“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 lilies 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.
“What are you doing?” She shifted her arm away.
“Warming you up.” He continued his exploration by massaging a pressure point at the base of her neck.
She swallowed a moan. “I’m fine.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying her declaration. The pads of his thumbs did things to her muscles that should probably be outlawed.
“We’re in public.” She didn’t need to look down to know her nipples had pebbled beneath her silk blouse. Air conditioning did that to a girl. Also, Brek’s hands working their magic. Not a whole lot she could do about either.
“No one’s here.” Brek’s breath whispered against her earlobe.
“Which flavors did they pick?” Velma shrugged off his hands.
He let them drop. “Chocolate, vanilla, lemon drop, coconut cream, and confetti cake.”
“Did they really ask for confetti cake for their wedding?” Velma asked.
“Yep.” Brek slipped the menu from Velma’s fingers and placed it on the counter. “I’ve got a theory about cake and marriage.”
Velma laughed, the sound uncomfortable to her ears. “I bet you’re going to tell me all about it.”
He shrugged. “You read articles. I have theories.”
“What’s your theory, then, Mr. Montgomery?” She flipped through a photo album filled with pictures of multi-tiered wedding confections.
“Vanilla? Boring. They’ll be divorced within a year,” he replied.
Sheesh. His body remained only millimeters from hers. The scent of him mingled deliciously with the frosting and carbs. She fixed her attention back on the album, shuffling through the pages.
“You still with me?” No touching, but the lack of contact was nearly as erotic as the neck massage.
“Chocolate?” The word was a tad squeaky.
He chuckled. “Passion. The marriage will be filled with it. Kitchen table. Washing mac
hine. Everywhere.”
“Like sex on the kitchen table?” He couldn’t be serious. That was highly unsanitary.
“All. The. Time.”
Oh.
“See now, lemon?” he continued. “They’ll hit their fiftieth wedding anniversary without issue.”
Lemon cake sounded lovely. Respectable. Not at all dirty. Lemon cake would be served at her wedding. Someday. When she found a groom. “And the…uh…confetti cake?”
“Means they’re swingers.”
The air weighed heavy against her. No way would her sister pick a swinger cake. “What about coconut cream?”
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Infection. Avoid that one.”
A laugh rattled her chest. She held the back of her hand to her lips.
His expression gentled. “Good to see you laugh, V.”
She fiddled with a plastic edge of the photo album.
His phone chimed. He glanced to the screen. “I’ve gotta take this.”
He strode outside, stopped at the picture window, and leaned against one of the pillars.
“You must be Velma?” a woman asked, hustling from the back room. She held a tray of cupcakes and set it down at a table near Velma.
Velma looked from Brek to the young, petite redhead with striking green eyes. “Yes. Hello.”
“I’m Maggie. Brek said you’d be helping him out today. I understand you’re the maid of honor?”
“That’s me.” Velma scooted the chairs out of the way as Maggie pushed two tables together.
“Hey, Maggie.” Brek reentered the room and tucked his phone into the pocket of his jeans. He dropped an air kiss on Maggie’s cheek.
An unreasonable sting of jealousy settled in the center of Velma’s chest.
“Brek.” Maggie’s eyes sparkled. “Always good to see you. Everything’s set. Let me know when your couple arrives. I’ve got a few projects in the back I need to wrap up. Nice to meet you, Velma.”
“You, too,” Velma replied, refusing to further acknowledge the possessive streak that had come over her.
Brek stared at the screen on his phone. His expression had gone tight.
“Everything okay?” Velma asked.
“Band problems.” He thumbed through his contacts.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you can figure out why my drummer wants to sell his drum set and move to Belgium. Or my lead singer wants to try out for a Food Network cooking show when we’ve got a tour starting soon. I knew things were too quiet. They need to be practicing and relaxing. Not threatening to jump ship.”
That was bad. “What are you gonna do?”
Brek cursed inventively under his breath. “I have no idea.”
“I am here for cake.” Jase’s announcement boomed through the little shop.
Eli stood beside him at the doorway. “Let’s do this.”
Where were Claire and Dean? Velma glanced to the parking lot. “We should probably wait for the bride and groom.”
“Alternatively, we could pick their flavor for them. Save them the trouble.” Jase sat at the table, apparently ready for his cake.
“They’re here.” Brek strode to the door and held it open for them.
Claire, Heather, their mom and dad, and Dean all hit the cake shop, ready for sugar.
So far, Claire preferred the coconut cake and Dean liked the vanilla. The motley crew of helpers sat around a table at Maggie’s bakery, helping Dean and Claire pick their final choices.
Brek didn’t seem to have an opinion, as long as they said, “I do.”
“Maybe we could do two tiers of each?” Claire suggested, wiping a stray smear of frosting from Dean’s lips with her thumb.
“As long as there’s vanilla, I don’t care.” Dean kissed the pad of Claire’s thumb.
Velma never would’ve pegged Dean as a vanilla guy—more of a vanilla with a chocolate swirl guy.
Dean whispered something to Claire. She grinned.
Velma looked away. That was what she wanted—someone to kiss the pad of her thumb when they ate cake. And smile at her the way Dean smiled at Claire. And whisper things that made her smile.
“Don’t you think vanilla’s a little dull for a wedding cake?” Velma’s mother asked as though she’d read Velma’s mind. “I mean, it’s your wedding. The cake should exemplify all you are as a couple.”
