Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Read online

  Going Down on One Knee

  A Mile High Matched Novel, Book 1

  Christina Hovland

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2018 by Christina Hovland. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  For rights information, please contact:

  Prospect Agency

  551 Valley Road, PMB 377

  Upper Montclair, NJ 07043

  (718) 788-3217

  Holly Ingraham, Development Editor

  Michelle Hope, Copy Editor

  First Edition October 2018

  This one’s for Steve.

  (Then again, they all are.)

  Contents

  Praise for Christina Hovland

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  Rock Hard Cowboy

  Also by Christina Hovland

  About the Author

  Praise for Christina Hovland

  Going Down on One Knee

  “An utterly charming opposites-attract-story. Hovland perfectly balances simmering sexual tension with a surprising amount of emotion, and the stomach-flip-causing ending is the perfect example of why I read and love romance.”

  - New York Times Bestselling Author, Lauren Layne

  The Honeymoon Trap

  "The Honeymoon Trap is adorable, clever, funny—in short, completely charming." - Serena Bell, USA Today bestselling author of Do Over

  Chapter One

  The Countdown Begins

  Three words. Three. Little. Words. Nothing important.

  Okay, so the three words were important. Massive, really.

  “Congratulations, you two,” Velma Johnson rehearsed aloud to the vase of a dozen yellow roses gripped in her arms. With a reaffirming gulp of Denver’s crisp spring air, she hustled through the open-air parking garage to the security door of her apartment building.

  Her sister, Claire, had big news. To be exact, Claire and her boyfriend, Dean, had big news. Velma had a feeling she knew exactly what their news would be—they were moving in together. The next step in their relationship. Tension in Velma’s neck strung tight at the thought.

  A successful career and a posh apartment she could eventually rent out as an investment were steps one and two of Velma’s elaborate five-year plan. She had ticked both those boxes. Dean, three kids, and moving to a two-story house just outside of Denver had been steps three through seven.

  Not anymore. Now, her sister was moving in with the man Velma had crushed on for years. The one Velma measured all others against. The one she sang Prince and Madonna songs with at the office.

  Yes, they were moving in together. That’s why Claire had called yesterday and asked to take her to dinner. Velma had insisted they meet at her place instead. Her invitation had nothing to do with the fact she liked having Dean visit her apartment—even if he was with her sister. She’d offered because it made sense they’d want a private location for their big reveal. And when the announcement came that they’d be embracing that next relationship milestone…well, being on her home turf sounded pretty darn appealing.

  Just as she reached the security door, the sound of a motorcycle that clearly had no muffler cut through her thoughts. She turned. The bike pulled up next to her car—into the parking spot meant for her guests. A super-muscled, badass-mother-trucker of a biker swung his leg over the side of the motorcycle and stood.

  Her heart stopped with a thunk.

  Vin-Diesel-biker-dude pulled off his helmet and—sweet mother of Mary, had the temperature jumped by ten degrees? She got the picture: he rode a motorcycle, hit the gym twice a day. The type she avoided because she did not do badass. She preferred the suspenders-and-slacks kind of man. Except, at that moment, she debated how important that preference really was to her.

  Focus, Velma. Head held high, she approached him. “Excuse me? Sir? You can’t park there.”

  He frowned at the number marking the spot.

  Normally she wouldn’t mind sharing the space, but with Claire, Dean, and his friend Brek coming to dinner, she needed both of her parking spaces.

  This man was obviously not Dean’s friend. Dean’s friends were all buttoned-up, suit-wearing, Wednesday-afternoon golfers. She was nearly certain.

  The black leather jacket and jeans ripped at this guy’s knees looked horribly out of place next to her Prius. His longish, rock-’n’-roll blond hair was nicer than hers (although his could use a trim). She didn’t even mind the dragon tattoo creeping around the side of his neck or the layer of mud coating his motorcycle boots. Everything about the man screamed masculine.

  Velma shifted the heavy vase in her grip. Fudge. Which of her neighbors was letting their guests use her spot this time?

  “No, see, that’s the spot for my apartment.” Oh, how she wanted to rub at the headache pulsing at her forehead. She didn’t have time for this. Not today. “I’m sorry, it’s just that my sister and her boyfriend and his friend are coming for dinner because my sister has big news. And while I have no idea what that news is, it’s important to her. So that makes it important to me. Which is why I put on a pork roast, bought roses, and got out my crystal wine goblets. That’s what you do when your sister has big news, you know? Never mind she’s practically living my five-year plan without even trying, and I’m over here without even a boyfriend. That was not part of my plan. At this point, I should be at least six months into dating my future husband.”

  Oh God. She was rambling. And he was staring at her with a half grin that made her skin flush. Seriously, the way the man smiled should be outlawed.

  She ducked her head. “Anyway, I have company coming and I kind of need my spot.”

  “Five-year plan?” he asked. As though that was the important part of what she’d just spit out.

  This is how one makes an absolute idiot of oneself. “You know what? It’s fine. You can stay right there. Don’t worry about it.” She shifted the flowers again and turned on her heel.

