Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

Ben made sense. Gib couldn’t dispute a single point he’d made. Chasing this woman over the internet could easily cause embarrassment both personally and professionally. No woman was worth that. He had a great life. Why do anything to change it?

  He sat on the bench to put on his running trainers. “You’re right. And you’ve stopped me from making a total cock-up.”

  “What the hell?” Ben’s startled gaze swung straight to Gib’s groin. “Since when is your cock up, and why are we talking about it?”

  Barking out a laugh, Gib fig-leafed his hands. “Sorry. Don’t wig out on me. It’s slang. The British version, at any rate. A cock-up is a big mess.”

  “Huh. I’d recommend you never, ever use that phrase in a locker room again.”

  Gib pointed at the door, and waited for Ben to exit into the weight room. “You’re chock-full of good advice today. It’s kind of like hanging out with a spot-on fortune cookie.” He could joke with Ben, and resolve not to waste any more time looking for the girl with the luscious lips. He could put New Year’s Eve in his rearview mirror, and concentrate on the actual new year in front of him. But Gib knew that deep down, he’d never be able to forget exactly how she felt, how she tasted and how perfectly they meshed. Bloody hell.

  Chapter Four

  Hopes are planted in friendship’s garden where dreams blossom into priceless treasures

  ~ Anonymous

  Daphne pulled off her beloved Bears jersey, balled it up and tossed it in the corner. Comfortably ancient, she’d worn it in front of Gib a hundred times. Which was why she should wear it tonight. Make it just another ordinary night of them hanging out. Nothing special whatsoever. Two friends, no agendas, no tension, no unfulfilled sexual longings...damn it. She couldn’t fool herself. So how was she supposed to fool Gib into not noticing everything was different between them?

  Part of her wanted to crawl into yoga pants and a fleece. Play it cooler than cool. Another part of her wanted to slip on that aqua cashmere sweater Ivy had given her for Christmas. Low-cut and tight-fitting, it screamed date night. The last part of her brain wanted to strip completely down, lay herself out on the coffee table like an offering to the gods and hope like hell Gib took the bait. Obviously, her brain hadn’t really worked right since their kiss.

  Because she knew Gib wouldn’t take the bait. He’d probably ask her if all her clothes were in the laundry, then sit down in his usual spot on the couch and ignore her. The events of New Year’s Eve proved that he couldn’t begin to see her as anything but a buddy, a pal who just happened to have much longer hair than him. His indirect rejection that night had hurt worse than the two broken ribs she suffered during her days as captain of the high school field hockey team. She imagined that a direct, purposeful rejection by Gib would be somewhat on the level of being flayed alive.

  “Daph, he’ll be here any minute. Hurry up,” Mira yelled from the dining room.

  Right. Wouldn’t want to be caught fussing for the benefit of her sexy dinner partner for the sexiest dinner ever. To split the difference between loungewear and fit-to-be-seen-in-public wear, Daphne topped off her jeans with an oversize flannel shirt she’d borrowed from her brother Michael at Christmas. The garish red-and-green plaid screamed lumberjack, not sex kitten, even if it did occasionally slip off one shoulder.

  “How are you doing?” Mira hovered at her bedroom door.

  “Fine.” A strong slam of her sock drawer emphasized her calm, collected fine-ness. “At least I will be, after tonight. Gib and I are alone all the time. Once I get that behind me—without caving to more than five years of suppressed lust and sucking his lips right off his face—I’ll know that the weirdness of New Year’s Eve can be relegated to history.” Then she twitched at one set of the pale green sheers hanging from her canopy bed. “You making us do this ridiculous dinner together is good. I think. It’ll be totally normal.”

  Mira just stared at her for a minute while Daphne yanked on a pair of green socks so thick and fuzzy they could masquerade as slippers. Once she moved on to tugging her hair into two low pigtails, Mira crept forward to perch on the end of the bed. “Right now, it’s like you took normal and overdosed it on speed. Luckily, there are cocktails with dinner. Get a shot or two in you, and I bet you simmer down.”

