“We just want it to be memorable.” Sophie smiled enthusiastically.
If it went anything like the previous version, it would definitely be memorable.
Brek glanced to Velma and raised his eyebrows. “How many guests?”
“No guests. No bridal party, either. Something special for just us.” Troy wrapped his arm around Sophie.
“Do you have a date in mind?” Brek’s phone buzzed, and he reached to his back pocket to silence it.
“We were thinking the middle of next week. Troy’s got some time off, and we don’t need it to be on the weekend since it’s just us.”
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Less than a week to plan a wedding. Impossible. Brek had to tell them it wasn’t possible.
“Got it. Do you need a dress?” Brek asked,nottelling them it was impossible.
“I still have my dress. It just needs to be cleaned. From the, ah…tree house,” Sophie replied.
“We’ll have it picked up. Troy, you good with your tux? We can send it for cleaning with the dress.” Brek could not be serious. So, they had a dress and a tux. They still needed flowers, and a minister, and a freaking location.
“Perfect,” Sophie replied.
“Great.” Brek clapped his hands together. “I’ll let you know where to be and when.”
Velma sat still, lips parted in shock. How could they plan a wedding with just that? They needed ideas for flowers and location. With less than a week, there wouldn’t be many options.
“I’m going to run and get my notepad.” Velma hopped up, scooted down the hallway, snatched her stuff, and turned on her heel to hurry back to the reception area, wobbling only slightly on her heels.
No one was there. She glanced out the window.
Sophie and Troy were already at their car in the parking lot, chatting it up with Brek. He leaned against the passenger door of a black sedan, arms folded across his chest, a huge smile on his face.
Velma let out a long breath. She hugged the notepad to her chest and stepped out into Denver’s latest heat wave. Beads of sweat immediately formed along her tense neck. The scent of French fries from a fast-food place nearby permeated the air. A delivery truck on the street blared its horn when the car in front of it slowed to turn into the pay-by-the-hour parking garage across the street.
“See you next week, Velma,” Sophie hollered as she climbed into the black Lincoln sedan.
Velma gave a small, shocked wave. Brek shook Troy’s hand before heading in Velma’s direction. He tipped his sunglasses and smiled at her. He had no right to be that attractive when she was annoyed with him. Troy turned on the car and pulled out of the lot.
“How are you going to plan a wedding without any information?” Velma looked up to Brek, who towered over her even when she wore heels.
“Got an idea,” he replied, holding the door.
The phone in his back pocket rang again. This time, he answered, leaning against the handle of the glass door as she passed through to the air-conditioned building.
“Eli, just the one I needed to talk to. I’ve got a wedding with a tight timetable. Thinkin’ we’ll do it like that time on Colfax… Nothing yet… About a week… Gonna need a bread truck, some of those orange cones you use in your parking lot, and…right...hold on.” He covered the phone with his hand and glanced to Velma. “You think you can get your grandpa to perform the ceremony without any of that counseling bullshit?”
Pops was a retired minister, and he was thrilled to perform Claire’s wedding. He probably wouldn’t like premarital counseling referred to in that way. But he loved performing weddings, so he would probably do it. “I can ask. I’m sure he will, but, Brek—”
“Got the minister, dress. Will talk to Jase about flowers. Still gotta figure out the photographer. We’ll need to be fast. In and out. You’ll handle the transportation? Yup. No police. I really don’t think anyone’s gonna call them this time.”
He paused, his forehead scrunched at whatever Eli said.
“Veal and tea cakes with the cucumber shit,” Brek replied and shoved his thumb against the off button.
“Planning a wedding takes time. You can’t do it in less than a week.” Velma slumped to the love seat and fell back against the cushions, knees together, ankles wide.
“Eh. We’ll make it happen.” He sat down next to her, squishing her against the armrest. Remarkably unconcerned. “Dang. We’ll need a cake. I’ll have to figure that out.”
If he wasn’t careful, he would end up making it worse. What if the whole thing blew up in his face? Shooting from the hip at this point was a horrible idea. Calculated effort. Careful preplanning. Those were needed now, not gut feelings.
