Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3)

by Christi Barth

  An abrupt jolt to a stop tumbled Gib off the bench entirely. The sharp ache in his elbow was worth it as he looked up at Daphne. Legs splayed open, panties just visible, long, golden locks of hair cascading down her shoulders to brush her ribs, she was a vision of smoldering sex. One he’d never forget. But then she opened her eyes, looked down at him and burst into laughter. He joined a second later.

  “I only paid for the half-hour ride. In case you didn’t like it.”

  “Oh, I liked it…fine.” She put her clothes to rights and sat up. “You’re certainly rounding all the bases on this date.” A sudden flush turned her cheeks the color of June strawberries. “I mean, doing everything right. Not those bases.”

  “I’m not as up on baseball as I am on cricket, but I know all about those bases. Pretty sure I just scored a triple.” He knelt to zip up her jacket. Used the zipper pull to tug her forward. “Care to go for another inning?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A life with love will have some thorns, but a life without love will have no roses ~ Anonymous

  Gib pushed open the glass door to his office suite with his shoulder. Both hands were full of an enormous white box, tied up with the brown Lyons Bakery ribbon.

  “Agatha, you look particularly lovely this morning. New dress? New hair?”

  His assistant blinked at him. “I bleached my mustache last night. Thanks for noticing.”

  Now he wished he hadn’t asked. But it couldn’t dampen his mood. “A subtle but vital change. Stunning.” Gib set the box on her desk. Shrugging out of his coat, he tossed it on the tree in the corner.

  Agatha pushed her chair back and gripped the edge of the desk. Hard lines grooved around the edge of her mouth. “Are you drunk?”

  “Of course not.” Punch-drunk, maybe. But that didn’t count. “Have you ever known me to come to the office impaired in any way?”

  “Sometimes, after you work out with Ben at lunch, you aren’t at the top of your game when you come back.”

  That stung. Gib made a mental note to add an extra fifteen laps the next time he hit the pool. “It’s got nothing to do with Ben. He can barely keep up with me on his best days. I simply like to push myself.” Grabbing the scissors, he slit the tape at the sides of the pastry box.

  “You’re not drunk. And you’re definitely not a morning person. But you’re acting like you had a gallon of happy juice for breakfast. Did you win the lottery last night?”

  “Perhaps I did.” She shot out of her chair, eyes wild. Gib roared with laughter. “Sit down. It was a figure of speech, nothing more.”

  “You shouldn’t joke about winning millions of dollars. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry. I can make it better, though.” He flung open the lid of the box. The rich scent of cinnamon and sugar steamed out in a cloud. “Did you know it’s National Oatmeal Month? My friends at Aisle Bound filled me in on that utterly useless piece of trivia.”

  “Your friends? Or one in particular?” Agatha tapped her pen against her cheek. “Maybe one with blond hair?”

  “There you go, jumping to conclusions again. Or is it listening at doors?”

  “A good assistant hears everything, and says nothing.”

  “You, keeping your opinions to yourself? That’ll be the day.” And he didn’t want her to. Agatha was a vital cog in the hotel’s machinery. She knew everyone, knew everything, and best of all, knew how to get things done. He relied on her as much as he relied on his laptop and cell phone. “Besides, I need your wise counsel.”

  “Don’t you forget it.” The twinkle in her eyes belied the stern crease between her eyebrows.

  Back to the treats. “We should celebrate this ridiculous, honorary day. So I’ve got cranberry oatmeal muffins, and oatmeal white-chocolate cookies. Get that new kid in the kitchen, Jose, to bring up a stack of napkins. Pitcher of milk and some glasses. We’ll do it up right. Be sure he eats his fill, too.”

  “You do know that Christmas is over? Because you were overly generous to the entire staff for the last month. We all appreciated it. But I have to wonder why you’re suddenly celebrating something as lowly as a grain holiday.”

  Agatha knew Daphne, knew how deep their friendship ran. She popped over all the time to visit him, or to meet before going out to dinner. As he didn’t have an older sister to confide in, Gib decided to share the real reason for his great mood.

