Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3 Read online

  “Hush. My job is to help them find each other. What they do after that is up to them.”

  Velma topped off Pam’s juice.

  “You should ask Velma about her methods.” Brek pointed the tines of his fork at Velma.

  She glared at him.

  “Are you interested in finding a match?” Pam asked.

  “Here she goes. Hang on, Velma. You’re in for a ride.” Brek sat on the counter, his plate on his lap, bare Neanderthal feet dangling against her maple cabinets.

  “Tell me about yourself, Velma.” Pam removed a small spiral notebook and pen from her purse, poised to take notes.

  “Uh…” Velma started.

  “Don’t be nervous. I do this all the time. Start with your age. How old are you?” Pam asked.

  “Thirty.” Velma handed Brek the jar of real Vermont maple syrup.

  Pam scribbled something on the paper. “How do you usually meet men?”

  “Mostly online.”

  Pam tsked. “I’m not a fan of online. You can’t judge chemistry through a computer screen.”

  “That’s probably why you’ve had such bad luck.” Brek set the syrup aside. “Show her your spreadsheet. She’ll love it.”

  “I’m not showing anyone my spreadsheet.” Velma gave him her best attempt at a withering stare.

  He smiled at her in reply.

  “What spreadsheet?” Pam asked.

  “Velma’s got a program,” Brek said through a huge bite. “Ranks men on the diversity of their portfolios.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Velma clarified. “The whole thing is part of my five-year plan. I have a spreadsheet so I can compare all the things that are important to me in a man. Financial solvency is a part of that, but it’s a very small part. Personality is ranked much higher.”

  “How do you rank attraction on your spreadsheet?” Pam straightened, her full attention on Velma.

  “I haven’t gotten that far.” Velma cut into her pancake. “No one has gotten past the first stage of compatibility.”

  “Tell me, Velma. When you’re forty years old, sitting next to the man you’ve married, what do you want to feel?” Pam asked.

  Velma blinked hard at the idea of actually finding a partner who would stick through everything with her. “Happy. I’d like to feel happy.”

  “And you think a man with a diverse portfolio and manicured fingernails will make you happy?” Pam confirmed.

  Sheesh. This was like therapy. Deep therapy.

  “No. I just think having someone there to enjoy being happy with me would be nice,” Velma said softly.

  “You want a guy with manicured fingernails?” Brek paused as he mopped up the syrup from his plate with a pancake. He had abandoned the fork.

  “Of course she does,” Pam replied. “I don’t need to see her list to know that’s important to her.”

  “Velma, shoot your goals higher than a nitwit with nice fingernails and a pension. That’s all I’m sayin’.” Brek glanced to his mother. “You fix her up, make sure the jerk isn’t a total loser.”

  “Do you think you could really find someone for me?” Velma wiped at a nonexistent speck on the granite countertop with her fingers.

  “Would you ever consider…?” Pam glanced to Velma, then Brek, then back to Velma.

  “Brek? Like to date?” Velma looked to her roommate. Well, yeah, she’d considered him. All night long. But he wasn’t the kind of man who wanted forever. Not with someone like her.

  “Leave it alone, Ma,” Brek said on a growl.

  “A mother’s got a right to want her son happy, hasn’t she?” Pam raised her eyebrows, practically daring him to contradict.

  “I’m happy.” Brek grinned. “See?” He pointed at his smile.

  Pam smacked her palms together and ignored him. “I love a good challenge, Velma. Come to some of my mixers, fill out the paperwork, and I’ll see what I can come up with. It’s the least I can do since you’re taking care of my son.”

  “Mixers?” Velma asked.

  “Get-together events for singles. I screen everyone beforehand and make sure there’s a possibility of a match. Then you meet men and see if there’s chemistry—”

  “Without having to wonder if he’s a serial killer,” Brek finished for her.

  Pam glared at her son.

  Velma agreed with Brek. Serial killer status was good information to have on a potential match.

  He shrugged. “It’s the truth. Ma screens out all the serial killers and felons.”

