Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  “You really think mentioning the possibility of seeing a gorgeous girl half-naked is an incentive to start knocking?” Ben lurched forward to swing Daphne in a circle, ending with a dip that had her bent backward over his leg. “What man wouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of this knockout pulling a Lady Godiva impersonation? After all, what’s a little nudity between friends?”

  Daphne clutched tightly at his neck. Ben sported impressive biceps from his years spent hauling around video cameras. Still, she did have an unholy addiction to sweets that might push him past his limit. Flattening her ass by landing on it didn’t sound like any fun. “Please. You’re so besotted with Ivy, you wouldn’t notice if I stripped naked and did a hula dance with flaming batons in both hands.”

  On the heels of her teasing words, the rest of her friends tumbled through the open door. They promptly stopped at the sight of Daphne in Ben’s arms. To cap it off, his movement was enough to loose her hair from its topknot. It swung down to brush the floor. Daphne’s eyes skittered to Gib. He wore, what was for him, supremely casual attire of a cashmere sweater over an oxford shirt, slacks and a thoroughly bemused expression.

  “Maybe I misunderstood the American take on this holiday. I thought that last night was supposed to be the debauched party. Free rein to drink to excess, grope at will and kiss anyone at the stroke of midnight? But then New Year’s Day was merely about recovery and football. Did I get the order wrong?”

  Five seconds in the door and he’d mentioned kissing already. How was she supposed to not think about those sensational seconds of lip-lock if he kept bringing it up? And it would’ve been nice for an iota of jealousy to darken his eyes at seeing her in Ben’s arms. So what if that would’ve only happened on the unlikely chance he’d had a revelation that Daphne was his mystery kisser? It was unlikely, not impossible. A girl could dream, right? Or was she just steeping herself deeper in misery by continuing to hope?

  Ben popped her back to vertical. “Nah, you can still keep your green card. You got it right. But it does sort of make me wonder how you Brits celebrate.”

  “Mostly the same, although we do open the door at the stroke of midnight to let the old year out. And don’t think you can distract me from the burning question of why you and Daphne were embracing. I think this is a story we’d all like to hear.”

  “Question for the men.” He beckoned Sam and Gib forward with a crook of his finger. “All things being equal, if you knew you had a shot at catching Daphne without any clothes on, would that make you more or less inclined to knock before entering?”

  Sam ran a hand through his thick, dark hair with a sheepish look back at his fiancée. Mira laughed. Uncrossing her arms from the front of her blue cashmere sweater, she gestured for him to go ahead. “I can’t wait to hear your answer.”

  “As a card-carrying, red-blooded man, I appreciate any chance to observe a beautiful woman. Especially when naked. And every woman in this apartment is beautiful.”

  Gib clapped slowly, with overly big waves of his arms. “Oh, well done. You skirted the minefield and dropped a compliment. Have you been going to charm school in your spare time, Sam?”

  “Just inspired, I guess.” He shot Mira a look so drenched in love that it took Daphne’s breath away. The hollow feeling left behind in her diaphragm reminded her of the brunch items cooling by the minute on the counter.

  “Grab a seat anywhere,” she ordered. Was it silly and schoolgirlish to hope that there’d be room for her to sit down next to Gib? Stupid. Their kiss hadn’t changed anything. He’d made that very clear. She’d grab a pillow and sit on the floor. And be happy about it, damn it. “There’s coffee and hot cocoa, both spiked and non, since most of us were too busy working last night to get our drink on.”

  Ben licked his lips. “I’m a big fan of cocoa, and the peppermint schnapps is inspired. But Ivy mentioned there was more to this than just a recovery breakfast?”

  Oh, yes. The memory was like a cloud darkening her normally sunny heart. Daphne shifted from one foot to the other. She hated being the focus of attention, even amid friends. Caught an encouraging smile from Ivy and launched forward with the recitation that never grew less painful, no matter how many times she gave it.

  “Let me catch the new people up to speed. In exactly fifteen minutes, the Rose Parade will start.”

  Mira wrinkled her brow, thought for a moment. “Floats, flowers and marching bands, right?”

