Daphne toyed with the ends of her hair. “The prospect of going on a date with Chicago’s most eligible bachelor scared the pants right off of me.”
“Then this will be a very good date. My work’s half done.”
“Ha. I just need to get my head in the game.”
“Precisely why I’m here.” Gib stood, relieved for an excuse to get up. He crossed the room and hefted the grocery bag. “Have I ever mentioned I captained the debate team at Eton?”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Only about a million times.”
“And when you do, your accent gets even more butler-like,” Mira added. “I expect you to pull a tray of tea and crumpets out of that bag.”
“No such luck. But if Daphne does well enough, there might be a gingerbread scone hiding at the bottom of this bag as a reward.” Gib knew how to motivate Daphne. Sure, she’d accepted the stint on Flower Power out of equal parts pride and revenge. But that only propelled her so far. Bribing her infamous sweet tooth might get her the rest of the way.
“You had me at gingerbread.” Daphne bounded off the couch. “What do I need to do?”
“My legendary experience at Eton—we beat Harrow four years running—means I can whip you into shape. You’re a domineering smart-ass to your friends. But you morph into a shy wallflower in the spotlight. At the NACE meeting, I thought you were going to either puke or pass out. And you were only up at that podium for less than a minute. Let me help you get past that fear.”
“How?”
Gib pulled out a tiny piñata. Red, white and green ruffles covered the papier-mâché elephant. “We’re going to practice. I watched every episode of Flower Power last night.”
“You’re kidding.” Daphne’s jaw dropped. “You did that for me?”
“Of course. Your competitors had to be studied. To find their Achilles’ heels. I fast-forwarded through the commercials. It only took six hours.” Six hours he’d never get back. Six hours of inane commentary and ridiculously dramatic music. He’d wanted to claw his eyes out for about five hours and fifty minutes of it. But the research had paid off. Gib now knew their weak spots. A little coaching, a lot of Daphne’s amazing talent, and she’d be untouchable in this competition.
“After all that reality television, are you brain-dead yet?” Sam asked.
Ivy tapped the very pointy toe of her shoe into his shin. “Hey, don’t bite the hand that pays for your trip to Bermuda. If it wasn’t for reality television, I wouldn’t have opened my store, and you wouldn’t have met the love of your life.”
“True. But it doesn’t make it good TV. Or any less mind-numbing.”
“Maybe when you’re in the audience at a live taping, you’ll see it differently.” Gib reached into the bag once more to produce a shiny sheaf of papers covered in flowers. “I got tickets for all of us to Daphne’s show. Already sold out, by the way. I had to pull out all the stops with my ticket broker to nab these. He was fuzzy on the terms, but I think I owe him both my firstborn son and my ancestral home. Possibly one of my kidneys.”
“Can’t wait.” Sam trotted out another of those increasingly common smiles. “Honest, Daph, I’ll be in the front row clapping for you until my palms blister.”
“The piñata is the starting point. Head into the back, and make a centerpiece around the piñata, using whatever you’ve got on hand. Sometimes the trick to the show is the lack of flowers, sometimes it’s an almost impossible theme. We’ll practice under both conditions. Every day. With me throwing questions at you and generally trying to be as distracting as the two-hundred-person audience and announcer will be.”
Daphne ran her fingers down the elephant’s trunk. The motion was so evocative of what he wanted her to do to him that Gib almost dropped the piñata. “But wedding setup starts in less than an hour,” she said.
“Exactly. Right now you’re tired and in a hurry. Just like you will be on competition night.”
“Thanks.” Her voice soft as six-hundred-thread-count sheets, she looked up at him with eyes that shimmered. A man would do just about anything to earn a look like that. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
No. Not yet. Gib hadn’t figured out—entirely—what it would take to get her into bed. He’d run through a bunch of tried-and-true scenarios. None seemed right for Daphne. But he’d damn well try them all until he found one that worked. Because the next time he saw that look of gratitude on her face, he wanted her to be naked. And underneath him.