  “Actually, I have a couple of nice girls I’d like you to meet, Brek.” Pam rummaged through her purse and retrieved a cell phone in a sleek black case. She swiped at the screen and held it up to her son.

  “I don’t want to meet nice girls. Thanks, though.” He didn’t even glance at the screen. “Don’t try to match me. I’m not staying in Denver.”

  “Matching people is what I do. And you, Son, need a match.” She thumbed through more photos and raised another at him.

  He continued to ignore her phone, turning instead to Velma. “Ma’s on a tear about finding me a wife.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re over thirty,” Pam said. “The time has come.”

  “What’s wrong with a wife?” Velma asked. Falling in love, marriage, family—it’d be wonderful.

  “What’s right with one? That’s the real question.”

  “I’ll crack him yet. We just haven’t found the right woman.” Pam slipped her phone back into her purse. “It’ll happen. Maybe you could bring Velma to the mixers?”

  “No.” Brek tossed his plate into the sink.

  Velma cleared her throat. He got the message and rinsed the plate off before putting it in the dishwasher.

  “Ma, what ideas do you have for a ‘Purple Rain’ wedding theme? I don’t want to bug Aspen, but I’m coming up empty. So far all I’ve got is lighting the ceremony with black lights.”

  Whatever the question, when it came to weddings, black lights were never the answer.

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Velma replied. “Some clothes become see-through under black light.”

  “Like I said, I figure I’ll start with a black light. Any other ideas?”

  He grinned his darn half smile. Her body responded with ridiculous tingles.

  “What if you had Jase hang purple tulips from the ceiling of the church, so it looks like it’s raining flowers? You could do that all the way down the aisle.” Velma abandoned her breakfast. She dipped her metal tea diffuser in and out of her cup, studying the tea leaves in the bottom. “And at the reception you could use purple candles and those big vase things, fill them with water, and dye the water with food coloring.”

  “Perhaps you should write this down.” Pam raised her eyebrows at Brek.

  He cocked his head at Velma. “What else you got in that noggin’ of yours?

  “What about a grape juice fountain?” Brainstorming was kind of fun.

  “Um.” Pam squinted toward Velma.

  “I mean if they’re going for a ‘Purple Rain’ theme, you could do lots of things that are purple and drippy. Grape juice. Purple popsicles. Jell-O.”

  “Grape juice might stain.” Pam ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

  “V, even I know grape juice and other…purple, drippy things…is a horrible idea.” Brek gave her a look like she’d suggested they tie-dye puppies.

  “I’m not the one who came up with the theme.” Velma shrugged.

  She could appreciate that her sister wanted a nontraditional wedding, but she wouldn’t choose that for her nuptials. That event would be classic elegance—red roses, her grandmother’s white wedding dress, a string quartet, Dom Pérignon, and three hundred of her closest friends, colleagues, and clients.

  Now she just needed a groom.

  Chapter Six

  Velma gripped the metal handrail and slogged up the stairwell to her apartment. Brek’s mom had worked fast and come through with a date for Velma in under three hours. T
he guy, Paul, was perfect on paper. In person? Not so much.

  After a day of brainstorming wedding ideas for his brides with Brek, she’d met Paul for dinner. He was a handsome pediatrician who liked salsa dancing and fancy dinners at Brio. Yes, he was Dr. Perfect, down to his chiseled chin and well-manicured hands. They’d chatted about his long-term financial goals and insurance between appetizers and dinner.

  Unfortunately, the chemistry piece Pam had mentioned that morning was disappointingly absent. As much as Velma enjoyed Paul’s company, it was like having dinner with her cousin. Nice, absolutely, but not in the maybe-we-could-make-babies-together way. When he held her hand, the whole thing was awkward and uncomfortable. No tingles or curiosity as to what lay under his starched white button-down shirt. Probably pale skin with a smattering of hair. Nothing like Brek’s menagerie of ink. She could get lost in his tattoos for days.

  The fact that she was thinking about Brek’s tattoos on a date with Mr. Maybe Right was not okay. She didn’t even like tattoos. At least she hadn’t cared for them before she met Brek. Now, if she was honest with herself, she was on the fence about the whole ink thing. Needles were still the devil, and tattoos cost way too much money. But the way Brek wore them? Oy vey.

