“I went back through and added everything I could think of that really matters. Then I updated the algorithm. You got a five thousand six hundred and ninety-two.” She squinted at the number as she read and traced the tip of her finger over the number highlighted in yellow. “You lost a few points for taking off and not telling anyone where to find you.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. He caught the bartender when he moved past and ordered a Jack on the rocks.
“Also, I talked to Wayne. Jase told me what he said to you. You’ll be happy to know my algorithm gave him a negative ten thousand. I showed him the spreadsheet, so he could see he doesn’t have a chance.”
Brek blinked quickly and snagged the report. “You showed the guy who wants in your pants a spreadsheet that details how many times I’ve made you come?”
Velma drew little circles on the bar with her fingertip, and a sly smile touched her lips. “I don’t think he’ll bother either of us anymore.”
Holy shit, Brek would have loved to be a fly on the wall when that had gone down.
“Also, I got inked.” Velma’s cheeks flushed.
“What?” He took the glass the bartender slid his way. She got a tat?
“Your lily...” The sleeve of her pink sweater dropped, and holy hell, she was serious. The lily he drew for her stretched across the skin of her shoulder, up toward the back of her neck. The artist had even included Brek’s signature.
She’d marked herself for him.
His blood heated, and his dick asked for permission to come out and play. Brek had never been more turned on by anything in his life. And given his experience with Velma’s tits on the couch, that said a lot.
He reached out and ran a fingertip along one of the petals. She winced.
He jerked his hand back. Fresh ink stung.
She considered him, her expression soft. “You should know, I also figured we should get married.”
He stilled. “Say again?”
“You know. Married. Like husband. Wife. Someday kids.” She shrugged but wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Velma Johnson, are you proposing to me?” He couldn’t help the grin playing on his mouth. Picture-perfect, little-miss-traditional proposing to him? In a bar?
“Well…yeah.” She lifted a shoulder. The one with his ink.
Yeah, he would marry her. Right there in the middle of the bar if she’d have him.
“You’re not on one knee,” he pointed out.
She grimaced. “Have you seen the floor in here?”
“This proposal wasn’t very well planned out.”
“The best things never are,” she said on a breath.
He cocked his head to the side. “Did you at least get me an engagement ring?”
She paled. “Um…no. I hadn’t figured…”
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he grabbed the box with her grandmother’s ring and set it in front of her. Pops had asked for it back if Brek didn’t intend use it, but Brek couldn’t bring himself to send it.
“Brek?” Her fingertips twitched as she weighed the box in her palm.
“Open it.” He took another swig to calm the sudden case of nerves tromping around in his stomach.
She flipped the lid up and gasped. Tears misted her eyes. “This is Gramma Velma’s.”
He lifted the band from the box, his fingers clunky and big against the thin band. Standing, he pushed his barstool back with the bottom of his foot. Then he got down on one knee. In a bar. For Velma.
