This man was obviously not Dean’s friend. Dean’s friends were all buttoned-up, suit-wearing, Wednesday-afternoon golfers. She was nearly certain.
The black leather jacket and jeans ripped at this guy’s knees looked horribly out of place next to her Prius. His longish, rock-’n’-roll blond hair was nicer than hers (although his could use a trim). She didn’t even mind the dragon tattoo creeping around the side of his neck or the layer of mud coating his motorcycle boots. Everything about the man screamed masculine.
Velma shifted the heavy vase in her grip. Fudge. Which of her neighbors was letting their guests use her spot this time?
“No, see, that’s the spot for my apartment.” Oh, how she wanted to rub at the headache pulsing at her forehead. She didn’t have time for this. Not today. “I’m sorry, it’s just that my sister and her boyfriend and his friend are coming for dinner because my sister has big news. And while I have no idea what that news is, it’s important to her. So that makes it important to me. Which is why I put on a pork roast, bought roses, and got out my crystal wine goblets. That’s what you do when your sister has big news, you know? Never mind she’s practically living my five-year plan without even trying, and I’m over here without even a boyfriend. That was not part of my plan. At this point, I should be at least six months into dating my future husband.”
Oh God. She was rambling. And he was staring at her with a half grin that made her skin flush. Seriously, the way the man smiled should be outlawed.
She ducked her head. “Anyway, I have company coming and I kind of need my spot.”
“Five-year plan?” he asked. As though that was the important part of what she’d just spit out.
This is how one makes an absolute idiot of oneself. “You know what? It’s fine. You can stay right there. Don’t worry about it.” She shifted the flowers again and turned on her heel.
See? People said she was inflexible, but here she was, absolutely rolling with it. She smiled at her flexibility.
“One sec,” Motorcycle Dude called. “This is the number they gave me.”
She paused midstride and turned around.
He ticked his head to the side. “Velvet?”
Oh dear. She could easily be swayed by the gravelly way he said her name. Well, the nickname her family called her—despite her repeated cease-and-desist requests.
“Um, yes?” She gripped the glass vase harder with her clammy hands.
“Brek.” He looked at her like she should know him and pointed to his chest. “Dean’s friend.”
Velma stared.
Oh.
This was Brek? She’d expected him to wear khaki pants and drive a Camry. He reached into one of his saddlebags and held up a six-pack of Coors and a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes fuzzy-navel-flavored wine coolers. “Claire asked me to bring the beer and wine, since I’m crashing your party.”
Wine coolers? She stared some more. Be flexible, she reminded herself. Flexible. Flexible. Flexible.
“Great. Fuzzy navel pairs perfectly with pork roast.” Cheeks burning and arms full, she managed to open the security door.
“So, you’re Claire’s sister?” His lazy gaze trailed over her.
“The one and only.”
His deep-blue eyes rivaled the color of the razzleberry lollipops she loved. The kind that made her mouth water just thinking about them and… Focus, Velma.
“Can I come up, Velvet?” His deep voice held a subtle hint of roughness.
“Velma,” she corrected. “You’re a little early. I’m so behind. Normally, I’m much more together.”
“I can come back later.” Brek’s eyes softened, totally contrary to his outer badassery.
“No. I am officially the queen of flexibility. It’s not a problem.”
He did the darn grin thing again. She silently instructed her body to ignore it.
“Queen of flexibility. That ought to be interesting,” he mumbled mostly to himself but loud enough for her to hear. He stepped next to her, balanced the beer and “wine” against the impressive muscles of one arm, and slid the vase she carried into the crook of his other arm.
“Thanks.” This time it was her turn to mumble.
Without looking back, she led him up the stairs to her apartment. Another glance his way, and she’d probably trip face-first into the wall or something equally embarrassing. To prevent herself from taking another peek, she focused on sticking the key in the keyhole of her apartment door as though it took every ounce of her concentration.
