Daphne mimed an exaggerated yawn. “Welcome to Snoozeville. I could pull all that up on my phone in three seconds.”
“I don’t think I ever told you I was in the choir there.”
She pounced on that tidbit. Normally Gib stayed as closemouthed as an oyster about his college days. On the rare occasion he did speak of it, a priceless pearl was revealed. “You can sing? How could you have kept something that juicy to yourself?”
“Because I didn’t want to be trotted out like a trick pony every time a birthday cake appears. But I’ve sung my whole life. Papa said it was a waste of time. God, how he hated it.” A rueful, hollow laugh accompanied the downward slash of his brows. “Which is probably the main reason why I kept it up all the way through school.”
“We’re going to karaoke. I won’t take no for an answer. We’ll do a duet. Something cheese-a-licious. ‘You’re the One that I Want’ from Grease. Or ‘Promiscuous.’ I’ll be Nelly Furtado and you can be Timbaland.”
“I’d be more likely to do the famous Act II duet from Tristan und Isolde.”
“So you don’t just listen to opera to annoy me. You really like it?”
“Love it. Dabbled with the notion of doing it professionally, before my father made his displeasure with the idea known. So I contented myself with singing at university. The King’s College Choir is quite famous.”
A jagged gash in her heart opened every time Gib let slip the depth of the pain his father caused him. She still didn’t know why, what caused the great schism in his family. It didn’t matter. If his father ever came to America, she’d kick him in the balls for putting that dark shadow behind Gib’s eyes. So she countered with levity. “For what? Those dopey-looking Peter Pan collars on top of your choir robes?”
“A woman who wears an apron at work has no room to criticize.” He refilled her glass. “The choir’s made too many recordings to count. Every year they do a Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols that’s broadcast worldwide on Christmas Eve. I never miss it. Well, thanks to TiVo.”
Daphne made a mental note to check YouTube as soon as she got home. An angelic-looking Gib in a choir robe was a vision she did not want to miss out on. “I never asked. What did you end up doing on Christmas Day?”
“Doc Debra.”
Good thing she’d put her champagne down, or Daphne would’ve done a spit take. “Come again?”
He looked about one percent sheepish, four percent complacent and ninety-five percent cocky as hell. “All of you did the family thing. I was lonely. Doc Debra was, well, Jewish and looking for a way to make the day go by faster. So we made merry. I gave her a reason to be jolly. Instead of Jack Frost nipping at her nose, I nipped at her—”
Hands waving, she cut him off. “Enough! Here’s the deal. You can brag about your success in the sack to your friend Daphne. You can’t do it to your date Daphne.” She usually laughed at his sexual shenanigans. But not tonight. Not after shaving above the knee for him.
“Sorry. I forgot that we’ve drawn a new line in the sand.”
Where to begin? With the fact he thought it was okay to talk about banging other women while on a date? Which led her to believe he still didn’t truly see her as a desirable woman. Gib still looked across the table and saw the best friend that ate wings with him in her sweats. She’d been kidding herself to think otherwise. How many chances should she give him? Daphne didn’t have Mira or Ivy around to consult, but it felt like one more would be her limit. On the off chance she’d yet again blown something he said out of proportion, Daphne led with the legally reprehensible issue.
“Isn’t Doc Debra your therapist?”
A one-shoulder shrug. When her finger drumming finally clued Gib in that Daphne expected more, he said, “She was. Until about a month ago.”
“Isn’t that wildly unethical? Yank-her-license unethical?”
He leaned forward. Crossed his heart and said, “Nothing happened while I laid on her couch twice a week.”
“Wow. Bet that’s the first time you’ve ever uttered those words.”
“Cut me some slack. Do you want to know what happened, or do we lower the cone of silence?”
Daphne rolled her hands in a go on gesture. Dating etiquette probably said he shouldn’t tell her. But he’d already said too much. Not spilling the whole story now would be like using a condom during sex with a pregnant woman.