Chapter Nine
A rose is a rose is a rose ~ Gertrude Stein
“Daphne, you spent all of breakfast yammering on about last night’s wedding.” Her dad ran a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“A lot happened. Besides, we were only in there for fifteen minutes. We had doughnuts and coffee, not an all-you-can-eat brunch.” Daphne gripped her dad’s arm as she skated across a patch of black ice on the sidewalk. Chicago’s skyscrapers provided all-day shade in some areas. Walking downtown could be dangerous in winter, when the temperature rarely rose above freezing. It made his request to “stretch their legs” for a few blocks less than appealing. But walking off those doughnuts was probably a smart idea.
He ticked points off on his fingers. “I know about the crazy number of bridesmaids. I know exactly where you stand on using pine for decoration after Christmas.”
“So you’re going to throw out the wreath on your front door as soon as you get home?”
Stuart sighed. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll make you one of eucalyptus instead.”
“That should keep the neighbors from complaining.” He scooped a handful of snow off the top of a newspaper box. Being a man, and stubborn, Stuart refused to wear gloves. Calloused hands molded it into a hard-packed ball. “I also know the bride cried when she saw the bouquet you made for her.”
Such a great feeling. Well, not the tears. The makeup artist had shot her a look of pure venom when that happened. But knowing she’d contributed to the bride’s happiness on such a special day softened Daphne’s heart to near marshmallow levels. What a great perk of her job. “Made it worth every sore finger and scratch I accumulated this week.”
He lobbed the snowball at the apex of the stone archway over the doors to Holy Name Cathedral. Perfect hit. With his arm, her dad probably could’ve hit the top of the 210-foot-high steeple. No wonder all her brothers had gone to college on athletic scholarships. “What I don’t know is anything about your date with Gibson Moore.”
Blindsided. Had the doughnuts been a ploy just to soften her up so he could get some dirt? He could be sneaky that way. “How did you find out?” Daphne asked. She tried to sound casual. She probably sounded guilty and accusatory. Just like when he’d caught her sneaking back in long past midnight after going to the Justin Timberlake/Christina Aguilera concert at the United Center.
“I’m your father. I’ve got my ear to the ground where you’re concerned.” He wiped his hands on faded jeans. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because she’d already exposed a boatload of insecurities to him once this week. Because she didn’t want to come across as an emotional wreck. As the problem child. Worse, as a total girl. “You stopped vetting my dates when I graduated from high school.”
“And yet four days ago you blurted out that Gib kissed you. Little late to put that cat back in the bag.”
When he dug his heels in, her dad had the tenacity of a puppy gnawing on a slobbery piece of rope. Might as well give him the basic deets and get past it. “Fine. We’re going out tonight. On a real date. Are you happy now?”
“Are you?”
Damn it. Perceptive fathers were an anomaly. Why’d she get stuck with one? “Yes. No. Mostly.” Daphne kicked at a snow drift. “Maybe more nauseous than happy.”
“Probably just that third jelly-filled not sitting right.”
“Actually, it’s the combination both of the prospect of going out with Chicago’s hottest bachelor, and being on television in four
teen days. I’m not sure which one scares me more.” The practice with Gib yesterday went well. Eventually. After she broke the heads off three gerbera daisies and let not one but two vases slip right out of her hands to shatter in the sink. Daphne hoped another few sessions would spank her nerves into at least a sham of calmness.
“You’ve never backed down from a challenge. Except for letting that Sheila woman sweep you out like garbage.”
“I didn’t have a choice, Dad. She fired me. There’s no hanging around to plead your case when that happens.” Instead, it had been an immediate bolt for the door before tears started to fall. Pride kept her eyes dry through the whole El ride home. Right up until Daphne collapsed, sobbing, into her dad’s arms. Not her finest moment.
Her brother Nick had been fired from his first job flipping burgers. His plans to save up for a car evaporated after he gave a guy a hundred-dollar bill for change instead of a single. But he didn’t cry. Michael hadn’t shed a single tear when he dislocated his knee sledding—or when the doctor popped it back into place. Whereas Daphne seemed to be in possession of more than her fair share of the family tear ducts.