  “Seriously? It’s not bad enough you’re making me eat food that’s supposed to stimulate naughty thoughts? You’re liquoring me up and loosening my inhibitions, too? Do you want me to utterly humiliate myself tonight?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m on your team. If Gib can’t recognize what an awesome woman you are, he doesn’t deserve you. Therefore, there shall be no throwing yourself at him. No matter what. And I’m sorry about the drinks, but we’re including the recipes in the aphrodisiac picnic pack. This is business. I asked for your help before I knew anything about the whole kissing fiasco, remember?”

  “Business. That’s good. I can come at tonight in full-on business mode. Ivy’s clients dither about their wedding menus and ask my opinion all the time.”

  “There you go. Now, I go.” Mira stood. “Don’t forget to take notes. And I left you guys some fun facts about aphrodisiacs that we want to add. Let me know if they’re informative, or just too much. Oh, and if by some miracle they actually work, I want to know that, too.”

  A loud hammering on the front door signaled Gib’s arrival. Daphne had left the door unlocked for him (as usual), and he hollered a hello (as usual). So far, a whopping five seconds in, everything was going great. “You and Sam have fun tonight.” She gave Mira a one-armed hug as they wandered down the hall.

  “Oh, we will. We’re doing our own food sampling tonight. A white-chocolate and raspberry truffle for Valentine’s Day, and a chocolate cherry bread pudding for the bakery.”

  “Want to trade?”

  “Nope. My tasting comes with the one thing you’ll be lacking—a serious serving of sex on the side.”

  “Wow. Does Sam know he’s marrying a woman with such a sadistic streak?” Daphne teased as she opened the door. And then she froze, watching Mira give Gib a peck on the cheek and hurry down the stairs. Mira leaving hammered home that she was about to spend the entire night with the man with movie-star good looks hanging his overcoat in the closet. Just the two of them. In that moment, Daphne realized that she’d done more than merely kiss Gib on New Year’s Eve. She’d opened a veritable Pandora’s box of emotions and longing. No force in the universe could tamp them back down. While she might talk a good game about keeping their friendship unchanged, it simply wouldn’t work.

  “You ready to get sexed up?” Gib growled in her ear as he grabbed her from behind. Both arms around her waist, he rocked her sideways playfully. Daphne barely felt the motion.

  She did feel the spread of his chest across her back, the way his lips brushed the crook of her neck. How his strong legs anchored on either side of hers, and how if she let herself droop, just a little, his fingers splayed across her midsection just might brush the bottom of her right breast. Oh, she was ready all right. Good thing the oversize shirt hid how blatantly her nipples had sprung to attention, craving his attention.

  “I’m game if you are,” Daphne said, in a rush.

  “Then we’d better get a move on. Snow’s starting to fall. I’m sure you don’t want me snowed in with you once this dinner gets me all worked up.” With one quick shake, he released her. From the sharp clip of his Italian loafers against the hardwood, Daphne could tell he’d headed into the dining room. Good thing he hadn’t stuck around. The image of being snowbound with an aroused Gib melted her knees to the consistency of slush. Daphne grabbed the end table for support.

  Ivy constantly begged her to come along to yoga class, and Daphne caved about once a month. Felt like a whole lot of standing around instead of exercise. If she wanted to stretch for an hour, she’d rather do it in front of a game on her plasma tv. The one t
hing she did like, though, was the nifty breathing technique hammered into her in the first class. When clients were stressful, or her weekly flower order arrived with ranunculus instead of roses, she’d push aside the stress with deep breathing.

  Unless a space pod full of slimy green aliens carrying ray guns materialized in her living room, she couldn’t imagine a more stressful situation than ignoring her body’s response to Gib. So Daphne slumped even lower and began the cycle. First, a deep, four-second breath in, then hold for seven seconds. But before she could release it, a sharp, masculine bark of laughter echoed down the hall.

  God, was he laughing at her? Had he seen her wobble? Humiliation hardened her knees and back until she was as straight as the Sears Tower. Turning around, she hurried the few steps into the dining room to brave whatever ridicule Gib heaped upon her.

  “Holy crap.”

  Gib laughed once more. “I agree. Our Mira really pulled out all the stops.”