  Plucking the drawstring at her waist, Daphne nodded. No matter how many years passed, this story would never be an easy one to tell. “That’s the one. My mother adored flowers, and helped decorate the floats when she was in high school. It was always a crazy week, sticking petals and seeds on for twelve hours a day or more. But she said it was a week spent in heaven, because she ate, breathed and slept flowers. So once she moved out here to go to Northwestern, she still watched the parade every year.”

  “You can take the girl out of California, but not the California out of the girl,” mused Gib. He tossed his parka onto the growing pile on the coat tree.

  “Exactly.” She smiled, remembering her mother diligently squirting lemon juice over her blond hair on May 1, no matter how cold, and sitting in the sun to “rinse out winter.” “But not everyone in the Midwest thought it was as big a deal. So to talk my dad into three hours of watching flowers roll by at five miles an hour, she always bribed him with a big brunch.”

  “With the legendary cranberry cinnamon rolls.” Gib patted his stomach and sighed. Daphne tried not to wonder if he made that same sigh when being licked like a man-sicle. “I swear, no disrespect, mate, but they’re better than the ones at Lyons.”

  Sam feinted a right hook. “I’d punch you in the arm for that insult, if it wasn’t so true. Ben, I know you’ve got a dedicated sweet tooth. These cinnamon rolls will make your eyes roll back in your head.”

  “It grew into a big family tradition. All four of my brothers would sit, trying to pretend they weren’t spellbound, as long as they could shovel more rolls in their mouths. And when she died—” Her voice caught, just for a second. Years had passed, but the pain somehow could still spike as fresh as the day it happened.

  Ivy put an arm around her waist, then leaned her head over to rest on Daphne’s. “Do you need a tissue?”

  “Tissues only treat the symptom. A shot of vodka, now that would cure the problem,” Ben suggested with a nod of sage wisdom.

  Daphne sniffed. No crying allowed. This was supposed to be a happy morning. Bad enough she’d moistened her pillow over Gib already today. “It wasn’t my idea, that first year. Dad disappeared into the kitchen on New Year’s Eve. After about an hour he came out and begged me to help. Tears in his eyes, covered in flour from head to toe. He’d wanted to surprise all of us with the rolls, as a way to keep the memory of Mom with us. Cooking wasn’t really his strong suit, though. We’d been living on takeout and spaghetti in the four months since she’d died.”

  She and her brothers had ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. None of them had believed they’d miss having Mom insist on a salad with their meat loaf, or get tired of eating burgers and fries. But even teenagers had limits. The older boys started eating at their girlfriends’ houses most nights, and the family van slowly grew a carpet of wrappers and unused ketchup packets.

  “Dad remembered that I’d always helped Mom roll them out the night before, and hoped I could figure out where he’d gone wrong. I’ve made them every year since. And it did help. We cried a bit that first year—all of us—but as the years went by, even after my brothers went off to college, they made sure to be home to watch the parade. It’s harder now that they have families. Dad started spending New Year’s in Minneapolis with Nick and his first set of grandbabies. So I keep the tradition going, with my extended family—all of you.”

  Dampness sparkled in Mira’s eyes. “Well, that’s a thoroughly be
autiful story. I think I’m too choked up to be able to swallow.”

  “Then you’re missing out. Dry up the waterworks by the time the parade starts, or I’m eating your share,” Gib threatened.

  His lighthearted tone erased Daphne’s own melancholy. “Don’t worry. I expanded the menu a bit this year. Nobody’s going hungry.” She carried the last tray over from the kitchen counter to the oval coffee table.

  “There’s an egg and ham casserole, brown-sugar bacon, sausages, fruit salad with a lime and yogurt sauce, ginger-carrot muffins, and, of course, the famous cranberry cinnamon rolls. Oh, and a pitcher of Bloody Marys, along with the coffee and hot chocolate.”

  After gaping at her for a second, Gib bowed with a dramatic flourish. “You are a kitchen goddess.”