“Hmph. Glad you’re getting the chance to show her what’s what. It’s about time you put that skinny-ass bitch in her place.”
“Dad!” Stuart Lovell could let fly a blue streak when the Cubs lost. Happened every season. But he rarely weighed in on his children’s lives so…vehemently.
“Call a spade a spade, I say. Point being, you’ll beat her. You’re better, you’re younger, you’re more motivated and you’re a damn sight prettier.”
Unknowingly, he’d poked at a very tender spot. Daphne sucked in a deep breath of air that burned her lungs with its cold. “Honestly, that’s what worries me the most. Even more than freezing up in front of four cameras and hundreds of people.”
“What?”
“The whole the-camera-adds-ten-pounds thing. And that high-def will show the entire country the crow’s-feet I didn’t even know I had.” She yanked her ponytail over her shoulder. “I pull my hair up because it’s easy. No need to look in a mirror. I’m not a six-foot-tall model. I’m certainly no skinny, big-boobed actress. When I’m not working, I spend most of my time in sweats and sports jerseys.” A quick tug at the bottom of her Bears parka illustrated her point. “You raised a tomboy, Dad. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m not pretty enough to be on television. And I’m certainly not pretty enough to go out with the legendary Gibson Moore.” Daphne looked both ways to check the always heavily trafficked Wabash Avenue. But fingertips digging into her arm prevented her from crossing.
“Stop it. Right now.”
“The light’s green, Dad.”
“I don’t care. Stop demeaning yourself.” He pulled out his wallet. Flipped to the well-thumbed wedding portrait that had ridden his hip for the past thirty-nine years. “Look at this.”
“I’ve seen that picture a million times.” Still, Daphne brushed her mitten around the rounded corner, craving even that small a connection with the mother she missed so very much.
“But have you really looked at it? Since you left home? You are the spitting image of your mother. On her worst day, she was a knockout. Beautiful inside and out. The pert little nose, your smile, those big eyes wide enough to take in the whole world—they’re hers. Mixed in with my eyes and your grandmother Irene’s hair. You, my baby girl, are even more beautiful. I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you that enough.”
Stupid cold spell. It froze the stupid, unstoppable tears balanced on the edge of Daphne’s lashes. Every blink felt like she lifted tiny barbells. But there wasn’t a woman alive who could stop her emotions from trickling straight down her cheeks after hearing a speech like that. “Thanks, Dad.”
He steered her across the street while she sopped up the tears with her mittens. “As for Gib, he’s been an idiot for years. There you were, right under his nose the whole time.”
“Don’t blame Gib. We’re perfectly happy as friends.” Or at least they had been. Now they’d tasted something…more. Daphne had—just barely—kept her physical longing for Gib under control until that kiss. Didn’t drug dealers give the first hit for free, knowing their clients would do anything, pay any amount to recapture that bliss? Yup, that’s pretty much where Daphne sat after three mind-blowing kisses with Gib. Willing to risk a perfectly terrific friendship. Willing to let Ivy fuss with her hair and asphyxiate her with sprays and mousses. Willing to do just about anything to get his lips south of her collar.
“Okay, I’ll spread the blame around.” A swift shoulder squeeze, fast and hard. The kind that said he loved her, but was about to lower the boom. “You should’ve kissed him sooner.”
“Dad!” They were crossing into uncomfortable territory. Mostly uncomfortable because Daphne had been thinking the same thing for all six days of this new year.
“I like Gib. He’s polite, but not stuffy like you’d expect from a hoity-toity Brit. Somehow gets me into a box at Wrigley at least once a season. And he hangs on your every word.”
“Tell me, how much are the dues to be a member of the Gibson Moore fan club? Is there a T-shirt?”
“Remember, he’s damn lucky to have a shot at you. That’s all I’ve got to say.” Her father wrapped his arms around her for a strong hug. “Have a good time.”
Daphne held on a few extra seconds, so grateful for the way he could restore her solid footing with a couple of sentences. “I think I will.”
“Call me when you get home.”
“You’re reinstating my curfew?”
