“I mean if they’re going for a ‘Purple Rain’ theme, you could do lots of things that are purple and drippy. Grape juice. Purple popsicles. Jell-O.”
“Grape juice might stain.” Pam ran her finger around the rim of her glass.
“V, even I know grape juice and other…purple, drippy things…is a horrible idea.” Brek gave her a look like she’d suggested they tie-dye puppies.
“I’m not the one who came up with the theme.” Velma shrugged.
She could appreciate that her sister wanted a nontraditional wedding, but she wouldn’t choose that for her nuptials. That event would be classic elegance—red roses, her grandmother’s white wedding dress, a string quartet, Dom Pérignon, and three hundred of her closest friends, colleagues, and clients.
Now she just needed a groom.
Chapter Six
Velma gripped the metal handrail and slogged up the stairwell to her apartment. Brek’s mom had worked fast and come through with a date for Velma in under three hours. The guy, Paul, was perfect on paper. In person? Not so much.
After a day of brainstorming wedding ideas for his brides with Brek, she’d met Paul for dinner. He was a handsome pediatrician who liked salsa dancing and fancy dinners at Brio. Yes, he was Dr. Perfect, down to his chiseled chin and well-manicured hands. They’d chatted about his long-term financial goals and insurance between appetizers and dinner.
Unfortunately, the chemistry piece Pam had mentioned that morning was disappointingly absent. As much as Velma enjoyed Paul’s company, it was like having dinner with her cousin. Nice, absolutely, but not in the maybe-we-could-make-babies-together way. When he held her hand, the whole thing was awkward and uncomfortable. No tingles or curiosity as to what lay under his starched white button-down shirt. Probably pale skin with a smattering of hair. Nothing like Brek’s menagerie of ink. She could get lost in his tattoos for days.
The fact that she was thinking about Brek’s tattoos on a date with Mr. Maybe Right was not okay. She didn’t even like tattoos. At least she hadn’t cared for them before she met Brek. Now, if she was honest with herself, she was on the fence about the whole ink thing. Needles were still the devil, and tattoos cost way too much money. But the way Brek wore them? Oy vey.
Thankfully, the hospital called Paul in for an emergency. The relief she experienced was absolutely unacceptable. He had asked if he could call her again. She said it probably wasn’t a good idea.
A lavender-scented bubble bath and perhaps a lobotomy were on the agenda for the night—something to help her get over her unhealthy infatuation with her roommate and back into her search for the future.
Key in hand, she walked along the beige carpeted hallway to her door. The television blared through the door of her apartment, sounding ominously like a frat party. She turned her key and hustled inside.
“Brek.” She set her purse on the kitchen table, which was almost completely covered with bowls of chips, casserole-style dip, pizzas, and an assortment of beer bottles.
Brek, Jase, Dean, and a guy she didn’t know were playing a video game, smashing cars into buildings. Clearly, her life had become part ofThe Twilight Zone—her perfect date having no attraction whatsoever and the hot-guy brigade making messes in her living room.
She glanced from the debris surrounding them to the fireplace. What the heck? A new painting had been hung over the mantel. The colors were right for the room, but it was a canvas print of a pigeon wearing a ruffled lace ascot. The bird was positioned as though sitting for a traditional portrait with a captain’s hat on his head and an old-style mariner jacket. The painting looked like something found on the ceiling of one of those kitschy restaurants with all the flair. Definitely not living room artwork.
“Brek.” She tried again, but Jase let out a “whoop” as she spoke. Brek didn’t hear her.
She stood in front of the television, hands on her pencil-skirt-covered hips. The boys grumbled in unison. One of them paused the game.
“Hey, Velma.” Dean lounged on her couch, his controller in hand.
“Everything okay, V?” Brek grabbed the remote control from Jase.
“Fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just really loud, the apartment’s a wreck, and there’s a strange picture over the mantel.” She pointed to the portrait.
“Figured it’d brighten up the place. Add character.” Brek grinned a sly smile that made her knees and her heart all wobbly.
See? Why couldn’t she have this reaction to the pediatrician?
“You’re home early. Grab a beer and try some of Eli’s chips ’n’ dip and pizza. He’s an artist in the kitchen. We let him hang out sometimes, though that decision is presently being questioned due to his inability to keep his virtual car on the road.”
“Bullshit. They adore my wit and humor,” Eli said, deadpan, as he crossed his tennis-shoe-covered feet on her Ethan Allen ottoman.
“Eli?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows in response. His grin could only be described as wicked. Women probably threw their panties at him regularly to see that little bit of a lip twitch.
“Take your shoes off my furniture, please?”
Without shifting his gaze from hers, Eli slipped off his tennis shoes and dropped his sock-covered feet back on the furniture.
