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

by Christina Hovland

  “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.”

  “I’m not cuddling with you.”

  He shrugged. “Your loss. You can help me fold invitations.”

  “What the heck happened to those?” Velma stared at the mess of gold-foiled cardstock he’d tied pink ribbons around earlier. Tried to tie ribbons around. His hands weren’t exactly made for ribbon tying. He’d come up with a sticker system that seemed to work okay. Forget about the tissue-paper envelopes they were supposed to slide into before the mailing envelopes. Who the hell needed two envelopes? Especially with thin-ass paper that wrinkled whenever he breathed?

  Her eyebrows fell together. “Are these Claire’s? They’re all crumpled.”

  So maybe a couple had suffered collateral damage while he figured shit out.

  Velma bit at her bottom lip. “Let me help.”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” He sauntered to the couch and flipped on the television. “And the show’s good. Way better than that crap you put on with dudes singing about their feelings.”

  “Musicals are cultured.” Frilly blanket over her lap, she made herself comfortable on the other side of the white leather sofa.

  “Eh.” Brek brought up the next episode. The start of the third season. “This, this is good stuff.”

  Stack of invitations in hand, she tied the silk around one without any issue.

  The damn paper didn’t crumple at all. “How’d you do that?”

  She held up the invitation in illustration. “It’s easy. You make a bunny ear, go over, go under, around, and through. See?”

  Fuckin’ serious? “I know how to tie my shoes, V. How’d you do it so easy? Around the card?”

  “Luck?” Apparently, it was no big deal to her.

  “You’re in charge of ribbons. I’ll put on the stamps.”

  “You’re not using the Love sta
mps?” She nodded to the stack of American flag stamps he’d picked up earlier.

  “What the fuck are Love stamps?”

  “They’re the stamps with hearts and they usually have ‘love’ written on them. They coordinate better. I’m pretty sure that’s what Claire wants.”

  The stamps he’d grabbed had Old Glory blowing in the wind. Fuck. Aspen’s notes said nothing about special stamps.

  “A stamp’s a stamp.” He stuck a stamp on the corner of an envelope. “They’re patriotic.”

  Velma didn’t look convinced.

  “You might want to make that a little straighter.” Velma reached for the stamp and peeled it off, repositioning it exactly where he’d put it before.

  “That’s how I had it.”

  “Yours was crooked.”

  The zombies on TV were more and more interesting. “You gonna yap the entire show?”

  “No. But don’t you want to put on a shirt?” She waved a hand at his bare chest.

  Sprawled out on the couch, he pressed more patriotism onto the froufrou envelopes. “I’m good. But if you’re uncomfortable, you can always take off your top. Won’t bother me.”

  A frustrated gurgling, gagging noise came from her throat. Still, she settled against the throw pillow beside her. Fuckin’ cute.

  “Velma?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What happened to that picture over the fireplace? The one with the pansy-ass dude dancing with the hot chick showin’ off her legs?”

  “Okay, one, that was a limited-edition Jack Vettriano signed print. Two, the dude was not pansy-ass. And three, the woman’s dress was appropriately modest for living room art.”

  Living room art had a modesty level?

  “Where’d it go?” he asked.

  Blanket readjusted, she continued, “I bought it as an investment a while back. I finally found a buyer for it.”

  They settled in and finished the invitations. One episode morphed into two, and two into three. She stretched out on her side and yawned. Turned out Velma liked zombies after all. She didn’t talk the whole way through the show, either.

  Her feet crept closer and closer to his cutoff-sweatpants-covered thigh. He took a breath and focused on the images on the television.

  This was not a date. Running his hand along her calves would probably land him out on his ass without a place to live.

  So, he refrained from touching her. Barely.

  Chapter Five

  Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 7 Weeks

  Velma flipped a pancake on the skillet and checked the tomato-bacon-spinach quiche in the oven. Not ready yet.

  Zombies were so cool. It didn’t take much to understand the plot of Brek’s show. Zombies are bad, people aren’t always good, and when the world ends, you should stock up on bullets and find Rick Grimes. The date-from-heck last night had miraculously transformed into a nice evening at home with Brek. The whole thing was very domestic with a side of comfort she refused to formally acknowledge.

  “Morning.” Brek emerged from the back hallway.

  Oy vey. The man was wearing navy-blue boxers and nothing else.

  She stared at the pattern on his arms, abs, and everywhere in between. The amount of ink he sported never ceased to amaze her. It must’ve hurt like the dickens getting all those tattoos. There really were a lot of them. The tribal doodles even led down to the waistband of his boxers, which led to his—

  He cleared his throat. She jerked back to reality. She should probably make a new rule about requiring pants if she wanted to get anything done. Ever.

  Velma stacked the pancakes and clicked off the burner. “I made extra if you want, and there’s a quiche in the oven. And, Brek…seriously, it’s cool if you don’t want to wear a shirt, but pants aren’t optional.”

  She liked his chest. He could display it all he wanted. Truly, he could’ve been a model for one of those marble statues in Rome. Tourists would flock to see him.

  He grunted. “Give me a minute to make some coffee before you lay in about dress codes.”

  “I quit buying coffee and threw out what we had left. I read an article about how bad caffeine is, so I figured we wouldn’t keep it in the house anymore. There’s some tea in there, though.” She pointed at the cabinet to his left with the herbal loose leaf and the everyday mugs.

