on you.”
“Brek?” Sophie called again.
“I think we need to be done here.” Velma pushed past him, heading across the warehouse to their overbearing bride.
Velma was right about a lot. But she was wrong about this. They were not done. Not even close.
Chapter Nine
After surviving a tedious planning session with Sophie, Brek hopped on his bike. He rolled the tension from his shoulders. He needed a day of open road followed by a night of rock ’n’ roll. Unfortunately, he would have a day of cake tasting followed by a night of figuring out how the hell to create a Swiss Family Robinson tree house from swizzle sticks, coffee filters, and Elmer’s glue. Okay, there would be lumber involved, and possibly a chain saw. But the whole thing felt like an excercise in futility when Sophie would change her mind again in a week.
Brek stepped inside Jase’s flower shop. The metal cowbell Jase used to announce customers clunked heavily against the glass door, and an old Cyndi Lauper song played through the overhead speakers. Two glorious hours before he had to go meet up with Dean and Claire and shop for wedding cake. And he needed a beer.
Jase glanced up from clipping stems using brown-camouflage-patterned shears.
Eli apparently had the same idea as Brek. He already had his ass planted at Jase’s workstation shooting the shit and generally not dealing with the bridal crap that had enveloped Brek’s life.
Brek settled onto a stool across the table from Jase.
“Trouble in paradise?” Jase continued working on a vivid pink arrangement.
Brek grunted in reply. “Bride Number Two wants tulips tied to the pews with that tulle stuff. You think you can handle that?”
“That’s a negative.” Jase pulled on some of the petals on the flower in his hand.
“No. See. I say the bride wants tulips. You say okay.”
“Tulips won’t work on the pews. No water. They’ll go limper than a dick at the Shady Acres Retirement Home. I could rig up some vases, but she’s already over budget.”
Shit.
“Tell her to stick with roses,” Jase continued. “They’ll match her bouquet.”
Brek had a feeling that conversation would go about as well as any other conversation he’d had with brides lately.
“I’ll talk to her.” Not like it would do any good. “You two still coming to the cake tasting this afternoon?”
“Will there be cake?” Jase lifted his hand in a fist bump to Eli.
Eli met it. “There’s cake. We’re there.”
Claire and Dean had asked the entire wedding party to help them pick flavors. Jase was appointed as a groomsman, so he’d gotten the invite. Eli was in charge of the wedding catering, so he’d offered to attend, as well.
“So, Brek. Velma, huh? Serious?” Eli paced to the mini fridge Jase kept near the register and grabbed a beer.
“Not as serious as he’d like,” Jase mumbled, fluffing a white bud and slipping it into the vase.
“I see you’ve been chatting with G.I. Joe over there.” Brek snagged the beer from Eli’s hand as he walked by, sloshing a bit onto the rim. “Thanks, man.”
Eli glowered briefly and went back for another. “Not like you to chase a skirt.”
True, generally the skirts chased him. Velma, however, was not a typical skirt. She was a lady.
“She’s got an idea of her perfect guy.” Brek took a long pull of hops, Rocky Mountain water, and magic.
“Aw, c’mon. With your bone structure and witty personality? How can she resist?” Jase scooted a trash bin against the edge of the table.
“Ma’s trying to match her.” Brek’s index finger tapped a rhythm against the bottle. “Find her a guy who wears fingernail polish.”
Jase scraped the pile of flower debris into the trash bin. “Why the hell would she do that?”
“Velma’s got a type, apparently.” Brek grabbed his beer and stood to pace between the garden art and the potted plants. “And it’s not me.”
“Well, if you ask me, I say it’s better not to get tangled too tightly. Women are like grenades.” Jase pointed a finger at him. “They seem fine, sure. But one day, without warning, they’ll blow up your house.”
Brek sighed.
Eli popped the top off his Coors. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Rock stars to sober up?”
He did. But so far no one had needed bail money. His early morning call to Hans—his assistant manager, and his eyes and ears with the band at the moment—hadn’t been returned. He hoped that meant the boys had partied all night, and not that Hans was handling a crisis. “Yes. And yes.”
Eli tipped his head to the side like he always did before saying something profound. The guy didn’t talk much, but when he did, people generally listened. “I haven’t gotten to know Velma well. But in the two seconds we talked, she didn’t strike me as a booty call. She’s the kind you hand your balls to on a silver platter with a diamond ring.”
So, yeah, he was profoundly stupid today.
Brek would keep his balls for himself, but Velma had settled under his skin. He liked her there. Wanted to keep her close. For now.
Besides, there was more than enough time for them to get their kicks. By the wedding, they would both be ready to go their separate ways. She could return to searching for a weenie husband, and he would head back on the road for the Dimefront tour.
He only had to convince her that spending time with him could be a good thing.
“Try flowers,” Jase said.
Brek glanced to the bouquet in front of him. “What?”
“You want in her pants. Buy her flowers. Women dig ’em.” Jase pointed to his current project. “Not these. They’re sold. Other flowers. And ask her nicely.”
“You want me to give her a dozen roses and ask her nicely to drop her panties?” Brek’s pulse spiked, apparently on board with that idea.
Eli shrugged. “Always works for me.”
“This your latest way to drum up business?” Brek asked Jase.
“It works, and everybody wins. I usually start with a bouquet of lili
es and ask nicely. Very, very nicely. With extra tongue.” Jase moved his current creation to one of the walk-in coolers near the cash register.
“No one wants to hear where your tongue’s been,” Brek replied.
Jase removed an oversized bouquet of large white flowers. “Here.”
“What the hell are these?”
“Madonna lilies.” Jase laid the flowers on the table.
“Why lilies?”
Jase tied tissue paper with a bow. “Women like ’em. They mean purity.”
“Isn’t purity the opposite of what I’m goin’ for?”
“Reverse psychology.” Jase cut the ends of the ribbon and folded the edges of the tissue.
Brek crossed his arms. “You’re cracked.”
“They’re also pretty and they smell nice.” Jase lifted them to his nose and inhaled.
“Fine.” What the hell. Brek reached for them.
Jase rubbed his index finger and thumb together. Brek sighed and took out his wallet, dropping a hundred-dollar bill near the cash register.
The whole cake shop held the delicious scent of sugary sweets.
“There are a million flavors.” Velma glanced from the menu in her hand to the oversized art deco prints that hung on the teal walls. Cupcake-shaped chandeliers dangled from the ceiling over petite white tables throughout the tasting room.
“Five hundred.” Brek tapped his finger at the top of the menu where, sure enough, the writing announced five hundred flavors.
Velma gestured to several wedding cakes in an array of themes, from whimsical to traditional, decorating the counters along the walls. “How does this work?”
“Bride and groom pick five options before we get here. Maggie brings ’em out. We sample and then support the bride in her poor decision-making when she picks the wrong one.”
Brek rested his palm against Velma’s bare shoulder.
Brek seemed to like her sleeveless blouse; he had been more touchy-feely than ever. He’d even brought her flowers. Lilies were officially her new favorite.
He rubbed his hand over her elbow with a tender familiarity she wouldn’t allow herself to get used to. A trail of goose bumps followed his fingertips, igniting nerve endings throughout her body that had no business perking up in public.
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 9