There. The door swung open. He stepped through the doorframe, close enough for her to catch the scent of leather and Irish Spring soap. Close enough for her to reach out and touch the stubble running over his jawline. Close enough for her to—she shook her head to dislodge the abrupt light-headedness.
“This place is huge.” With a long whistle, he set everything down on her dining room table.
Vaulted ceilings, open concept, white walls and sofa, with pops of jewel tones in her carefully selected décor; it must all appear so unnecessary to a guy like him. But these were her things, proof of everything she had worked so hard to achieve.
Brek walked into the kitchen and glanced to the slow cooker on the counter. “This smells amazing, Velvet. You a chef?”
“Velma,” she corrected him again, slipping on an apron with the words Domestic Diva embroidered on the front. “And no, I just like to cook.”
Velma took in the dinner she’d spent the afternoon planning and preparing. Vegetables had been roasted in the oven, and a chocolate cream pie was setting in the fridge. Not the pudding kind, either. A real, honest-to-goodness, made-from-whipping-cream-and-two-kinds-of-chocolate pie. She hoped she could eat those leftovers while she binge-watched Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals later.
“Then what do you do, Velma?” His emphasis on the last syllable made her wish her name wasn’t so frumpy.
“For employment?” she asked.
“Yeah…or pleasure.”
The expression on his face and the way he drew out the word “pleasure” made her toes curl in her sandals.
Right, employment. He’d asked about her work.
“I’m a financial planner,” she replied.
Brek rubbed his hands together. “Like Dean?”
“Yup.” She and Dean had worked together for years. “Our offices are across the hall from each other. That’s how Dean met Claire.” Claire had come to visit Velma at work and had wandered into Dean’s office by accident.
That was the day Velma’s dream of becoming Mrs. Dean Stuart died—all because she had waited too long to make her move and lost her chance.
Mr. Right had met her sister and they’d ended up together, making kissy faces during Thanksgiving dinner.
Actually, they never made kissy faces. The two of them were much too classy for that.
Brek leaned his hip against her granite countertop and crossed his leather-covered arms. “No idea what Dean does at his job, either, but I’m sure you’re both fantastic at it.”
“We help people with their financial portfolios. Annuities, estate plans, investment management, things like that. What about you?”
“I’m in the music industry.” He snagged one of the crystal wine goblets she’d put out earlier and swaggered toward her.
Her stomach did a loop the loop. The swagger affected her more than expected. “You play in a band?”
“Nah. I play guitar, but not professionally. I manage a band.” He popped the top off a wine cooler and poured it all the way to the tippy top of the glass. Then he edged inside her personal-space bubble and handed her the glass.
“Thanks.” Normally, she didn’t drink much—especially on Sundays. Monday marked the start of the week, with new chances and opportunities. She preferred to start it at her best, not hung over with a headache.
Then again, tonight was the night of change. Big-news change. My-sister’s-moving-in-with-my-dream-man change. So Velma would have a wine cooler—no use in wasting it w
hen Brek had already poured it—and ignore her attraction to Dean. Steps to a new life filled with…finding a new man who was as perfect for her as Dean was. Baby steps and all that.
Brek slipped off his jacket and tossed it over one of the island barstools. Tattoos ran from the short sleeves of his black T-shirt to his wrists. They looked tribal, mostly wild, and super-hot. If one liked tattoos. Which, she reminded herself, she did not.
“Claire says you two are twins?” Brek asked.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered around a gulp of carbonated peach drink.
“You and Claire don’t look like twins,” Brek said.
Velma pulled a stack of small, hand-painted dessert plates from her for-company-only dish cupboard. “We’re not identical.”
“No kidding,” he replied, serious. “It’s the eyes.”
Ha. Hardly just the eyes. Velma’s eyes were muted gray, like a painter had finished painting for the day and just didn’t feel like adding more cyan to the palette. Claire’s were a rich brown. More than that, Claire was thin and Velma, well…she was Velma. All curves, like her mother. No matter how many calories she counted or steps the app on her phone registered, the curves stayed put. Velma’s hair was dirty blonde. Not the attractive kind, either. In-desperate-need-of-highlights blonde was more like it. Claire’s hair was a beautiful deep-chestnut color.
