Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3)

by Christi Barth

  “I dropped him at the airport already. RealTV needs him to run cameras at a wedding in Minneapolis today. The real cameraman got food poisoning at the rehearsal dinner. As well as half the bridal party. Anyway, he already knows.”

  “Knows what? I smell a secret.” Daphne bounced around to face Sam, who’d settled in the big chair. Anticipation sparkled the exhaustion right out of her eyes. “Do you know?”

  “Mira told me to bring over my latest batch of test chocolates for you guys to taste. She’ll be here soon.” He spread his hands wide, palms up. “That’s it.”

  “Damn it.” Daphne pulled her ponytail over her shoulder, twirling the ends around her finger. “Now I don’t know which I’d rather do first. Try your chocolate or learn the secret.” Gib knew which way he’d vote. First, he’d rub the chocolate along the edge of her lips. When they opened, and her tongue peeked out, he’d tease a little more. Pull the chocolate away. Replace it with his own lips, tasting the cocoa sweetness on her.

  Sam cracked a smile. He used to dole them out with the frequency and solemnity of communion wafers. But since falling ass over teakettle for Mira, he wasn’t nearly so stingy with his grins. “They’re dark chocolate filled with goat cheese steeped in a pear liquor.”

  “Sold.” She leaned forward to whip off the napkin. A glistening row of ridged chocolates sat on a doily-covered silver tray. “Geez, Sam, lose the doily. Unless you’re marketing to nursing homes.”

  “Not so fast.” From the other side of the table, Ivy lifted the tray out of reach. “You’ll be lost in a flavor orgasm if I let you try those. Hear me out, first. I want to talk about my honeymoon.”

  “Really? Right now?”

  Sam, as protective as a mother grizzly, took the tray from Ivy. He re-centered it on the table. “I thought Ben insisted on planning the honeymoon.”

  “Actually, I need to go first.” Too bad Ivy was so dead set on making whatever her big announcement was today. Ben had emailed him at dawn, begging Gib to share his secret first, even though he couldn’t be here. Gib rummaged in his grocery bag. He couldn’t wait to see Ivy’s reaction to his surprise. No doubt she’d be gobsmacked. “Ben got a little help.”

  Ivy executed a full-body shudder. “Don’t tell me that you helped him pick out lingerie for me to wear. I know you probably see more lingerie in a month than the buyers for Victoria’s Secret do in a year. But still, that would just be weird.”

  “Sadly, despite my expertise, Ben hasn’t asked for help in that matter. He required my professional expertise.” Gib handed Ivy a croissant. “Here you go.”

  “No, thanks.” She pushed it back at him. “I had breakfast three hours ago.”

  Women could be so literal. And so frustrating. “This would’ve gone much more smoothly if Ben were here. Sure we shouldn’t wait to do this when he’s here?”

  Daphne wadded up the napkin and threw it at Gib. “You all have about a minute left before I tackle someone to get at those truffles. So start talking.”

  Bossy. Gib wondered if she gave orders in bed, too. Wondered how many dates it would take to find out. Wondered why he suddenly couldn’t be in Daphne’s presence without constantly thinking of sex. “Ivy, you’ve given the man an identity crisis. Ben’s still convinced you don’t think he believes in romance.”

  “He doesn’t.” Ivy shrugged. Her eyebrows lifted into what can I do about it arches. “The closest he’ll come is admitting that he believes in our love. Which is good enough. For now.”

  “Maybe so.” Gib pushed the croissant back at her, curling her fingers around it this time. “But he’s taking you to the most romantic city in the world for your honeymoon. Thanks to yours truly pulling in a few favors, you’ll be staying at the Cavendish Grand Paris for a week. Free of charge. In the honeymoon suite.”

  Her fingers clenched. Flaky crumbs fluttered to the floor. “You were right. We should’ve waited for Ben. Because I really, really want to kiss someone right now.”

  “Well, I did make all the arrangements. I think that makes me a worthy substitute.”

  “Good point.” Uncharacteristically heedless of the mess, she dropped the croissant and launched herself at Gib. He caught her in midair. Ivy planted a smacking kiss right on his lips. “I’m sure you had to promise your firstborn to swing this. We can’t thank you enough.”

