Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3

by Christina Hovland

  “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?”

  “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 Harley.”

  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.”