  Thankfully, the hospital called Paul in for an emergency. The relief she experienced was absolutely unacceptable. He had asked if he could call her again. She said it probably wasn’t a good idea.

  A lavender-scented bubble bath and perhaps a lobotomy were on the agenda for the night—something to help her get over her unhealthy infatuation with her roommate and back into her search for the future.

  Key in hand, she walked along the beige carpeted hallway to her door. The television blared through the door of her apartment, sounding ominously like a frat party. She turned her key and hustled inside.

  “Brek.” She set her purse on the kitchen table, which was almost completely covered with bowls of chips, casserole-style dip, pizzas, and an assortment of beer bottles.

  Brek, Jase, Dean, and a guy she didn’t know were playing a video game, smashing cars into buildings. Clearly, her life had become part of The Twilight Zone—her perfect date having no attraction whatsoever and the hot-guy brigade making messes in her living room.

  She glanced from the debris surrounding them to the fireplace. What the heck? A new painting had been hung over the mantel. The colors were right for the room, but it was a canvas print of a pigeon wearing a ruffled lace ascot. The bird was positioned as though sitting for a traditional portrait with a captain’s hat on his head and an old-style mariner jacket. The painting looked like something found on the ceiling of one of those kitschy restaurants with all the flair. Definitely not living room artwork.

  “Brek.” She tried again, but Jase let out a “whoop” as she spoke. Brek didn’t hear her.

  She stood in front of the television, hands on her pencil-skirt-covered hips. The boys grumbled in unison. One of them paused the game.

  “Hey, Velma.” Dean lounged on her couch, his controller in hand.

  “Everything okay, V?” Brek grabbed the remote control from Jase.

  “Fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just really loud, the apartment’s a wreck, and there’s a strange picture over the mantel.” She pointed to the portrait.

  “Figured it’d brighten up the place. Add character.” Brek grinned a sly smile that made her knees and her heart all wobbly.

  See? Why couldn’t she have this reaction to the pediatrician?

  “You’re home early. Grab a beer and try some of Eli’s chips ’n’ dip and pizza. He’s an artist in the kitchen. We let him hang out sometimes, though that decision is presently being questioned due to his inability to keep his virtual car on the road.”

  “Bullshit. They adore my wit and humor,” Eli said, deadpan, as he crossed his tennis-shoe-covered feet on her Ethan Allen ottoman.

  “Eli?” she asked.

  He raised his eyebrows in response. His grin could only be described as wicked. Women probably threw their panties at him regularly to see that little bit of a lip twitch.

  “Take your shoes off my furniture, please?”

  Without shifting his gaze from hers, Eli slipped off his tennis shoes and dropped his sock-covered feet back on the furniture.

  Jase smacked Brek’s shoulder. “You’re right, man. She’s totally fuckable.”

  “Dude.” Dean glared at Jase.

  Velma’s heart stumbled inside her chest. She dropped her hands from her hips. “You did not just say that.”

  “What? Am I not allowed to go there?” Jase asked.

  “No.” Dean rubbed his forehead.

  Brek dropped his elbows to his knees, controller dangling in hand. “Don’t say it in front of her. Hey, Velma, glad you’re home. Sorry dickhead here’s bein’ a dickhead.”

  Velma opened her mouth to reply—with what, she had no idea—but Brek spoke first. “Jase, you owe money for the swear jar. Gotta pay to say ‘fuck’ around her.”

  That was nowhere near what she was going to say.

  Brek tossed his controller to the side and rose. He grabbed the beribboned jar from the counter and moved back to Mr. Cussy McCusserton.

  Jase grudgingly tugged out his wallet. “You’ve been cussing all night.”

  “I prepaid for the month,” Brek said seriously.

  He had, and he wasn’t even trying to keep his potty mouth under control.

  Jase shoved his wallet back into his pocket and winked at Velma. “Sorry if I offended. I’ll use a different compliment next time.”

  “Using the f-bomb is never a compliment,” Velma replied.