  Daphne wanted to stomp her foot at the nice compliment. She’d far prefer to hold out for a compliment on her bedroom skills. Would rather make him drool with lust than with actual hunger.

  Ben hustled into the living room to peruse the heaping platters. Sam followed him like a hound dog flushing prey. “Yeah, this is a fantastic spread. You really hit it out of the park this time, Daph.”

  Ivy, on the other hand, didn’t budge. Instead, she fisted her hands on her hips and scowled. Her stern demeanor was at odds with the festive look of her pink-and-white polka-dot sweater topping fuchsia skinny jeans. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Most of the time you subsist on pizza and pb&js. Trust me, I paid close attention while I was your roommate. Your indomitable metabolism freaks me out and infuriates me.”

  Mira nodded. “Every time you eat cookies all day long and not gain a pound? It’s like you’re giving women everywhere the middle finger. So not fair.”

  Ivy held her ground. “You only cook this much when you’re stressed out. There’s enough food here for at least a dozen people. Come on, you know I’m just going to pester you until you tell me.”

  Nope. No reason to share last night’s humiliation with her friends. Their sympathy would only get her all churned up again. Daphne needed to not think about Gib and his lips. They were friends. Best friends. As close as siblings. And it was eight kinds of ooky to think about craving the lips of an almost-brother. Or so she kept telling herself. “Pester away. But you’ll waste your breath. I’m fine. We’re a bigger crowd this year now that Ben and Mira are part of our circle. Just thought I’d throw a real brunch like a grown-up. You know, start the year off right.”

  “Uh-huh.” Clearly unconvinced, Ivy gave her the stink eye for another moment, then moved into the living room.

  Interrogation averted, Daphne grabbed her mug of minty cocoa. She posed in front of the holly-and-pine-framed fireplace, arm raised. “I’d like to make a toast. To my mother, Shelly Lovell, who I miss every day. And to all of you, for making the supreme sacrifice of crawling out of bed before noon to share my little tradition. Happy New Year.”

  They all echoed her toast, clinking ceramic mugs. But when Daphne tried to sit down, Ivy held up a restraining hand.

  “You’re not finished yet. Before we start in on this orgy of food, you have to explain the centerpiece.”

  Could she blame the crackling fire for her suddenly flushed cheeks? Daphne didn’t mind her flowers being in the spotlight. But she never liked that light shining on her. Discussing her geeky obsession with the Victorian floriography would be sure to bore her friends to tears. “Nobody cares about that.”

  “They will once you explain it. Daphne’s big on the language of flowers.” Ivy pointed to the low glass bowl, full of shiny greenery and spiky blue flowers. “If she took the time to make a special centerpiece for today, it means something.”

  Mira bent over to sniff the display. “Ooh, lovers used to send secret messages through nosegays and boutonnieres, right? That might be fun to highlight at A Fine Romance. Maybe highlight a flower of the month and its meaning.”

  “If she starts brainstorming for the store, we’ll lose her for at least an hour. Especially if Ivy joins in.” Sam pressed a tender kiss to Mira’s forehead. “Reel her back on topic, Daphne.”

  “Well, there’s rosemary, for remembrance. For my mom.”

  “Nice,” Gib said as he scooped a spoonful of eggs onto his plate.

  Daphne ran her fingers through the fluffy greens. “Parsley, for festivity.”

  “Great.” Ben plucked off a leaf and popped it in his mouth. “When brunch is over, you can dump it into a pot and make stew. And when you do, count me in for a bowl.”

  “Very funny. After the workout I gave my pots and pans this morning, I probably won’t be cooking again until the spring thaw.”

  Gib used the tongs holding a fat sausage link to point at the cluster of tiny white berries. “Isn’t that mistletoe? I’ve seen a bunch of it over the past month. Our head housekeeper, Letitia, keeps hanging it over the time-card punch station. I’ve tried explaining to her that it’s inappropriate, but she’s got her eye on one of the maître d’s. She thinks trapping him under mistletoe is the only way to get him to notice her.”

  “Might work,” said Sam.

  “True,” Gib conceded.