  “I had a date last night.”

  She sniffed dismissively, swiveled back around to face her computer. “If you brought cookies in every time you had a date, we’d all be as puffy as those balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.”

  Gib grinned. “I had a date with Daphne. Not a one-off, not a hookup. A real date. And we’re going to do it again.”

  “Oh. Oh my.” Whipping a tissue out of her sleeve, Agatha dabbed at her eyes. “That is good news.”

  He circled the desk, sank onto his haunches beside her chair. “Why are you crying?”

  With her large, arthritic hands, she patted his fist. Sniffled again. “You’re such a good man. You care about every employee here, from the dishwashers to the bellmen to the executive chef, as if they were family. And you’re a good manager. I helped you with the P&L reports to the corporate office. I know our profits are up, even with the past few years of recession.”

  Flippant praise from naked, grateful women he could take. Sweaty, shoulder-patting praise after beating Ben by a good ten minutes in a five-mile jog along the lake. The gush of praise from Agatha made him uncomfortable in the extreme. His job mattered. He didn’t get a paycheck for just showing up every day. Gib had to make everyone, both staff and guests, feel important. Quite simply, because they were. In his mind, that didn’t merit any praise. Standing, he backed away from her desk. “A speech like that, are you angling for a raise?”

  “You’ve such a way about you, and so good-looking. But I worried you’d never let your guard down enough to open yourself up to love. Which would just be a tragedy. You deserve love.”

  “Whoa.” Gib held up both hands. “Nobody said anything about love. Don’t make this bigger than it is. Yes, I’m happy today. Yeah, I’m going to see Daphne again this week. One step at a time.”

  She gave him a penetrating look. The kind his nanny used to give him when he snuck his brussels sprouts into his napkin. Damn it, she couldn’t make him squirm. He was the boss, not the other way around. Gib shot his cuffs, adjusted his already-impeccable Windsor knot. And waited for the standoff to end.

  With a sigh, Agatha picked up the phone and called the kitchen. Right. Gib grabbed a muffin and sauntered into his office. Love. Wasn’t it just like a woman to leap ahead like that? Good thing Daphne was more sensible. He sat down, but set the muffin aside. Didn’t turn on his computer. Instead, he steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk.

  Was she? After all, she did own half of a wedding company with Ivy, the biggest romance addict in the world. Daphne spent all day, every day, putting together flowers to celebrate other people’s love. Amid their horror and classic-movie marathons, she did force him to watch a few chick flicks. Kept her parents’ wedding photo on the mantel in a burnished gold frame.

  Sure, she didn’t talk about it much. Over the years, she’d dated casually, hooked up a few times. Didn’t seem to have that diamond-ring-focused mind-set. Of course, until last night, he hadn’t even known about her secret yen for jewelry. Last night had been perfect. Funny, he’d never thought he’d describe any night that involved talking about his family as perfect. Yet he’d felt a million pounds lighter after finally telling her. Their make-out session in the carriage had been so hot it was amazing the snow on the road hadn’t simply evaporated. And they’d laughed for hours over pizza and beers. Followed by more slow, sweet kisses in between bites of ice cream at his apartment. At least, until Milo came home and plopped down on the couch next to them. Did one good date mean she now had expectations? Ones that he was by no means capable of fulfilling?

  Fuck.
Suddenly he regretted sleeping with Doc Debra. It probably meant that he couldn’t go back to her for advice on this. Gib worried he needed advice. Under normal circumstances, he’d turn to Daphne. But that option was off the table. He could only imagine how she’d take an oh-so-casual question about whether or not she realized how huge a step he’d taken, just by committing to try a relationship. That love and a fairy-tale ending just weren’t in the cards for him. Not now, at least. Would she cut him loose?

  He couldn’t risk it. Damned if he’d call it love, but damned if he’d lose this woman who was so much a part of him, either. One day at a time. That’s how they’d proceed. Daphne would be fine with it. Probably. Hopefully. And maybe he would give Doc Debra a call. See if she wanted to meet for coffee. Someplace public—not his hotel, with all its available rooms—so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea. Maybe she’d let him pick her brain one more time.