  A row of votive candles flickered down the center of the dining table. Two multiarmed candelabras on the buffet reflected twice their light off of the mirror framed in white, wrought-iron curlicues across the room. Each pair of petaled place mats held a different course, on gilt chargers and glass plates, and a different set of drinks. In the background, the mellow sound of a saxophone wailed a melody over the rest of a jazz quartet. The only things missing were a velvet-covered round bed and a box of condoms.

  “I didn’t expect this. I thought she’d set out a plate with a couple of appetizers and some chocolate. This...this is too much. I’m going to kill her. In fact, I’ll call her right now and make her come back.” Daphne knew she was babbling. That her words were bulleting out so fast and so high she probably sounded like a squealing mouse. How could Mira have gone to these lengths? Was this some kind of cruel joke?

  “Calm down.” Gib laid a hand on her arm, which produced exactly the opposite reaction he’d requested. “She just set the stage for us. We’re actors tonight, remember? Two people using food to romance each other.”

  “No. Not something I would’ve agreed to in a million years. I hate acting. In the third grade I was a toothbrush in our hygiene play. Not only did I forget all my lines, but I tripped over the floss and fell into the kiddie pool we used for saliva. The only thing I agreed to do was eat.”

  Gib gave her that look down his nose that said she’d flipped her lid. The one he’d given her when she claimed that Italy’s team would beat Spain in the Euro Cup. Or when she’d tried to convince him that he wouldn’t regret watching the fifth Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

  “Where’s your sense of fun?” Taking her hand, he bowed slightly as he brushed his lips across her knuckles.

  “What are you doing, Gib?” she asked warily.

  Instead of answering, he said, “Hit me with some soap-opera-type names.”

  Where was he going with this? And why was he still holding her hand? “I don’t watch soap operas.”

  “Right. You’re not the girly type to get sucked in to daytime drama.”

  Not the girly type? Why not just hit her over the head with a brick stamped I don’t find you at all attractive? Oh yes, Daphne had definitely made the right decision in not telling him they’d kissed. He’d probably laugh in her face.

  Unaware of her inner turmoil, Gib barreled on. “I don’t remember the convoluted rules Ben taught me about bowling names. So we’ll go with posh, silly names from my homeland.”

  “Why do we need fake names at all?”

  “Because we can’t be Gibson and Daphne. We’d laugh ourselves silly. And we’ve got to take this challenge seriously to help Mira. So for tonight, we’ll be Daisy and Graham.” He took her other hand as well, and stared deep into her eyes. God, he had beautiful eyes. The same icy turquoise as Iceland’s famous Blue Lagoon geothermal pool. Yeah, she had a slight addiction to the Globetrotting Network.

  “Daisy and Graham,” she echoed, nodding. Why not? Let herself spend one perfect night as Gib’s dream date? Nothing more than a fantasy, so nobody would get hurt. She’d get to keep holding his hand, drinking in the melodious accent that made flutters deep in her belly with every word. One night for her mental scrapbook, to go with the one kiss they’d shared.

  “We’re two lovers on the brink, wooing each other. Waiting for the perfect moment, the right excuse to take that next step toward bliss.”

  “Is this really the kind of nonsense you spew at the legions of women you bed?”

  “Yes. With a very high success rate, I might add.” He scowled. “Now stop being Daphne, the constant mocker of my sexual conquests. You’re mucking up the mood.”

  “Sorry.”

  A heart-melting smile was her reward for compliance. “Be Daisy, the lovely and willing, who wants nothing more than to fall into my arms by the end of the evening.”

  She might have sucked at playing a toothbrush, but Daphne would have no trouble finding the motivation for this role. “Okay.”

  Gib pulled out a chair for her. “Your seat awaits, milady. Prepare to be undone by this feast for the senses.”

  Oh. Oh God. Oh my.

  * * *

  This was going to be fun. Looked like Mira hadn’t skimped on the snacks. Gib was fairly certain that he recognized the magical combination of John Coltrane and Miles Davis on the stereo. Not to mention that, given a choice of anyone to relax with, he’d always choose Daphne’s easy company.