  “True. But I’m open to any appreciative gifts you might send my way. Especially if you happen upon any haute couture store on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

  “Don’t downplay your generosity, Gib. This is an incredibly thoughtful gesture.” As usual, Daphne jumped at any opportunity to shower him with praise. And, as usual, it made him feel both simultaneously uncomfortable and hugged from the inside out.

  Sam nodded his agreement. “Nicely done. Guess I’d better start planning my own honeymoon. Don’t suppose the Cavendish has a property in Bora Bora? I’m pretty sure I’ll have to go that far to take Mira anyplace she hasn’t already been with her parents.”

  “I haven’t been any place with you yet. That’s all that matters.” The bitter cold of January in Chicago followed Mira through the front door. She dropped a kiss on the top of Sam’s head.

  “You’re just in time.” Ivy practically ripped Mira’s puffy parka from her back. “I have an announcement. A big one.”

  Mira fluffed her long, black hair as she settled onto Sam’s lap. “Let me guess. You managed to sign the president’s daughter as a client.”

  “That wouldn’t be a secret. I think the Secret Service would spend weeks vetting all of us before she even picked up the phone to call me. I also think every event planner in D.C. would come gunning for me if that happened. A little more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Okay, the governor’s daughter?” Daphne guessed. Gib hoped she was wrong. He’d spent a few days with said daughter. Well, more to the point, a few nights holed up in a hotel room so the paparazzi wouldn’t catch wind of it. She was…exuberant and bendy. And probably not someone who should be spending time with the woman he was now trying to date.

  Ivy bounced on the balls of her feet. “You’re getting colder. Think the opposite of weddings.”

  “Oh, no. Are your parents getting a divorce?”

  “God, of course not, Daph. Why would I be excited about that?” She pointed at Sam. “You want to take a shot?”

  He shook his head. Both hands cinched Mira tight around the waist, as though making sure she wouldn’t fly away. “I’m a bad guesser.”

  Time to play a belated Saint Nick. Gib emptied his bag onto the table. “Let me put you out of your misery.” He couldn’t wait to see Daphne’s expression. When she smiled, really smiled, her eyes sparkled like a mid-July sky. One by one, he handed out thick envelopes and stoppered plastic tubes.

  Daphne waved her envelope in the air. “What’s this?”

  Ivy clasped her hands. Cleared her throat. “We’ve had a crazy, terrific year here at Aisle Bound. The uptick in our client load since Planning for Love started airing is huge. Daphne, you’ve been working yourself ragged. And, Mira, what you’ve done with A Fine Romance is far beyond my original vision. I can’t believe you already have it turning a profit. We all deserve a vacation. So I’m closing both businesses while Ben and I honeymoon.”

  “You’re kidding. Turning off the lights and letting all the calls go to voice mail?”

  “Only at Aisle Bound. The store will remain open, but with shorter hours. Helen and Hays have agreed to shoulder the load. I think we’ve got a potential new team member who will help as well, but I don’t want to rain on Mira’s parade.”

  Mira nodded. “Hold that thought.”

  Daphne pulled out the cork stopper from the tube. Sniffed. “I’m confused. Are these bath salts? A hint that we should relax during that week?”

  Now he pictured Daphne in a tub. Gib would sit at the opposite end, watching her nipples play hide-and-seek through a cloud of bubbles. He couldn’t wait to discover what color tipped those nippl
es. Blush pink? Rosy? Apricot? God. Less than two minutes had elapsed since the last time he thought about sex and Daphne. The obvious tightness in his trousers sent him to hide behind the bulk of Milo’s desk. “Pink sand straight from Bermuda’s famous beaches. It just arrived this morning.”

  “Which makes these—”

  “Airline tickets. To Bermuda,” Ivy shouted. She threw her hands in the air and jumped a few times. “For all of you—Mira, Sam, Daphne and Gib.”

  Mira and Daphne rushed forward to hug her. Sam looked at Gib and mouthed wow. Screeches of happiness filled the room. It gave Gib a deep sense of fulfillment to know he was part of it. That this close-knit group, in each other’s pockets on a daily basis, loved each other enough to spend their vacation time together as well? To him, that signified they were a family far more than blood ties ever could.

  As everyone settled down, Ivy continued. “The trip is my thanks for your support and friendship. With a special thanks to Gib for yet another amazing hookup. You’ll be staying at a beachfront condo he’s arranged.”

