That was the day Velma’s dream of becoming Mrs. Dean Stuart died—all because she had waited too long to make her move and lost her chance.
Mr. Right had met her sister and they’d ended up together, making kissy faces during Thanksgiving dinner.
Actually, they never made kissy faces. The two of them were much too classy for that.
Brek leaned his hip against her granite countertop and crossed his leather-covered arms. “No idea what Dean does at his job, either, but I’m sure you’re both fantastic at it.”
“We help people with their financial portfolios. Annuities, estate plans, investment management, things like that. What about you?”
“I’m in the music industry.” He snagged one of the crystal wine goblets she’d put out earlier and swaggered toward her.
Her stomach did a loop the loop. The swagger affected her more than expected. “You play in a band?”
“Nah. I play guitar, but not professionally. I manage a band.” He popped the top off a wine cooler and poured it all the way to the tippy top of the glass. Then he edged inside her personal-space bubble and handed her the glass.
“Thanks.” Normally, she didn’t drink much—especially on Sundays. Monday marked the start of the week, with new chances and opportunities. She preferred to start it at her best, not hung over with a headache.
Then again, tonight was the night of change. Big-news change. My-sister’s-moving-in-with-my-dream-man change. So Velma would have a wine cooler—no use in wasting it when Brek had already poured it—and ignore her attraction to Dean. Steps to a new life filled with…finding a new man who was as perfect for her as Dean was. Baby steps and all that.
Brek slipped off his jacket and tossed it over one of the island barstools. Tattoos ran from the short sleeves of his black T-shirt to his wrists. They looked tribal, mostly wild, and super-hot. If one liked tattoos. Which, she reminded herself, she did not.
“Claire says you two are twins?” Brek asked.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered around a gulp of carbonated peach drink.
“You and Claire don’t look like twins,” Brek said.
Velma pulled a stack of small, hand-painted dessert plates from her for-company-only dish cupboard. “We’re not identical.”
“No kidding,” he replied, serious. “It’s the eyes.”
Ha. Hardly just the eyes. Velma’s eyes were muted gray, like a painter had finished painting for the day and just didn’t feel like adding more cyan to the palette. Claire’s were a rich brown. More than that, Claire was thin and Velma, well…she was Velma. All curves, like her mother. No matter how many calories she counted or steps the app on her phone registered, the curves stayed put. Velma’s hair was dirty blonde. Not the attractive kind, either. In-desperate-need-of-highlights blonde was more like it. Claire’s hair was a beautiful deep-chestnut color.
“Why does Claire call you Velvet?” Brek asked.
She sighed and paused, plate in hand. “Family nickname. No matter how many times I ask them to stop.”
“Velma.” He seemed to be testing the name, letting it melt on his tongue like warm chocolate on a vanilla sundae.
“Not a name I’d lie about.” She set out the last of the plates on the table.
“I like it. It’s original.” The low, rumbly words made her lungs constrict in a warm way she refused to acknowledge.
“Unfortunately, it’s not even original.” She pulled a cutting board from the pantry. “Claire was born first, so she got the cool name. I was born three minutes later and got Velma.”
“It’s an interesting name.”
“Velma was my grandmother’s name. But there couldn’t be two of us in the same family, so they all call me Velvet.”
“I like Velvet,” he said.
She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t.”
When she was a child, everyone bought her clothes with cheap velvet fabric. They itched. She hated them. As far as she was concerned, velvet was scratchy and uncomfortable.
“This news. Any idea what it is?” Velma asked.
“You don’t know?” Brek replied.
