Maybe she wasthe 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’reon 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.”
