Velma stared.
Oh.
Thiswas Brek? She’d expected him to wear khaki pants and drive a Camry. He reached into one of his saddlebags and held up a six-pack of Coors and a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes fuzzy-navel-flavored wine coolers. “Claire asked me to bring the beer and wine, since I’m crashing your party.”
Wine coolers? She stared some more.Be flexible,she reminded herself.Flexible. Flexible. Flexible.
“Great. Fuzzy navel pairs perfectly with pork roast.” Cheeks burning and arms full, she managed to open the security door.
“So, you’re Claire’s sister?” His lazy gaze trailed over her.
“The one and only.”
His deep-blue eyes rivaled the color of the razzleberry lollipops she loved. The kind that made her mouth water just thinking about them and…Focus, Velma.
“Can I come up, Velvet?” His deep voice held a subtle hint of roughness.
“Velma,” she corrected. “You’re a little early. I’m so behind. Normally, I’m much more together.”
“I can come back later.” Brek’s eyes softened, totally contrary to his outer badassery.
“No. I am officially the queen of flexibility. It’s not a problem.”
He did the darn grin thing again. She silently instructed her body to ignore it.
“Queen of flexibility. That ought to be interesting,” he mumbled mostly to himself but loud enough for her to hear. He stepped next to her, balanced the beer and “wine” against the impressive muscles of one arm, and slid the vase she carried into the crook of his other arm.
“Thanks.” This time it was her turn to mumble.
Without looking back, she led him up the stairs to her apartment. Another glance his way, and she’d probably trip face-first into the wall or something equally embarrassing. To prevent herself from taking another peek, she focused on sticking the key in the keyhole of her apartment door as though it took every ounce of her concentration.
There. The door swung open. He stepped through the doorframe, close enough for her to catch the scent of leather and Irish Spring soap. Close enough for her to reach out and touch the stubble running over his jawline. Close enough for her to—she shook her head to dislodge the abrupt light-headedness.
“This place is huge.” With a long whistle, he set everything down on her dining room table.
Vaulted ceilings, open concept, white walls and sofa, with pops of jewel tones in her carefully selected décor; it must all appear so unnecessary to a guy like him. But these were her things, proof of everything she had worked so hard to achieve.
Brek walked into the kitchen and glanced to the slow cooker on the counter. “This smells amazing, Velvet. You a chef?”
“Velma,” she corrected him again, slipping on an apron with the wordsDomestic Divaembroidered on the front. “And no, I just like to cook.”
Velma took in the dinner she’d spent the afternoon planning and preparing. Vegetables had been roasted in the oven, and a chocolate cream pie was setting in the fridge. Not the pudding kind, either. A real, honest-to-goodness, made-from-whipping-cream-and-two-kinds-of-chocolate pie. She hoped she could eat those leftovers while she binge-watched Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals later.
“Then what do you do, Velma?” His emphasis on the last syllable made her wish her name wasn’t so frumpy.
“For employment?” she asked.
“Yeah…or pleasure.”
The expression on his face and the way he drew out the word “pleasure” made her toes curl in her sandals.
Right, employment. He’d asked about her work.
“I’m a financial planner,” she replied.
Brek rubbed his hands together. “Like Dean?”
“Yup.” She and Dean had worked together for years. “Our offices are across the hall from each other. That’s how Dean met Claire.” Claire had come to visit Velma at work and had wandered into Dean’s office by accident.