  Damn. Did she really have to tell them? This was Ivy’s idea, her big surprise. He didn’t want any credit for the small part he’d played in helping her.

  “Not a Cavendish property. So it must belong to one of your fellow peers of the realm? The Earls of Whosit? The Duke of Whatsit?” Mira teased.

  If only his friends knew the misery his title brought him. Would it break their obsession with all things related to the British peerage? Not that he planned to tell them. When Gib had come to America, he’d broken with his past, with the pain, and severed ties—almost irrevocably—with his family. He did his best not to ever dredge up those memories.

  “The Viscount Eversley owns it. He uses it exactly once every year for a three-day fishing trip. Which is actually more of an all-the-beer-you-can-drink stint. Don’t even think he bothers to load fishing poles onto the boat. Instead of letting it sit musty and unused, he opens it up to his friends. Really, it isn’t any bother at all.”

  Daphne raised her hand. She wiggled her fingers to get his attention. “Um, big question over here. How many bedrooms?”

  Aha. Hard to tell from her tone if the thought of sharing a room with him landed in the pro or con column. They’d done it when they were merely best friends on a camping trip to Michigan. Had fallen asleep on each other’s laps during movie night countless times. Now that they were on the brink of adding sex to their friendship, she suddenly needed her own space? That sat about as well with Gib as an order of onion rings would after his third Italian sausage at a Chicago Fire game.

  “Worried I’ll mount an assault on your chastity?”

  “No.”

  “Worried that I won’t?” Gib leaned forward, burning his eyes into Daphne’s as though they were inches apart, and not the width of the room.

  “Just answer the question,” she snapped with enough heat to whip every head in the room toward her.

  “What’s going on?” Ivy looked back and forth between the two of them. “This news was supposed to put smiles on your faces, not bring out the claws.”

  Now he felt lower than a grass snake. Ivy had presented this amazing, thoughtful opportunity, and Daphne forced him into a childish squabble. “Sorry. We’re all good here.” He jerked his chin toward the sullen blonde. “Someone’s just overtired.”

  “I’m not a child,” Daphne retorted. “And we’re far from good. Answer the question. The longer you dance around it, the more I worry. Are there only two bedrooms?”

  “Yes.” One of them with two beds. Not that he’d tell Daphne that anytime soon. She’d officially pushed him past annoyed into pissed off.

  Until four days ago, they’d never exchanged so much as an improper brush of their hands. Gib’s prowess in the bedroom catapulted him to minor legend status in Chicago. It was an image he enjoyed cultivating, and didn’t mind using it to his advantage. But he only ever engaged with willing, enthusiastic partners. How could Daphne think otherwise? How dare she? Daphne, who knew him better than anyone. Daphne, one of the very few who saw past his playboy facade. Who measured his worth as a man, not as a bed-hopping bachelor? “Worried they’ll both have mirrors on the ceiling? Handcuffs on the bedposts?”

  “Huh. Do they?” Sam asked.

  “Knock it off.” Ivy pointed her finger at Gib, then Daphne. “Didn’t you two ask to share a bedroom at the cabin in Michigan last summer?”

  “Yes.” Daphne had offered to share so Gib wouldn’t be stuck sleeping on a couch six inches too short and full of thirty years of lumps.

  “Platonically? Without any hanky-panky?”

  “I didn’t so much as smooth the covers on her bunk. We kept to our own sides of the room, like grown-ups.” What he didn’t admit was that night was one of the times when his imagination broke free of its lockdown. Lying five feet away from Daphne all night hardened his cock to an uncomfortable level. Over the entire weekend, Gib hadn’t clocked more than about five hours of sleep.

  “Yeah, well, that was then. Now I’m concerned about other, more intimate activities that grown-ups do.”

  Gib crossed the room in three fast strides to glare down at her. “Why?”

  He bent, bracing his hands on either side of her head. It positioned his lips to within a breath of hers. Given his druthers, he’d rather be kissing them. Rather than waiting to hear why his closest friend wanted to be able to lock him out of her bedroom. Not a propitious step in anticipation of their big date. Did she expect it to go so badly they wouldn’t still be together in April? For that matter, did she not expect it to last beyond tomorrow night?