  The phone buzzed. Gib jabbed it to speakerphone. “Gibson Moore. How may I help you?”

  “Monsieur Moore, it is a pleasure to hear your voice again.” The smooth, French-accented voice belonged to not his North American regional manager, but Phillipe Goudreau, the vice president in charge of his division. Gib had worked with the man during his initial training in Geneva. As he rose through the ranks, Goudreau did as well. Once a year, Cavendish Grand flew all their managers in for a weeklong meeting. Depending on your performance, it could also entail a public verbal flogging, or the presentation of a coveted crystal-and-gold-etched award. Gib glanced at the case on his wall, which held three such awards. Chatting with Goudreau at the annual meeting didn’t bother him at all. Receiving an unscheduled call from him, however, raised Gib’s hackles.

  “Phillipe. Hope you enjoyed the holidays.” He sped through his mental Rolodex to come up with the name of the man’s wife. “Did you get some skiing in at St. Moritz with Eloise and your sons?”

  “Some. A blizzard rolled in, confined us to the resort for two days. We stayed at the Kempinski, so it wasn’t much of a hardship. Excellent powder after that, though.”

  “Good to hear.” To hell with the small talk. This call couldn’t be good news. He’d rather get right to it. Gib couldn’t begin to imagine why Goudreau would call. As Agatha had said, his hotel had exceeded its goals for the last eleven straight quarters. They had the usual amount of workers comp claims, and a few outstanding wrongful dismissal suits. One woman who’d been in litigation with them for nine months, claiming their hotel was responsible for her husband’s shacking up with stewardesses twice a week. Nothing out of the norm. “I know it’s almost the end of your workday in Switzerland, so what can I do for you?”

  “This must remain confidential. For the moment.”

  “Of course.”

  “The Castellan Compagnie has purchased the Cavendish Grand.”

  Gib’s mind reeled. There hadn’t been so much as a hint of an imminent takeover. But Goudreau didn’t call just to pass on company gossip. Undoubtedly there’d be a memo circulated to all managers addressing the purchase. Why the personal notification? He braced for the worst. Said in a calm voice, “Quite surprising. Didn’t we just change hands ten years ago?”

  “Oui. Priorities change, cash flow ebbs and flows—and so here we are. We’ll describe it as a merger, of course. But the fact remains that they now own a controlling interest. The good news is that they want to keep the Cavendish Grand brand separate, worldwide.”

  Terrific. Minimal absorption, minimal turnover. Probably nothing more than a change of the company masthead. Maybe a vacation policy or two. The fists Gib didn’t realize he’d made relaxed. “That is good news.”

  “Eh, but there is bad news, as well. Castellan is very conscious of the intricacies of doing business on an international level. Being mindful of national pride…how do you say, quirks?”

  It would help if Gib could figure out exactly what Goudreau was trying to say. Would they have to fly the flag of every country that boasted a Cavendish Grand? Start providing menus in ten different languages? “Not sure where you’re headed with this, Philippe.”

  “They do not want their American hotel managed by a foreigner. It presents the wrong image. No Frenchmen in London, no Italians in Munich—you get the idea, non?”

  No. Fuck no. Gib stood, paced to the window and pressed his head against the cold metal of the frame. Stared down at the bumper-to-bumper line of cars barely moving down Michigan Avenue. Couldn’t see through the four blocks of buildings between him and the lake, but knew it was there. No matter where he went in Chicago, the presence of Lake Michigan hung over the city, just like the canals in Venice or the Danube River in Budapest. And he loved it. Loved the lake, the city, his whole life here. No bloody way would he give it up without a fight.

  “Philippe, you’re going to have to spell it out for me. Because my personnel file is bulging with exemplary reviews, early promotions, bonuses. I’m staring at a case full of accolades and trophies, so you need to say exactly what it is you mean.”