  See? People said she was inflexible, but here she was, absolutely rolling with it. She smiled at her flexibility.

  “One sec,” Motorcycle Dude called. “This is the number they gave me.”

  She paused midstride and turned around.

  He ticked his head to the side. “Velvet?”

  Oh dear. She could easily be swayed by the gravelly way he said her name. Well, the nickname her family called her—despite her repeated cease-and-desist requests.

  “Um, yes?” She gripped the glass vase harder with her c
lammy hands.

  “Brek.” He looked at her like she should know him and pointed to his chest. “Dean’s friend.”

  Velma stared.

  Oh.

  This was Brek? She’d expected him to wear khaki pants and drive a Camry. He reached into one of his saddlebags and held up a six-pack of Coors and a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes fuzzy-navel-flavored wine coolers. “Claire asked me to bring the beer and wine, since I’m crashing your party.”

  Wine coolers? She stared some more. Be flexible, she reminded herself. Flexible. Flexible. Flexible.

  “Great. Fuzzy navel pairs perfectly with pork roast.” Cheeks burning and arms full, she managed to open the security door.

  “So, you’re Claire’s sister?” His lazy gaze trailed over her.

  “The one and only.”

  His deep-blue eyes rivaled the color of the razzleberry lollipops she loved. The kind that made her mouth water just thinking about them and… Focus, Velma.

  “Can I come up, Velvet?” His deep voice held a subtle hint of roughness.

  “Velma,” she corrected. “You’re a little early. I’m so behind. Normally, I’m much more together.”

  “I can come back later.” Brek’s eyes softened, totally contrary to his outer badassery.

  “No. I am officially the queen of flexibility. It’s not a problem.”

  He did the darn grin thing again. She silently instructed her body to ignore it.

  “Queen of flexibility. That ought to be interesting,” he mumbled mostly to himself but loud enough for her to hear. He stepped next to her, balanced the beer and “wine” against the impressive muscles of one arm, and slid the vase she carried into the crook of his other arm.

  “Thanks.” This time it was her turn to mumble.

  Without looking back, she led him up the stairs to her apartment. Another glance his way, and she’d probably trip face-first into the wall or something equally embarrassing. To prevent herself from taking another peek, she focused on sticking the key in the keyhole of her apartment door as though it took every ounce of her concentration.

  There. The door swung open. He stepped through the doorframe, close enough for her to catch the scent of leather and Irish Spring soap. Close enough for her to reach out and touch the stubble running over his jawline. Close enough for her to—she shook her head to dislodge the abrupt light-headedness.

  “This place is huge.” With a long whistle, he set everything down on her dining room table.

  Vaulted ceilings, open concept, white walls and sofa, with pops of jewel tones in her carefully selected décor; it must all appear so unnecessary to a guy like him. But these were her things, proof of everything she had worked so hard to achieve.

  Brek walked into the kitchen and glanced to the slow cooker on the counter. “This smells amazing, Velvet. You a chef?”

  “Velma,” she corrected him again, slipping on an apron with the words Domestic Diva embroidered on the front. “And no, I just like to cook.”

  Velma took in the dinner she’d spent the afternoon planning and preparing. Vegetables had been roasted in the oven, and a chocolate cream pie was setting in the fridge. Not the pudding kind, either. A real, honest-to-goodness, made-from-whipping-cream-and-two-kinds-of-chocolate pie. She hoped she could eat those leftovers while she binge-watched Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals later.

  “Then what do you do, Velma?” His emphasis on the last syllable made her wish her name wasn’t so frumpy.

  “For employment?” she asked.

  “Yeah…or pleasure.”

  The expression on his face and the way he drew out the word “pleasure” made her toes curl in her sandals.

  Right, employment. He’d asked about her work.

  “I’m a financial planner,” she replied.

  Brek rubbed his hands together. “Like Dean?”

  “Yup.” She and Dean had worked together for years. “Our offices are across the hall from each other. That’s how Dean met Claire.” Claire had come to visit Velma at work and had wandered into Dean’s office by accident.

  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 ha
ted 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.

  “No idea.” Except she was absolutely certain they were taking the next step in their relationship by moving in together, and maybe getting a puppy.

  Brek popped the top on a Coors. “I figured you and Claire shared everything.”

  “Nope.” Not this time. “Claire just said she has big news.”

  “Maybe she’s knocked up,” Brek suggested.

  Velma’s heart skipped five beats. She grabbed a knife and sliced into an onion with renewed energy. “No way.”

  “I don’t know.” He ran a palm over the back of his neck. “Seems reasonable to me.”

  “Then you don’t know Claire. She’s way too involved in her career to get pregnant right now.” Velma set the onions aside and went to work on chopping carrots to top the salad.

  Brek motioned to the cutting board. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Do you know how to julienne carrots?” Velma replied.

  “Nope.” He shrugged. “But I know how to cook a steak.”

  She laughed. “Well, tonight it’s pork roast, so I’ll have to take a rain check on your culinary skills.”

  “Absolutely. Next time I’m in town, I’ll grill you up a steak.” He raised his beer to her.

  She stared at him. He couldn’t actually be serious.