Leaning back in his chair, Gib extended his legs to poke out from beneath the tablecloth on her side. “A few weeks after the doc cut me loose, I ran into her at a holiday party. Bad party and even worse booze. We left to find better drinks.” Gib paused, finally choosing his words carefully. “We had fun. So when I felt glum on Christmas, I called her. No big deal.”
“Really?”
“She’s a good doctor. Ask Sam. I hooked him up with her practice. Says it’s going great. If it wasn’t for her, I never would’ve pulled myself together enough to give this whole relationship thing a go. Doc Debra puts her patients first. No way would she risk her license just to screw me.”
Gib probably believed that to be true. Having spent years lusting after him, however, she also believed that a woman would do just about anything for the chance at a few hours of bliss in his arms. Was that the champagne talking? Maybe. Jealousy that another—in an extremely long line of women—had beaten her to the punch? Definitely.
Their waiter dropped by again. This time he deposited a basket of rolls. Hovered a bit, waiting for their order.
The butter pats were cut into tiny hearts. So adorable. “Is that brioche heart-shaped?”
“Of course,” said the waiter. And if Daphne had been even a second slower, she would’ve missed his sideways wink at Gib. But she saw it. More to the point, she knew what it meant. These weren’t special gestures he’d gone out of his way to arrange for her. They were part of his usual modus operandi.
“If I go check the other tables, will their brioche be heart-shaped?”
After glancing at Gib, the waiter muttered, “No.”
Daphne meticulously folded the napkin back over the rolls and pushed the basket to the center of the table. They were lovely rolls. Maybe some other lucky table would enjoy them. “This is like the roses and the champagne, isn’t it? You order these stupid romantic rolls every time you’re here. Hell, you probably don’t even have to ask for it anymore. The hostess probably alerts the kitchen to start rolling out the Gibson Moore special date package as soon as you book your reservation. Every time. Every woman.”
He put his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers and rested his forehead on them. Even closed his eyes. Very similar to a yoga breathing pose. Did the man have to freaking meditate to summon up a response? Finally, he laced his fingers into a fist and looked over at her.
“Daphne, you’re hardly the first woman I’ve ever dated. A fact of which you are well aware.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care that you’ve slept with half the city. Your past isn’t the issue. It’s the present. All I care is that when you’re out with me, well,” her voice husked to a near whisper, “you’re out with me. Not just the next in a string of sets of perky breasts and long legs. This whole night has been a checklist of lines and moves. I wanted it to be personal. You can date any random woman any night of the week. But tonight, I kidded myself that you wanted to be with me, not just any woman.”
Gib shoved a hand through his hair. Swiped it down his jaw. “Daphne, it is personal.”
“My last gynecologist visit was more personal than this date.” Yeah, that sent the waiter scuttling away. “Oh, you do it up nicely. Your dates probably feel charmed. Looked after. I want to feel treasured, Gib. I want to be irreplaceable. I want to be different. I want to matter. And you’ve made it more than clear that I don’t matter at all.”
She finished her third glass of champagne. Hadn’t even seen it get refilled. Then Daphne pushed up from her chair. “I thought we truly had a shot at growing from being friends to lovers. Maybe Doc Debra pushed
you off the couch too soon. Taking that step toward commitment isn’t about sex. It isn’t about heat and stolen kisses. It’s about letting a relationship blossom. Unfurling not just attraction, but respect and intimacy, to a whole new level. And now you’ve nipped us in the bud.”
He reached his hand out. Stopped just short of actually touching her. “Don’t leave.”
“There’s no point in me staying. I’ll say mean things. You’ll say things you don’t mean. For the sake of our friendship, we should pretend tonight never happened.”
The debonair mask slipped from his face. Blue eyes dulled to the color of faded denim drifted shut. After a deep breath, they popped open and he jammed a hand through his hair. “At least let me drive you home.”
God, no. The thought of sinking into those heated leather seats while knowing it was the only warmth she’d feel from him tonight? “No. Stay and enjoy this—” she gestured to the roses, the champagne, the damn rolls, “—officially romantic meal.” As she stalked to the exit, Daphne put an extra swish in her step, sure his eyes would be riveted to her ass. Might as well let him see what he’d be missing out on. Forever.