“That is a lot of responsibility to put on a cake, Mom.” Velma flipped through the flavor menu. Perhaps they’d just narrowed their choices too far. Cookies ’n’ cream looked yummy.
Dean helped himself to another sample. “Vanilla’s not dull when it’s done right.”
Oh.
Well, lucky Claire.
Velma tossed Brek a look. He was holding back a laugh.
She held the menu for him to see and whispered, “I like the cookies one. What do you suppose that means?”
Brek’s breath whispered across her cheek. “Whatever you think it does.”
She shivered.
“Tell Eli about your work, Velvet,” Dad said around a bite of confetti cake. “He’s a chef, did you know that?”
“I did, his artichoke dip is really good.”
“Ah, so you’ve had his dip. That’s lovely.” Her mother looked between Eli and Velma and gave her dad a knowing look.
“Velvet is a financial planner. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Her father was ready to lay it on thick, she could feel it.
“No one wants to hear about me. Today’s about cake.” She lifted her fork. “Yum!”
“Nonsense.” Her father wrapped an arm over her mother’s shoulder. “We couldn’t be prouder of both our girls. Velvet’s made a name for herself in Denver. Works with all the high-up mucky-mucks and all that. All the big names. She handles their accounts. Don’t you, dear?”
“You’re embarrassing her, Walter.” Mom loaded Dad’s plate with another sample of the sprinkle-filled confection. “Have more confetti cake.”
“Oh yes. That one’s my favorite.” He shoveled it into his mouth like a man who hadn’t had cake in a decade. Which, Velma knew, given his sweet tooth, was not true.
“I thought you liked the lemon one?” She didn’t want to think about her parents being into confetti cake. She glared at Brek. This innuendo was all his fault, putting thoughts of what cake might mean in her head.
“Not a fan of lemon.” Her father hadn’t touched the lemon sample Maggie had added to his plate. “You’ll really like our Velvet, Eli. She’s quite the catch. Doesn’t ask for anything. Always self-sufficient. She put herself though school, got herself a mortgage. Now, Claire. That’s another story.”
Gah. Her father had to stop. Claire had enjoyed her twenties, and her parents hadn’t let her live it down.
“We’re just pleased as punch she’s found Dean so she’ll settle down—”
“Dad,” Velma said, lowering her voice in warning.
“Walter. Knock it off.” Velma’s mother poked at her samples with a fork.
“Velma’s funny, too,” Brek added. “And she can cook.”
Aw. He thought she was funny?
“Indeed.” Her father beamed. “Indeed. Indeed.”
“You two aren’t shoving cake in each other’s faces, are you?” Velma’s mother asked the bride and groom.
No, of course they weren’t. This was Dean and Claire.
“Isn’t that the point of getting married?” Brek asked.
Velma kicked his leg under the table. “They’re not doing the cake thing.”
“Claire is in charge of the shoving of the cake. If she wants to do it, I’ll play along.” Dean was totally serious. “Do you think Maggie could make purple vanilla cake?”
“I bet she could. I wonder what that might mean, though? Hmm.” Velma pinched her lips together.
“I think I’ve created a monster.” Brek ran his boot gently over her calf.
Crud. That felt nice.
She absolutely would not consider how
nice it felt.
Like their kiss.
He caught her gaze. The moment stalled.
And she refused to let the feelings inside sink her.
Chapter Ten
Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 5 Weeks
Brek had crazy-ass rockers to manage, but first he had to deal with weddings. The first wedding. Sophie’s wedding. He’d built a fucking tree house for her. Well, he’d helped build the damn thing.
They’d transformed the outside of the Estes Park Community Church into a bridal venue that would make Aspen proud. He snapped a final picture and texted it to his sister. Maybe that would keep her off his case during the final prep.
The inside of the chapel wasn’t big enough for Sophie’s guests, so they set up a chapel outside with taffeta-covered fancy bamboo chairs, the makeshift tree house, and a pergola for the vows. Jase had decked everything out with the orchids-from-hell. The fact that Brek could now distinguish taffeta from silk and orchids from dahlias was a testament to the vise grip these brides had on his balls.
Velma trotted around the corner of the church with a cardboard box filled with chocolates. The dog-slash-ring-bearer trotted beside her in his miniature tuxedo.
Brek had her on dog babysitting and goldfish centerpiece duty. Also, hanging-around-to-keep-him-sane duty.
She’d found a source for goldfish centerpieces and Skittles for the champagne glasses. How her guy had both, Brek wasn’t gonna ask. Some things were better left unknown.
“The chocolates have arrived.” Velma set the box down on one of the chairs. Hands on hips, she took in the scene. “You did good.”
“Thanks.” He took the leash from her. The dog yapped and did a whole body shake in his tux. The damn thing couldn’t be comfortable, especially in this heat.
Aspen had told him to wear a tux. He’d told her hell-to-the-no. The best she was gonna get was black jeans and a collared shirt.
Velma’s getup matched his—black pencil skirt, white tank top thing, and one of her perpetual sweaters to match. Sweaters in the summer made no fuckin’ sense to him, even if they were thin. Then again, if she wore the thin sweater without the tank top underneath, he could be 100 percent on board with that fashion trend.
Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3 Page 10