“Why does Claire call you Velvet?” Brek asked.
She sighed and paused, plate in hand. “Family nickname. No matter how many times I ask them to stop.”
“Velma.” He seemed to be testing the name, letting it melt on his tongue like warm chocolate on a vanilla sundae.
“Not a name I’d lie about.” She set out the last of the plates on the table.
“I like it. It’s original.” The low, rumbly words made her lungs constrict in a warm way she refused to acknowledge.
“Unfortunately, it’s not even original.” She pulled a cutting board from the pantry. “Claire was born first, so she got the cool name. I was born three minutes later and got Velma.”
“It’s an interesting name.”
“Velma was my grandmother’s name. But there couldn’t be two of us in the same family, so they all call me Velvet.”
“I like Velvet,” he said.
She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t.”
When she was a child, everyone bought her clothes with cheap velvet fabric. They itched. She hated them. As far as she was concerned, velvet was scratchy and uncomfortable.
“This news. Any idea what it is?” Velma asked.
“You don’t know?” Brek replied.
“No idea.” Except she was absolutely certain they were taking the next step in their relationship by moving in together, and maybe getting a puppy.
Brek popped the top on a Coors. “I figured you and Claire shared everything.”
“Nope.” Not this time. “Claire just said she has big news.”
“Maybe she’s knocked up,” Brek suggested.
Velma’s heart skipped five beats. She grabbed a knife and sliced into an onion with renewed energy. “No way.”
“I don’t know.” He ran a palm over the back of his neck. “Seems reasonable to me.”
“Then you don’t know Claire. She’s way too involved in her career to get pregnant right now.” Velma set the onions aside and went to work on chopping carrots to top the salad.
Brek motioned to the cutting board. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Do you know how to julienne carrots?” Velma replied.
“Nope.” He shrugged. “But I know how to cook a steak.”
She laughed. “Well, tonight it’s pork roast, so I’ll have to take a rain check on your culinary skills.”
“Absolutely. Next time I’m in town, I’ll grill you up a steak.” He raised his beer to her.
She stared at him. He couldn’t actually be serious.
He was serious.
“Maybe they called us here because Dean needs a kidney?” he asked.
“He doesn’t need a kidney.” Although, Velma would probably give him one if needed. She had a remarkably hard time telling him no. “They’re probably just…” Say it out loud, Velma. She sighed. “Just moving in together.”
“Nah. They wouldn’t have dragged me here for that. Maybe their big news is they’re gonna try to hook us up.”
“You and me?” Velma pointed the knife at Brek, then back to herself.
Of all the options, that one was the most reasonable. And, yet, totally unreasonable. No way would Claire pair the two of them together.
“You said you don’t have a guy.” Brek’s tone turned serious.
Her body irrationally responded to his apparent interest with tingles.
“No.” Of course she didn’t have a guy.
She’d had lots of first dates lately.
“I get the feeling you need some help loosening up. Enjoy some time away from your five-year-husband-seeking plan. There’s a club downtown with a great band playing later. We should go.” Brek’s gaze raked over her.
His pointed interest was actually…nice. Still, there was no way she would go clubbing later. Brek wasn’t her type. Not only because of the tattoos or the extreme need for a licensed barber or his ripped jeans. No, it was more the general sense of unease he stirred within her. Also, it was Sunday. What kind of a club was open on a Sunday night? Definitely not one she should visit.
“You stressed about the dinner?” he asked.
“No,” she lied through her teeth.
“You’re stressed about the dinner,” he declared. “I get that, but there’s nothing to worry about.”
For a half second, she believed there was nothing to worry about. Truth was, there was always something to worry about. Starting with her clothes. She needed to change into something that wasn’t yoga pants before her sister arrived in what would undoubtedly be a perfect sundress.
