“Velma Johnson. Will you marry me?”
“Always.” Velma held her left hand to him, and he slipped the ring over her knuckle.
It fit.
“There’s an inscription, too.” He squeezed her fingertips. “It’s short, ’cause Pops was bein’ cheap. But I’ll add somethin’ to it before the wedding.” He paused. “You really love me?”
She nodded, reaching a hand to the stubble of his cheek as he stood. “Yes.”
“I love you, too.” With everything he had.
She gnawed at her lip like she did when she got nervous. “Can I kiss you?”
All innocence. All Velma. All his.
“Fuck yes.” He leaned over her, catching her lips with his in an indecent kiss that involved liberal use of tongue. When he pulled away, they both were panting hard.
“I’m not wearin’ a tux, and we’re not having a big wedding. I’m thinking close family and friends. And chocolate cake with dark-chocolate frosting. I know white is supposed to mean purity, but I think we established in the coat closet of the country club that purity isn’t exactly our thing.” He ran his thumb over the apple of her cheek, his mouth close to hers.
“Are you going to be a total bridezilla?”
He thought for a long moment. “Fuck yeah. I think I’ve earned that right.”
She grinned against his lips. “I can live with that.”
Epilogue
Seven Months After Claire & Dean’s Wedding
“Brek?” Velma called, panic settling in her belly because there wasn’t a shoehorn in the world that would squeeze her swollen feet into the satin flats that matched her wedding gown. Her specially made, six-months-pregnant, maternity wedding gown.
She had been so upset when Brek had left, she’d forgot to take her birth control pills a few times. Whoops.
“What’s wrong?” Brek took three strides into their bedroom, lickety-split. He was already dressed for the ceremony—black jeans and a white button-up shirt. He stood firm on the no-tuxedo ultimatum. The truth was, as long as he stood at the end of the aisle, she didn’t care what he wore.
“My shoes won’t fit.” She fell backward onto their bed and rolled to her side. She could just stay here today and lounge in her bathrobe. No need for shoes or wedding gowns. “I knew we should’ve gotten married right away.”
“Waiting was your idea.” A half grin flashed across his lips. He smiled all the time, ever since the little line on the pregnancy test had turned into a plus sign in the stall of a Target bathroom.
Like she could have waited to get home to pee on the darn stick. But he was right, pushing pause on the wedding until after his tour had been her idea. One she now regretted.
The baby remained absolutely perfect and on schedule. Aside from an intense craving for green apple suckers at three a.m. and ankles that swelled to the size of softballs, Velma was fine, too.
“I knew I shouldn’t have eaten potato chips last night.” Salt was not her friend anymore.
Brek knelt at the end of the bed and compared the shoe to her foot. She already knew the laws of physics weren’t on her side today, because no way would she be wearing those darn things.
“Go barefoot. Your dress is long enough. No one will know.” His hands began doing magnificent massage things to the ball of her right foot.
Velma moaned and smacked the comforter. “I cannot get married barefoot in a bar. I have standards.”
Not as many as she used to have, but growth and all that nonsense.
Funny thing: Brek had bought Hank’s Bar when they’d gotten back to Denver. The acquisition was part of his plan to stay put and not have to travel so much. Though she really didn’t worry if he had to go on the road with his band. He’d already gotten his compass tattoo, and she never doubted he would find his way home.
“I’ll call Aspen. She’ll fix this.” He snagged Velma’s other foot and went to work on her toes. “She’ll send Ma to the store or something.”
Claire had agreed to stand up as witness for Velma today. Heather and Aspen, too. They’d spent loads of time together after Brek had returned to Denver. Velma had even helped a few times at events when Aspen was in a pinch. TheRosettearticle had done everything Aspen had hoped. She had a client waiting list three pages long.