“I like Gib. But I’m not wild about his reputation. I want to know you’re home by midnight.” Stuart shifted from foot to foot. “Not, you know, doing things I don’t want to picture my little girl doing behind closed doors.”
“God, I don’t want you picturing anything, either. I promise I’ll call.”
“Love you.” He started to walk away.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I delivered you here. My job’s done.” With a wave, Stuart continued down the slushy sidewalk. It made no sense. Daphne turned around to stare at the three-story glass facade of the Cavendish Grand. Was this a joke? Had she gotten confused, and her sexy dinner date was really a run-of-the-mill lunch date?
“Surprise!” Mira and Ivy pushed through the doors, almost bowling over the top-hatted bellman. Both coatless on this freezing day, they wore yoga pants and hoodies. Ivy, of course, in pink and Mira in blue. Very Stepford Wives-ish of them. Plus, it made Daphne super aware she wore sweat pants with a large sap stain at the knee from her late-night adventure with pine boughs earlier in the week.
“What’s going on?”
Ivy tucked her hands beneath her arms. “Your father was our decoy. Because we knew you’d say no if we gave you any possible out.”
“Say no to what?” What could be so horrible at the Cavendish, of all places, that they’d need to trick her into showing up?
“We’re treating you to a spa day.” Mira threw up her arms into a ta-da pose. Daphne’s instinct was to blow a raspberry in response, but she held her tongue.
They each grabbed an arm and led her into the refined gray-and-black elegance of the Cavendish Grand lobby. A soaring atrium rose three stories, with one entire wall of windows overlooking the hustle and bustle of Michigan Avenue. The walls were covered in dove-gray satin echoed in the chairs and sofas grouped around a cascade of water streaming from the ceiling into a mound of shiny black river stones. Sheets of glass formed the check-in desk, supported by columns of dark granite.
“Wait a minute.” Daphne dug in her heels to halt their march toward the elevators. “Christmas is over. My birthday isn’t for months. What gives?”
Mira and Ivy exchanged a look. A let’s-flip-a-mental-coin-to-see-who-deals-with-this look. Mira apparently lost. “You’ve been on edge since kissing Gib.”
“Totally freaked,” corrected Ivy.
Daphne wasn’t thrilled about the assessment. But they weren’t i
n any way wrong. Self-conscious, she unzipped her coat. Then continued to run the zipper up and down, just to give her hands something to do.
“So the spa day has two objectives.” Mira spoke slowly. Like a teacher trying to explain long division for the first time. “To calm you down, and to buff and polish you to within an inch of your life.”
“You’ll be so bright and shiny, Gib might have to avert his eyes.”
“Kind of defeats the purpose,” Daphne muttered.
Ivy took her hand off the zipper. “You’ve looked in the mirror in the past three days more than you have in the last month. And every time you do, you frown. Scowl. Sometimes look like you’re sniffing curdled milk. Milo said he noticed you staring at your reflection in the floral cooler, and, I quote, framing your ass with your hands.”
Also true. Daphne knew her diet of pizza and cookies and ice cream to be far from balanced. Her dentist made that abundantly clear with every new filling. Ironic. You’d think Dr. Meyers would be a little more grateful that she was helping put his kids through college one cavity at a time. Still, her addiction to sugar didn’t just affect her teeth. Daphne’s ass had definitely grown. On her feet most days, and always up for a game of pick-up basketball or tennis, she didn’t worry about it. Much. Except when a guy who usually dated models and stewardesses and actresses suddenly started running his hands all over her body. Now she couldn’t stop worrying about the size of her ass. And only hoped her breasts would distract him from it.
“We know you’re beautiful.” Mira linked her arm through Daphne’s. “The mailman leaves a little trail of drool behind every time he looks at you. Gib obviously thinks you’re hot. The only thing left is to get you to believe it. This is the Day of Daphne.”
Ivy had tried to talk her into a spa day several times. The thought of someone covering her in goop and poking at her never sounded remotely appealing to Daphne. But this gesture from her friends was too thoughtful to refuse. “Does this get me off the hook from you messing with my hair?”
Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 14