Velma flipped a pancake on the skillet and checked the tomato-bacon-spinach quiche in the oven.Not ready yet.
Zombies were so cool. It didn’t take much to understand the plot of Brek’s show. Zombies are bad, people aren’t always good, and when the world ends, you should stock up on bullets and find Rick Grimes. The date-from-heck last night had miraculously transformed into a nice evening at home with Brek. The whole thing was very domestic with a side of comfort she refused to formally acknowledge.
“Morning.” Brek emerged from the back hallway.
Oy vey. The man was wearing navy-blue boxers and nothing else.
She stared at the pattern on his arms, abs, and everywhere in between. The amount of ink he sported never ceased to amaze her. It must’ve hurt like the dickens getting all those tattoos. There really were a lot of them. The tribal doodles even led down to the waistband of his boxers, which led to his—
He cleared his throat. She jerked back to reality. She should probably make a new rule about requiring pants if she wanted to get anything done. Ever.
Velma stacked the pancakes and clicked off the burner. “I made extra if you want, and there’s a quiche in the oven. And, Brek…seriously, it’s cool if you don’t want to wear a shirt, but pants aren’t optional.”
She liked his chest. He could display it all he wanted. Truly, he could’ve been a model for one of those marble statues in Rome. Tourists would flock to see him.
He grunted. “Give me a minute to make some coffee before you lay in about dress codes.”
“I quit buying coffee and threw out what we had left. I read an article about how bad caffeine is, so I figured we wouldn’t keep it in the house anymore. There’s some tea in there, though.” She pointed at the cabinet to his left with the herbal loose leaf and the everyday mugs.
“You threw out the coffee?” His morning voice was rougher than usual, which she hadn’t thought possible until she heard it for herself.
“Uh-huh. Try the tea, though. It’s good for you.” She lifted her Saturday mug in a mock toast.
He stared at her, unresponsive, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“You shouldn’t put that in your body, anyway. The article said too much caffeine causes stomach problems and irritability.” It also mentioned insomnia and headaches. She’d given up the stuff a few days ago, and already she felt loads better. Not that her health had been bad before, but, you know, little steps, an ounce of prevention, and all that.
Brek opened the fridge and poured orange juice into a glass. “Know what makes me irritable?”
“Hmm?”
“You throwin’ out all the coffee.” He downed the juice.
Holy moly, the way the muscles of his throat pulsed as he swallowed. Mesmerizing. Then again, it’d be less mesmerizing if he put on some darn pants so she could concentrate.
“New rule,” she declared. “I’ll keep coffee on hand for you, if you wear pants when you’re outside of your bedroom.”
“I’m wearin’ shorts.” He raised his hands in illustration, which meant the boxers stretched over his thighs, the bulge in the center on display.
“That’s underwear,” she pointed out. Not literally. She didn’t point or anything. No need to draw more attention to his already on display bits o’ glory.
“You’re the fashion policeandthe beverage police?” he grumbled.
Before she could respond, the doorbell chimed the special new “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” theme she had programmed yesterday.
“You want to put on pants before I get that?”
“No.” He poured more juice, filling his cup up to the rim.
Good. Maybe the juice would raise his blood sugar so he wouldn’t be so grouchy. Velma checked the peephole—a woman dressed in a smart blue business suit, complete with coordinated low-heeled pumps, stood on the other side. The Dooney & Bourke purse on her shoulder matched her shoes. Curly, strawberry-blonde hair barely touched her shoulders. Velma pulled open the door. “Hello?”
“You must be Velma.” The woman quirked her head to the side. “I’m Brek’s mom. Pam.”
Well, huh. Pam seemed so…normal. How did a woman with a Dooney bag produce a biker son like Brek?
“Brek. Your mom’s here.” Velma moved to let her through. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Breckenridge Montgomery, where are your pants?” His mother admonished as she walked in the room.