Chapter Eleven
When men and women are able to respect and accept their differences then love has a chance to blossom ~ John Gray
Gib hitched up his sweatpants. The scent of something mouthwatering had broken through his haze of bone-deep exhaustion. As much as he didn’t want to crawl out of bed, breakfast beckoned. The thick, dark roast of coffee in the air gave him the energy to get vertical. Overlaying that was caramelized sugar, seductive and beckoning. With an eye on the prize, he’d dragged on sweats and thick socks.
He opened his bedroom door. The puffy nylon of his parka smacked against his face.
“Put the coat on and grab your boots,” barked Milo. At least, the voice belonged to Milo. A hunter’s cap with fleece-lined ear flaps came down to his eyebrows, and a purple argyle scarf pulled up over his nose. The bulk of what had to be three pairs of sweats ballooned from beneath his snow-white parka.
One arm in his coat, Gib stepped into his black Sorels. In those boots, he could stand in a snowdrift in the Arctic for three days and not feel it. “Is this a fire drill?”
“Opposite. It’s a blizzard.”
“Really?” Disbelieving, Gib clunked across the room. One shove at the curtain revealed a gray sky. Below it, everything looked like it had been dipped in marshmallow fluff. Snow buried the line of parked cars up to their windshields. Bare, skeletal branches dipped low under the heavy wetness of it.
“Started about midnight. Looked bad right from the start, so I stayed up and threw together a strawberry-stuffed French toast. Should be ready by the time we finish our place.” Milo handed over a blue knit cap.
“Did you call the guys? Are we starting here?” Gib, Milo and Sam usually pitched in to dig out the girls and the bakery. With Ben in the mix, it should go fast. Of course, now they had to shovel out Sam’s bakery, Daphne’s apartment, Ben and Ivy’s new digs, and here. If anyone else joined their little group, Gib might have to break down and buy a snowblower.
“Ben and Sam swung by Daphne’s already. Figured you wouldn’t want to be seen over there this morning. Or more to the point,” Milo said archly, “she wouldn’t want to see you.”
Here it comes, Gib thought. Although he’d spent several hours braced for a lecture, he hadn’t heard Milo come in last night. Probably because he’d been busy cutting a bloody swath through shoot ‘em up car chase game. Gib had plugged into headphones as soon as he finished scarfing down a hamburger and cold fries. He cranked the volume way up. Every crash, every gunshot, every siren vibrated into his skull. It was fast and violent and the perfect match for his hideous mood. He’d hammered at the joystick and buttons until his thumb gave out.
“You’ve got something to say? Spit it out, man,” Gib ordered. Might as well get the ass-kicking over with.
Milo opened his mouth. Closed it. Walked to the front closet and pulled out their shovels. Handing one to Gib, he said, “You look like crap. Did you get any sleep?”
“Not really.” He’d finally shut down the game after two. But lying in bed repeating every instant of his epic fail with Daphne wasn’t the same as actual sleep. That didn’t come till probably close to dawn.
“Do you feel as bad as you look?”
Doubtful. He’d have to be turned into pulverized raw meat to look as wrung out as he felt. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” Milo patted him on the back, then opened the front door. The good thing about snow was that it actually kept the temperature relatively warm. Well, above zero. But the shock of cold, especially so soon after crawling out of his warm bed, stole Gib’s breath away. The heavy silence peculiar to a blizzard muted the usual white noise of the city. Then a sharp crunch drew his attention to Ben and Sam digging their shovels into the snow.
Behind them sat two snowmen. When nature dumped this much, they usually made snowmen that represented their friends. Always something pink on Ivy’s, and a Bears hat on Daphne’s. On today’s version in front of his house, one wore Milo’s favorite purple beret. The other had a licorice vine mouth turning down. In front of it, lying in the snow, were two meatballs and a sausage link. It looked…suggestive, to say the least.
“What’s that supposed to be?” he asked.