  “You threw out the coffee?” His morning voice was rougher than usual, which she hadn’t thought possible until she heard it for herself.

  “Uh-huh. Try the tea, though. It’s good for you.” She lifted her Saturday mug in a mock toast.

  He stared at her, unresponsive, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  “You shouldn’t put that in your body, anyway. The article said too much caffeine causes stomach problems and irritability.” It also mentioned insomnia and headaches. She’d given up the stuff a few days ago, and already she felt loads better. Not that her health had been bad before, but, you know, little steps, an ounce of prevention, and all that.

  Brek opened the fridge and poured orange juice into a glass. “Know what makes me irritable?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You throwin’ out all the coffee.” He downed the juice.

  Holy moly, the way the muscles of his throat pulsed as he swallowed. Mesmerizing. Then again, it’d be less mesmerizing if he put on some darn pants so she could concentrate.

  “New rule,” she declared. “I’ll keep coffee on hand for you, if you wear pants when you’re outside of your bedroom.”

  “I’m wearin’ shorts.” He raised his hands in illustration, which meant the boxers stretched over his thighs, the bulge in the center on display.

  “That’s underwear,” she pointed out. Not literally. She didn’t point or anything. No need to draw more attention to his already on display bits o’ glory.

  “You’re the fashion police and the beverage police?” he grumbled.

  Before she could respond, the doorbell chimed the special new “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” theme she had programmed yesterday.

  “You want to put on pants before I get that?”

  “No.” He poured more juice, filling his cup up to the rim.

  Good. Maybe the juice would raise his blood sugar so he wouldn’t be so grouchy. Velma checked the peephole—a woman dressed in a smart blue business suit, complete with coordinated low-heeled pumps, stood on the other side. The Dooney & Bourke purse on her shoulder matched her shoes. Curly, strawberry-blonde hair barely touched her shoulders. Velma pulled open the door. “Hello?”

  “You must be Velma.” The woman quirked her head to the side. “I’m Brek’s mom. Pam.”

  Well, huh. Pam seemed so…normal. How did a woman with a Dooney bag produce a biker son like Brek?

  “Brek. Your mom’s here.” Velma moved to let her through. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Breckenridge Montgomery, where are your pants?” His mother admonished as she walked in the room.

  He scowled. “Ma, this is a surprise.”

  Velma shot him her best I-told-you-so look.

  “If you called your mother more often, I wouldn’t have to surprise you,” Pam replied.

  Brek had her blue eyes. They were as striking on her as on him.

  He crossed his arms. “We had lunch together yesterday. You hungry?” He grabbed a piece of bacon from the plate. “Velma made pancakes and some French thing.”

  “Quiche,” Velma corrected.

  Speaking of… Velma checked the quiche and tugged on two kitchen mitts in the same pattern as her paisley apron.

  “If you call it baked eggs, he’ll eat it.” Pam made herself comfortable on a barstool across the counter.

  “I made baked eggs.” Velma held up the pie plate and beamed at Brek.

  His eyes crinkled at the sides. “Mmm…eggs sound great. You know what goes great with eggs?” He waited a beat. “Coffee.”

  “Drink more juice, Brek. Get that blood sugar up to get rid of the crabbies.” Velma set the quiche on a black meta
l trivet.

  “I’d offer you coffee, Ma, but Velma threw it all out. Juice?”

  “Juice would be lovely. Why on earth would you throw out the coffee?” Pam asked.

  “She read a dissertation on the problems with caffeine,” Brek replied before Velma could answer. “Ma likes to learn stuff, too. You should tell her about it while I get dressed.”

  He grabbed another slice of bacon and left.

  “You want to hear about the article?” Velma asked Pam as she cut into the quiche and served up the pancakes.

  “Not if it means I won’t like coffee afterward.” Pam smiled politely and sipped at her juice. “How is the roommate situation?”

  “It’d be great if your son would wear pants more often.”

  Pam snorted an incredibly unladylike sound. “He’s a work in progress, that boy.”

  “Brek says you’re a matchmaker?” Velma asked.

  “Indeed I am. Are you seeing anyone?” Pam tilted her head to the side, clearly assessing Velma’s potential as a mate for one of her studs. Velma had been through every online dating site, been on blind dates, regular dates, everything—but she had never tried a matchmaker.

  “Ah, no. Not right now.” Velma pulled off her oven mitts and hung them on their hook beside the stove. “You know how hard it is to meet the right person.”

  “Velma’s got a system, though. You’d be impressed.” Brek had tugged on some jeans and a formfitting black T-shirt with a skull on the back and what she assumed was the name of a band on the front.

  “How does the match thing happen?” Velma moved her attention to Pam, away from Brek’s triceps.

  Brek groaned and loaded up his plate. “Why’d you have to go and ask that?”

  His mother sat taller. “It’s simple. I have a gut feeling when two people are meant to be together.” She glanced between Velma and Brek, her face going blank. “Always have. I made my first match when I was eight. I matched our golden retriever with the neighbor’s German shepherd. When I was in high school, I set up all my friends. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

  The spiel was clearly well rehearsed.

  “Ma’s got an excellent track record for getting couples engaged. Now, staying married? That’s a whole different story.”