  “Dessert’s at the opposite end of the table, so this must be where we start.” He sat down next to Daphne, close enough to brush her shoulder with his arm. Bubbles the color of cherry blossoms flitted in sparkling rows to the top of the champagne flutes. “I’d say going with pink champagne is overkill. But if we’re stuck drinking any rose, then Veuve Clicquot is the way to go.”

  “You’re such a snob.”

  “Discriminating,” he corrected. His favorite comfort food was the ubiquitous fish and chips, with a couple of pints of Boddingtons to wash it down. Obviously not the profile of a snob. But bad wine could be like drinking turpentine. Life was too short to torture his taste buds.

  “I’ll drink anything with bubbles in it. Pour club soda into fruit punch and I’d be happy.” Daphne lifted her glass to take a sip. Gib barely snatched her wrist in time to stop her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Letting the bubbles tickle my nose while they’ve still got some oomph.”

  “We need to toast. A romantic dinner always begins with a toast.” He raised his glass. “To my beautiful companion, whose laugh is as effervescent as our drinks.” Cheesily romantic to play to the night’s theme, but also true. Once they clinked, he took a sip, noticing that Daphne’s cheeks had flushed to match the champagne. “Are you too warm? Should I go adjust the radiator?”

  She jerked her head to the side, staring down at the heart-shaped printed card next to the plate. “I’m fine.”

  “Then here we go.” Gib picked up the card and read aloud. “‘Figs stuffed with blue cheese. An open fig emulates the female sex organs and is a sexual stimulant.’ Well, she’s not pulling any punches, is she?”

  “Why be subtle? I mean, if two people truly want each other, and hope that sharing a meal will bring them closer, why not just go for it?”

  A viewpoint he’d never, in all his experience, heard uttered from a female’s lips. If it was anyone but Daphne, he’d call it the verbal equivalent of a land mine. “Hmm. I thought women didn’t like the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, approach.”

  “Don’t get me wrong.” Daphne guzzled half her glass in a single swallow. “Foreplay’s great. Love it.” Her gaze skittered around the room, looking everywhere but at him. Had she drank too much coffee this afternoon? She seemed all hopped up. “What I don’t like is all the gamesmanship leading up to a lip-lock.”

  “I prefer
to think of it as a dance.” He picked up the deep-purple fruit, feeling the contrast between the slightly sticky skin and its moist flesh. Slowly he lifted it, waiting until Daphne’s eyes latched on before bringing it to hover even with her lips. She’d swiped red gloss across them, and they looked as full and plump as the fig.

  More often than he liked, Gib caught himself thinking wholly inappropriate thoughts about Daphne’s lips. As a friend, he respected her too much to consciously crave a taste of her luscious mouth. Sexy, smart-aleck Daphne. The only woman he’d ever encountered seemingly immune to his quick charm and quicker smile. But the lust snuck up on him unannounced, like fog stealing through the night. He’d have to be three days in his grave not to notice her earthy, sensuous beauty. So tonight he could partially give in to the simmering curiosity he’d ignored over the years, and have a little otherwise-forbidden fun with her.

  Her lips parted, and he rubbed the fig along the bee-stung bottom lip until she opened enough for him to pop it in. “Well? Does it work for you? Are you ready to straddle me and go at it like a pair of minx?”

  She finished chewing, eyes hooded. “Not quite yet.”

  “Ah, well. My turn, then.” Gib nudged the plate toward her.

  “What?” With the precision of a laser sight on a rifle, her gaze whipped back up to his face.

  “You have to feed me. This is finger food. Be Daisy, a woman on the cusp of possessing the man she so greatly desires. Touch the food, all the while pretending that you’re touching me. Use the food to seduce me.” Knowing she’d never back down from a challenge, Gib leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “If you can, that is.”

  The determined jut of Daphne’s chin told him she’d rise to his teasing bait. “Not a problem, Graham.” She lingered over his fake name, dropping to almost a whisper. Then she reached across him for the next card by two wine goblets. “‘Red Burgundy mixed with ginger, cloves, vanilla and sugar is known as the potent Hippocras aphrodisiac. Vanilla in particular is believed to increase lust.’”