She removed the lid, rooted through the white tissue paper, and paused. Eyes wide, she stood entirely too still. “Oh.” Her fingertips traced the fabric.
He’d seen the way her smile had fallen when Claire had talked about the dress. And the way she’d picked it right back up and played along, as though nothing were wrong.
“I noticed you looked a little sad when Claire talked about the changes she made. Figured the dress meant something to you.”
With Dean’s help, he had tracked down the lace from her grandmother’s dress and had it prepared so Velma could turn it into something later. He figured she might want to use it as a veil or whatever for her wedding.
Velma stayed still. Her expression unreadable.
And he’d fucked up.
Of course, she wouldn’t want chopped-up lace for her wedding dress. His heart clenched uncomfortably.
Her wedding. To a groom. A groom that would be a man. And, holy crap, the apartment started to spin because, fucking hell, he couldn’t let her wear her grandmother’s lace to marry a man who wasn’t him. Which meant…he was fucked.
Might as well hand her the wire strippers to attack his nuts now. Get it over with.
Her gaze never left the package. “Grammy’s lace,” she murmured, lifting the fabric and holding it against her chest.
His throat bobbed against emotions that seemed to mirror hers. He was turning into a total pansy. One with feelings and shit.
“Figured it’s important to you. Thought you could do something with it if you wanted, when you…you know…church bells and an aisle and all that.”
Had the room gotten hotter? He ran a finger along the collar of his tee. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “married” in her presence. It wasn’t like he was dropping on one knee right here, right now, asking her to be with him forever. Except he did want to be with her forever. But marriage? He never figured he would get married. He’d just get laid. A lot. Then he’d die a happy, happy man.
She nodded, still admiring the fabric, not meeting his eyes. He should probably go to her now. That was what a guy did when he realized he was in love with a woman. A woman holdin’ her fuckin’ wedding lace. The “Wedding March” seemed to play on repeat in his head. He yanked his hands from his jeans and tapped his thumbs on the counter.
He couldn’t go over there. Couldn’t make this a bigger deal. Not until he figured out what the hell to do about himself. And her. And them. Shit just got deep because he’d tracked down some old lace and let his guard down.
She carefully folded the fabric back into the box, tucked the tissue across it, and returned the lid. Still, she didn’t glance up.
The air in the room went thick. He should have opened his mouth. Said something. But he waited with a hope that she would speak first. Whatever came out of her mouth would probably made a fuck of a lot more sense than what would come out of his. At this point, if he started talking, he’d probably end up reciting some sonnet about love or other bullshit.
She hiccupped and held the back of her hand to her lips. Then her shoulders started to shake, and fuck him, she was crying. Two strides and he was on her side of the counter, wrapping her in his arms, letting her tears soak into his T-shirt. There were a lot of tears.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I thought you’d want it.” He’d really fucked the toaster on this one—presenting her grandmother’s wedding dress massacre all wrapped up in tissue and ribbon.Yeah, Brek. Great thinking.
She hiccupped, rubbing her nose against his shirt in the process. “It’s p-p-p-perfect.”
Okay. Clearly, he’d misread something. He sifted his hand through her hair, stopping at the base of her neck and stroking the soft skin there.
“I can’t b-b-believe you did this for me.”
So, she was happy? He scooped her up and walked to the sofa, shoving the white sacks with the red stars to the side. On his lap, she cuddled closer, and his dick, always the traitor, responded against her ass.
“Happy tears, then?” he asked against her forehead.
She leaned back and studied his face for a moment.
“The happiest.” She kissed him hard on the lips, using her tongue as she straddled his lap. Her lips were everywhere, the salt from her tears a contrast to the grapefruit lip balm she loved to wear.
His dick was so confused. Then again, so was he.
Her mouth stopped by his earlobe. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Salty tears and grapefruit on his lips, the scent of strawberries in the air, and Velma rubbing against his jeans—he was a lucky son of a bitch.
She sat back so they were nose to nose. “Jase wants me to do a proposal to take over the 401(k) management of all their employees at The Flower Pot. I have to meet his family, convince them to move their accounts to me. It could be a huge account.”
