She glanced back up to where Brek stood at the mouth of the van. “Great. I think Brek can come, too.”
“Yeah. I’ll be there.” Arms crossed, he had that funny look on his face again. “Can’t miss breakfast.”
“Sure you’re okay?” She cocked her head to the side.
“Leave the boy alone, Velvet.” Pops pushed his hand to her back, propelling her toward her Prius.
She glanced over her shoulder to Brek. “See you at home?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Home. Breakfast. All that.”
Velma finished up at work and hit Nordstrom before she hurried back to the apartment. Her big plans for the evening involved candles, massage oil, and Brek naked.
She tossed the brown take-out bag with dinner on the table, along with a bouquet of hyacinths.
Brek lounged on the couch with his guitar, picking out the notes to one of her favorite country music songs.
She paused when he got to the chorus, her mouth dropping open. The music flowed through the room, and he caught her gaze and sang the rest to her.
Her whole being warmed. “Was that for me?”
“They all are, V.” He set the guitar aside and eyed her plastic dress bag warily. “Another dress for the big dinner?”
“The other one bunched. I don’t want to give the impression I don’t care about my appearance.” She let out a weighted sigh and draped the new outfit carefully over a chair. “And Jase said not to dress too formally, so I found a casual dress that doesn’t bunch.” She fiddled with the plastic film covering her new dress.
“V, seriously, you’re gonna do great. You could wear a paper sack, and they’d still love you. Or you could go without a shirt. That’s how I prefer you.” His eyes were soft. “You didn’t have to buy me flowers,” he said, his voice light.
“I believe they’re a you-were-right-and-I-was-wrong bouquet.’” She shook off all thoughts of tomorrow, plopped next to him on the sofa to peel off her red pumps, and stretched her toes against the rug.
“Wrong about what?”
“The wedding today. You were exceptionally romantic about everything, and I was wrong. You pulled it off.” She twisted to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Out of curiosity, when did you become such a romantic?”
“About eighth grade, when I realized chicks pay more attention to guys who do all that crap.” His eyebrows bunched as he moved a pencil over some paper.
“Exactly what kind of romantic ‘crap’ can an eighth-grade boy do?”
“Flowers and chocolates and paying attention to the shit girls say.”
He glanced at her then, and her insides melted. He didn’t need to do any of that when he could get a girl hot with just a look.
She shifted for a better glimpse of the sketch pad beside him. “What’s this?”
“Thinkin’ about a new tattoo.” He held up the drawing, and, holy goodness, it was really good—a charcoal sketch of a compass against an old-style map.
“That’s fantastic.” She ran a fingertip along the edge of the white linen paper. “Where will you put it?”
He tapped his right shoulder. “Thinkin’ here, next to the dragon. Bleed the two images together.”
“What does it mean? The compass?” He had cataloged his other tattoos for her one night after she’d asked. Each of them held special meaning. She hadn’t realized he did the artwork himself. There was so much they still had to learn about each other.
“Nothing, just an idea. We’ll see what happens with it. I drew you one, too.” He flipped the page, revealing a gorgeous pencil drawing of a lily.
“For me to get a tattoo?” He couldn’t be serious.
He studied the sketch. “Yeah, figured…maybe…eventually.”
“It’s reallybig. Don’t you think? Where would I put it?” She lay alongside him to rest her head against his arm.