  “Whatever you say.” Jase pointed his finger at her and made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  Brek moved the jar to Eli. “You, too.”

  “What’d I say?” Eli lifted his shoulders in defiance.

  “Not what you’ve said, but what’s gonna come out of your mouth at some point tonight.” Brek shook the jar so the dollars and change rattled.

  Eli reluctantly dropped in a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Can I say she’s fuckable now that I paid?”

  “No. No one says she’s fuckable.” Brek set the jar on the coffee table. “Dean, the jar’s here if you feel the urge to say ‘fuck.’”

  “Noted.” Dean nodded.

  “Brek’s the one who said it first.” Jase slipped off his shoes and set his feet on her ottoman.

  “Did you really say I’m f-able?” Velma couldn’t hide the shock from her tone.

  “I’ll take my Fifth Amendment privilege not to incriminate myself by answering.” Brek shifted uncomfortably. “What happened to your date, V?”

  “He had to go to the hospital.” She evacuated from the television to the food table so they could continue burning brain cells with violent video games. She took a bite of Eli’s casserole. Artichokes and melted cream cheese. Oh man, it really was yummy.

  “You sent a guy to the hospital?” Jase asked with what sounded like awe.

  All four of them focused their attention on her.

  “He’s a doctor. He got called in.” She dipped another tortilla chip, the homemade kind, into the pan.

  Jase took a swig of his beer and set it on her end table—without a coaster. “Bummer. See, now, if I had a girl like you, I wouldn’t let anything call me away. Because, as Brek pointed out, you’re totally—”

  “Dude.” Dean glared daggers at Jase.

  “Is that all you guys think about?” Velma asked.

  “Yes,” three of them replied in unison.

  An eye roll and she grabbed her laptop bag from the counter. “I’ll leave you to rot your brain cells with senseless violence.”

  “Much appreciated.” Jase fist-bumped Eli, and they went back to their game.

  A bubble bath sounded better and better. Velma could escape to her room for the night so she didn’t get anxiety over the lack of coasters and the abundance of feet on furniture. She shut her door, propped her coral-colored throw pillows be
hind her on the bed, turned on her laptop, and clicked open her spreadsheet.

  Someone knocked lightly against her door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  Brek poked his head into the room. “You’re not havin’ all the fun without me, are you?”

  He clicked the door closed behind him and strode to her bed with a jar of Nutella marked with a B&V label in one hand and two spoons in the other.

  “Fun?” she asked as he crawled onto the bed beside her.

  “Fillin’ out your spreadsheet. I’m here to help.” He stretched out and propped the Nutella between them. “What’ve we got so far?”

  “Nothing. I just turned it on.” Velma wiped at a fleck of dust on the monitor with her thumb.

  “Perfect.” He rolled onto his side so he could see her screen and dipped one of the spoons into the jar before lifting it to her lips.

  She moved her head back. “What are you doing?”

  “Sharing.”

  When she literally didn’t bite, he moved the spoon to his mouth. The way that man ate. She could watch him lick cutlery all day long.

  Ack. No. No. No. Not her focus tonight. “Shouldn’t you go play with your friends?”

  “Nah. Usually Dean and I team up against Eli and Jase. Dean had to take off. Which means we’re down a player. Which means, they’re playin’ one-on-one. I’m guessing, since you’re here, you didn’t get your post-date dessert with your girls. So here I am.” He glanced to her screen. “Whatcha got so far?”

  “Okay. So, we have height, which was acceptable. Employment, he’s a pediatrician. Bonus points there. A good investment firm manages him. I’ll give him an eight on that. I deducted two points because it’s not my firm. Housing, nine. He said he’s got a place in Cherry Creek.” She tapped in the scores.

  “Transportation?” Brek read the heading in the next column.

  “Definitely a nine. He drives a Mercedes. Sleek but not the highest safety rating.” She clicked away on the keyboard, adding up the numbers. Her heart dropped. He was already at a nine-point-five, which really wasn’t a surprise.

  Brek shoveled more Nutella. “What’s the ‘style’ column for?”

  “Like does he wear a suit? Regular haircuts. That stuff.”