  They’d only kissed so far. No betrayal of friendship there. Hell, she’d stayed fully clothed. Gib hadn’t even unclasped her bra. It all came down to one question. “Don’t you trust me anymore?”

  Before Daphne could answer, Ivy tugged him away. She sat on the couch, and pulled Gib down on her other side. Then she took his hand, and Daphne’s, and held them on her lap.

  “This is about your date tomorrow night, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” Daphne shifted, tucking her legs up beneath her. “It’s awkward.”

  Since when did the thought of spending time with him make her so uncomfortable? Gib’s temper ratcheted back up a notch. Last he checked, there wasn’t a gun to Daphne’s head. “We’ve been to dinner hundreds of times. We’ve already kissed. Nothing scary there. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. All three times.”

  Sam shifted Mira in his lap. “Are you wondering if he can seal the deal? ’Cause I can get you a signed affidavit from about eight dozen women attesting to it. Probably without walking more than ten blocks.”

  “Not helping, Lyons,” Gib snarled.

  Ivy banged their hands against her thighs. “Enough. I won’t let you two go out at all. Not if it causes this much tension.”

  “There’s no dating by committee. You don’t get a vote.”

  The look she gave him was the same his Latin teacher gave him the first time Gib conjugated a verb wrong. Condescending pity. “Evidently there’s still a few things you don’t know about women. Of course I get a vote.”

  “We’re a pretty tight-knit group, Gib.” Mira leaned forward to pat him on the knee. “All we’re saying is that you and Daphne better not screw it up.”

  “Swear to it,” Ivy demanded.

  “What? That I’ll show her a good time?” Gib knew how to wine and dine a woman. Nobody did it better. If charming a woman into bed was an Olympic event, Gib wouldn’t just have the gold—he’d hold all the medals.

  “No. Promise that nothing will change, no matter what happens on your date. Gib, you’ll still go running with Mira and Ben. Daphne, you’ll still have Gib over every Halloween for that horrible marathon of monster movies you both like. The inevitable sex—no matter how good, bad or indifferent—won’t change our group dynamic.”

  “Did you just accuse me of performing indifferent sex?” That stung more than the fear of Daphne not trust
ing him. Engaged to Ben or not, he’d offer Ivy a go-round in her office right now. See if she didn’t melt into a smiling, satisfied puddle after less than fifteen minutes with him.

  “I’m pretty sure that was aimed at me.” Pulling a throw pillow into her lap, Daphne huddled even deeper into the corner of the couch. “I’m not the one featured on the cover of a magazine this month for my dating acumen.”

  Ivy waved her hands as if erasing a chalkboard. “You’re both focusing on the wrong thing. Forget about the date until you’re on it. And don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements for the trip. A lot can happen between now and April. As long as you promise to stay best friends, it’ll all work out. Promise.”

  Gib had to hand it to Ivy. Her expertise in handling difficult people, difficult situations, was unmatched. And she was right. Their years of deep friendship were the only reason he’d taken this step toward a different sort of relationship with Daphne. It was the basis of everything. The foundation of the community he’d so carefully cobbled together here in his adopted city. The very bedrock of his happiness. From the sheepish look on her face, Daphne had come to the same conclusion.

  “You and Ben, Daphne, Milo, Sam and now Mira—all of you—are, quite simply, my home. Nothing will change that.” He kissed Ivy on the forehead. “Sorry if I did anything to make you think otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Daphne piped up. “Sorry I got all in my head. Then blurted it out like an idiot.” She leaned across Ivy, golden ponytail slipping down till the tips of it caressed her breast. Right where he wanted to be. Lucky ponytail. “Of course I trust you, Gib. I’ll dish out another heaping scoop of apology. I love hanging out with you. Putting on a dress? Letting you pay for dinner? It shouldn’t change anything.”

  “You let me pay for dinner all the time,” he groused. At least they were back on a solid footing. And speaking of solid, the prospect of seeing her in a dress hardened his cock to pure steel. He rested an ankle on his knee. It lessened the obvious tenting in his trousers, but not by much. Gib had to get off the couch before anyone noticed. If this kept up, he’d have to start carrying a portfolio in front of him at all times. Or start wearing a jock strap. Even if he double cupped it, though, the thought of Daphne’s legs bare beneath a swirly skirt would probably still ramrod him straight through his zipper.