Ben leaned on the handle of his shovel. “Well, the way we hear it, Daphne pretty much castrated you last night. Figured we’d make your snowman true to life.”
Gib couldn’t help but laugh. It was damn funny. “Well done.” He tugged on his gloves.
“You okay?” Sam asked.
“Not even close.” Gib started shoveling. Ideally, he’d shovel till he sweated through his many layers. He’d shovel a mile straight if it meant he’d be worn out enough to catch some sleep. Sam shoveled next to him. Milo started digging out the powdery lump of his Mini Cooper. Ben, however, still leaned on his shovel, just watching. And staring.
“You know, Daphne didn’t rat you out,” said Ben. “She texted Ivy and Mira when she left the restaurant. Just said she’d walked out on you and was headed home. Then radio silence for the rest of the night.”
Which explained why the girls hadn’t pounded down his door before midnight, intent on revenge. Nice to know she’d stuck by her promise to not let their relationship status affect the group as a whole. “Good.”
“Remember, we did promise to tear you a new one if you hurt our girl,” Sam added, in a calm, conversational tone. “So what happened?”
“I screwed up. I was a complete and utter pratt. A wanker.” Gib buried his shovel too deep and couldn’t lift it. In the process his feet slid out from under him. Ass first, he sank into the wet snow. Fuck. The rate he was going, soaked-through trousers would be the high point of his day. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yup,” Sam agreed. He tossed a shovelful of snow over Gib’s head.
“In so damn many ways.” Ben held up his hands and began to tick off points. “For not noticing the hotness of your best friend for how many years? For not asking her out the moment you kissed her. For whatever monumentally stupid thing you did that made her walk out on you at a restaurant that Ivy reminded me she’s wanted to try since before her mom died.”
“Christ.” The memory zapped into his head with the stab of a red-hot barbecue fork. It shoveled a whole fresh layer of shit onto the already-steaming pile of mistakes he’d made with Daphne. “The promise her mom made about taking her there for graduation. I forgot.”
That stopped Sam midthrow. “You forgot?” he growled.
“I’ve known her for less than a year, and even I knew the story.” Ben shook his head in disgust. Gib didn’t blame him. “So why did you take her there?”
“It’s my go-to when I want to impress a woman. They all love it. The Signature Room pulls out all the stops for me. It’s a no-brainer.” Gib knew how bad that sounded. He’d known since Daphne hurled her spot-on accusations at him. Standing, he went
back to shoveling without bothering to brush himself off. Frostbite would be his penance. It wouldn’t be enough, but it’d be a start.
“Right place for the wrong reason.” Ben shook his head. “Man, if Daphne figured out what you did—”
Gib cut him off. After the way she stormed out, it wasn’t even a question. “I’m quite sure she did.”
“Five minutes into this story, and you’re already coming off as a royal douche bag. Is there more?”
So much more. Too much. “I did everything possible wrong last night, except call her by the wrong name. I made Daphne feel like any woman, instead of the woman. The worst part is that she had to point it out to me.”
“You’ve been very, very bad, Gibson.” Milo panted as he dug around the back wheels. “It goes without saying that you’re on dish-washing duty in the apartment for at least a month. I think the moldings need to be dusted, too.”
“Our housecleaners do that once a month.”
“Not this month. Not once I tell them you’ve volunteered to get on your hands and knees and take care of it.”
Gib preferred the idea of shoveling away his frustration and disappointment. But dusting still sounded better than Sam and Ben taking turns using him as a punching bag. “Fine. I’ll take whatever punishment you all think I deserve. On one condition.”
Sam pulled off his scarf and threw it toward the front door. Unzipped his coat. Resumed his steady shoveling. “What’s that?”
This was what had kept him tossing and turning all night. “Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to get a second chance with Daphne.”
“Easy.” Milo bounded forward. “You get on your flying carpet, swing past King Solomon’s mine, pick up the magic brass lantern and rub it until a genie pops out.”
Smart-ass. “I’m serious.”
“You took a shot.” Sam pretended to lob a basketball into the air. “You missed. End of story. Suck it up.”
Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 17