  The sound of shuffling papers. A throat clearing that attested to Philippe’s pack a day habit. “Due to your British citizenship, Castellan will no longer permit you to work at any Cavendish in the United States. They are happy, however, to offer you the opportunity to manage the Cavendish Grand London. Once an opening arises. Until such time, there is an assistant manager position open in London.”

  “I’m not just losing my job here, I’m getting demoted?” Gib couldn’t hold back his temper any longer. Not like this was a video conference. He pounded the flat of his hand against the wall. “No. Absolutely not. I’m staying in Chicago.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Watch me,” he growled, equal parts a threat and a promise.

  “No, Gibson, you cannot stay in Chicago. You have two weeks to wrap up your affairs and transfer to London. Otherwise Castellan will terminate your employment—which means your American work visa will be revoked. One way or the other, you will have to leave Chicago in two weeks. My apologies.” An aggrieved sigh followed. Gib could picture the Gallic shrug which inevitably accompanied it.

  He paced back to the desk. Leaned over to brace his hands on it. Wasn’t as satisfying as getting in Goudreau’s face, but from four thousand miles away, it would have to suffice. “This is bullshit. I don’t display a Union Jack in my office. Keep my mouth shut about politics. Hell, we’ve hosted the president twice in the last year. If anything, our guests get a kick out of my accent.”

  “You misunderstand. This isn’t a personal vendetta. It is an across-the-board policy being instituted. As black-and-white as our sick leave. Human Resources ran a report for everyone with foreign worker visas. There are multiple employees equally affected by this new policy. It applies to concierges, front desk managers, catering executives…how do you think the assistant manager position just happened to be open? We’re shuttling people all around the globe.”

  If Gib was still manager, he’d care. He’d even offer to help in whatever small way possible. But right now it took all his control not to stalk over to that fucking display case and start lobbing awards through the window.

  Silence for a few beats from Philippe. “It pains me to remove you from your position. It is true, you have been tres magnifique as manager. If only you were an American, you could continue to head up Cavendish Chicago for years. I wish there were some other way. Let me know what you decide. Au revoir.”

  The drone of a dial tone filled his office. Gib didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because when a black hole of bureaucracy swallowed up the life you’d worked so hard to create, what was the point?

  How could they do this? How could some faceless human resources exec who wanted to make his mark at Castellan so carelessly fuck with people’s lives? Years of training. Years of sixty-, even seventy-hour weeks, proving himself. Proving his worth to his supervisors. Once the awards started rolling in, profits edged up, proving his worth to the company.

  All that rendered meaningless. No discussion. N
o chance to present his case. Hell, he’d be gone before it was time to get another haircut. The enormity of this change felt the same as a sucker punch straight to his balls. Knocked the breath out of him. Cemented him to the spot, still hunched over his desk. Erased every other thought from his mind.

  His office door burst open. Pink cheeked and beaming from ear to ear, Daphne said, “Geez, why didn’t you tell me you were going to Lyons? Would’ve saved me a trip—” Her voice faded out. Dropping her coat to the floor, she rushed to him. Threw an arm around his shoulders. “Gib, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you having a heart attack? Panic attack? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No.”

  “No to which?”

  “All of it. Everything.” Gib let her press him back into his chair. Knees folded automatically, just like he kept breathing. Registered the outside chill clinging to her hair as it swung across his face. The fresh scent of crushed flowers that clung to her fingers as she stroked his cheek. Daphne must’ve unloaded an early shipment today. He saw the worry line indented between her eyebrows. None of it mattered. Like Han Solo encased in carbonite, nothing penetrated his layer of icy anger.

  Cool lips brushed his. Once. Twice. On the third time, Gib’s lips responded involuntarily. No thought, just reaction. The way his heart knew to beat. The way his hand curled around a cricket bat. A soft warmth spread from her lips to radiate through his body. Still working on autopilot, he grabbed, twisted her to land in his lap without breaking their lip-lock. Daphne curled into his embrace with a soft moan.

  He speared his hand through her hair. God, it felt like satin and sex rippling through his fingers. Gib opened her lips. Hungrily swept in to lick the sensations straight from her tongue. His other hand slid down to cup that sweet, heart-shaped ass.