“I’m only in town for a few days anyway,” he continued. “We’ll get through the part where Claire and Dean do the awkward you-two-should-get-to-know-each-other schtick. We’ll eat and then we’ll send them on their way. You don’t want to go to a club? That’s fine. I’ll stick around. What do you say, Velma?”
The way he said her name felt like silk against her skin. Silk was so much nicer than velvet.
She tried to tug off her apron, but her hair was stuck in the tie at the back of her neck. Crud. Another tug. Her hair was really stuck. “You want to go clubbing on a Sunday night?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded to where her hair was caught. “Need some help?”
“Yes, please.” She pressed her eyes closed.
He looped a finger under the little bow tying the apron at the back of her neck. His calloused fingertip traced the ribbon along her shoulder to the collar of her sweater, unraveling the knot of hair and sending little shivers along his path of exploration.
Maybe she could get away to the club for a little while. It wasn’t like she had better things to do. “Where is this cl—”
“Hey, Velvet.” Her sister, Claire, shoved open the front door. “Hi, Brek. You made it. Dean’s so excited you’re here.”
“Did you lose him?” Brek squeezed Velma’s shoulder.
A hit of sizzle deep in her belly echoed the motion of his touch.
“He’s parking the car.” Claire closed the door and sauntered to the kitchen with her svelte build and Audrey Hepburn grace. “Okay, I know I’ve made you wait. But…” Claire bit at the light-pink lipstick on her bottom lip. “Surprise!” She held out her fingers with a little jazz hand motion.
An engagement ring perched on the fourth finger of Claire’s left hand.
Velma’s heart skidded to her toes. She blinked hard. No, it couldn’t be.
A ring.
A wedding.
Satin and lace, champagne toasts and flower girls.
This wasn’t a puppy. And it was so much more than an apartment.
Velma reached for Claire’s hand, her th
roat constricting. “Oh my gosh.”
“I know, right?” Claire squeezed Velma’s fingers. “I had to tell you in person.”
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Velma said again, this time more slowly. She looked straight into Claire’s eyes and saw it—excitement and love for Dean. Happiness. Velma glued a grin onto her face. Her sister was happy. That was all that mattered. “Claire. It’s perfect.”
“I’m gonna go find Dean.” Brek caught Velma’s gaze and winked. “Now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Wait, you knew about this?” Velma asked.
“Hell yeah, I knew.” Brek opened the door. “Didn’t want to ruin Claire’s surprise, though.”
“So you asked me out instead?” Velma asked.
Claire scrunched up her forehead. “Brek asked you out? Like on a date?”
“Oh look, it’s Dean.” Brek feigned innocence as he held the door wide. “I’m officially saved by the groom.”
“She finally told her?” Dean strode inside and glanced to where Velma stood in a swirling vortex of time.
“Uh-huh.” Claire nodded, her eyes misted over.
A suit. Dean wore a tailored suit complete with shined cap-toed shoes and gold cuff links. Each black hair on his head lay precisely where it should. He was absolute perfection.
Velma swallowed the heaviness in her throat and tried to pretend it was from excitement for her sister.
“Well, then—hey, sis.” Dean strutted toward Velma and wrapped her in a hug. “Claire made me keep my mouth shut for a whole week.”
Velma’s insides did a little flutter that was totally unacceptable. Time moved at the speed of a sloth. Like watching a car accident happen in real time, when everything went slow and then fast again all at once. “You’ve been engaged for a week and didn’t say anything?”
They’d sat through a load of sales meetings. Two client lunches where he’d driven them both to the restaurant. He’d never given any indication he’d freaking proposed to her sister. They’d discussed retirement plans and supplemental income sources. He hadn’t mentioned anything that would’ve even whispered of proposal news.
“Believe me, it was hard keeping my mouth shut. Can you believe you’re going to be my little sister?” His breath brushed against the top of her head.
Take It Off the Menu Page 25