  Ben loaded two cinnamon rolls onto his plate, leaving a drizzle of thick icing across the table. “You of all people should be in her corner.”

  “Not in the least. I’ve never dipped into the company well. Too dangerous. Rife with complication to get involved in the workplace, and twice as bad since I’m the manager. Regardless, a built-in kissing station is a bad idea with three hundred employees of both genders.”

  A kissing station at Gib’s work. Daphne was sure the maître d’ wasn’t the only man that housekeeper hoped to trap into a secret smooch. “Mistletoe means I surmount all difficulties. I thought it would be a positive affirmation to start the year.”

  Gib barked out a laugh. “What’s the flower to avoid all difficulties? Seems easier.”

  Men. Always wanting a short cut. “The language of flowers is rather limited. It’s not like that full Klingon dictionary you bought last Halloween.”

  “I wanted to be able to converse with all women, no matter their nationality. And trust me, those Star Trek nuts are quite keen to show their appreciation if you go the extra mile.”

  “Gib, you’re incorrigible,” Mira laughed. “What’s the tall flower?”

  Daphne appreciated being pulled off the detour her mind took in picturing Gib rolling around in bed with a lusty, green-skinned Trekkie. “As my former roommate, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that one. It’s hyssop, for cleanliness. You know, that thing I’m woefully lacking? Sort of my New Year’s resolution. To de-clutter and remember to clean before it gets so bad I can write my name in the dust on the mantel.”

  “This is the year you’re going to land a man,” Gib declared.

  Was it upside-down-backward day? Had he figured out his best kiss ever came from his best friend? Was he about to offer himself up to her, and maybe carry her off to the bedroom to finish what they’d barely begun? “What do you mean?”

  “Surmounting difficulties? Keeping the place tidy so it’s always prepared for an unexpected visitor? Obviously you’re on the prowl.” He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Now that Mira and Ivy are cozily hooked up, you’ve decided that it’s your turn to bag a trophy.”

  “Better than your catch-and-release habit.” Her retort tumbled out automatically, the way they always yanked each other’s chain. It was the most normal she’d felt conversing with him since the kiss. Maybe Daphne could recalibrate her emotions. Go back to their standard friendship, unimpeded by her unrelenting lust.

  “Hey, nobody gets hurt my way.”

  And normalcy disappeared just that fast, pinched off like a dead flower. “Want to bet?”

  Ben sank cross-legged onto the pale purple throw rug in front of the fir
eplace. “I know somebody Gib wants to catch—and keep.”

  Ivy pounced on his announcement. “Who?”

  “The mysterious Cinderella from last night’s wedding.”

  Freezing in place, Daphne tried not to react. Nobody needed to know that her heart had just sped up in an almost opposite amount that time had suddenly slowed down.

  Sam shook his head. “You’ve really gone round the bend on this girl. You talked me deaf in one ear about it last night.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it now.” Gib stood abruptly, heading to the kitchen to top off a mug that looked suspiciously still full of coffee.

  “Oh, I think we do,” said Ivy. She perched on the purple sofa arm next to Sam. “Gibson texted me three times last night, begging for the guest list to the wedding. He has some ridiculous notion that I’d violate the privacy of my bride and let him phone up every single female guest.”

  Sam scratched his head. “What’s your game plan? Just burst out with, hey, did ya happen to kiss a random stranger during the blackout?”

  “Seems like a straightforward question.” Gib sat back down, irritation obvious in his stiff spine and clenched jaw. It made Daphne want to stroke a soothing hand from those chiseled cheekbones down to his lickable lips. God, why couldn’t she stop looking at him like a playground of passion? That kiss unlocked a door she’d dead-bolted shut for years, and now she couldn’t find a mental crowbar to slam it back into lockdown.

  Ivy pursed her lips. “It seems like a way to piss off about—what—a hundred or so women?”

  “Why—did you change your mind? Will you give me the list?” Hope bubbled off his voice.

  “Of course not. But if your kisses are as spectacular as you claim, maybe your Cinderella will come looking for you.”

  Mira waved her napkin in the air to interrupt. “Speaking of dating, I need a favor.”