“That is a lot of responsibility to put on a cake, Mom.” Velma flipped through the flavor menu. Perhaps they’d just narrowed their choices too far. Cookies ’n’ cream looked yummy.
Dean helped himself to another sample. “Vanilla’s not dull when it’s done right.”
Oh.
Well, lucky Claire.
Velma tossed Brek a look. He was holding back a laugh.
She held the menu for him to see and whispered, “I like the cookies one. What do you suppose that means?”
Brek’s breath whispered across her cheek. “Whatever you think it does.”
She shivered.
“Tell Eli about your work, Velvet,” Dad said around a bite of confetti cake. “He’s a chef, did you know that?”
“I did, his artichoke dip is really good.”
“Ah, so you’ve had his dip. That’s lovely.” Her mother looked between Eli and Velma and gave her dad a knowing look.
“Velvet is a financial planner. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Her father was ready to lay it on thick, she could feel it.
“No one wants to hear about me. Today’s about cake.” She lifted her fork. “Yum!”
“Nonsense.” Her father wrapped an arm over her mother’s shoulder. “We couldn’t be prouder of both our girls. Velvet’s made a name for herself in Denver. Works with all the high-up mucky-mucks and all that. All the big names. She handles their accounts. Don’t you, dear?”
“You’re embarrassing her, Walter.” Mom loaded Dad’s plate with another sample of the sprinkle-filled confection. “Have more confetti cake.”
“Oh yes. That one’s my favorite.” He shoveled it into his mouth like a man who hadn’t had cake in a decade. Which, Velma knew, given his sweet tooth, was not true.
“I thought you liked the lemon one?” She didn’t want to think about her parents being into confetti cake. She glared at Brek. This innuendo was all his fault, putting thoughts of what cake might mean in her head.
“Not a fan of lemon.” Her father hadn’t touched the lemon sample Maggie had added to his plate. “You’ll really like our Velvet, Eli. She’s quite the catch. Doesn’t ask for anything. Always self-sufficient. She put herself though school, got herself a mortgage. Now, Claire. That’s another story.”
Gah. Her father had to stop. Claire had enjoyed her twenties, and her parents hadn’t let her live it down.
“We’re just pleased as punch she’s found Dean so she’ll settle down—”
“Dad,” Velma said, lowering her voice in warning.
“Walter. Knock it off.” Velma’s mother poked at her samples with a fork.
“Velma’s funny, too,” Brek added. “And she can cook.”
Aw. He thought she was funny?
“Indeed.” Her father beamed. “Indeed. Indeed.”
“You two aren’t shoving cake in each other’s faces, are you?” Velma’s mother asked the bride and groom.
No, of course they weren’t. This was Dean and Claire.
“Isn’t that the point of getting married?” Brek asked.
Velma kicked his leg under the table. “They’re not doing the cake thing.”
“Claire is in charge of the shoving of the cake. If she wants to do it, I’ll play along.” Dean was totally serious. “Do you think Maggie could make purple vanilla cake?”
