Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  “Unusual reaction.” The words slipped out fast, and her father looked like he regretted them instantly.

  This was why she’d come here tonight. To beg Dad for insight. Unfortunately, doing so opened up a cache of insecurities bigger than Soldier Field. “Mom was supposed to teach me how to be a woman. She had it all mapped out. On my thirteenth birthday she’d let me read a racy romance novel. On my fourteenth birthday she’d teach me all about makeup. And on my fifteenth birthday, she’d teach me how to flirt.”

  “I wish you’d told me there was a road map for all these milestones,” he said, pushing away his empty plate.

  “It was a mother-daughter secret. Our special plan. Except she never got to do any of those things. Those were the big ones, but I bet there were a hundred tiny things she never got to teach me, too.”

  Daphne plunked her elbows on the table, sighed and sank her chin on top of her hands. She’d always been able to tell her dad anything. But this was laying out on a silver platter her biggest fear. Trotting out her emotional Achilles’ heel. Daphne hadn’t felt this exposed since her last trip to the gynecologist.

  “What if I missed something? Some intrinsic life lesson? Something major, that would make all the difference in dealing with the opposite sex? What if that’s why Gib is so horrified at the thought of kissing me that he’d leave without a word?”

  Her father scooted his chair closer. Then he put his arm around her shoulder. The heavy wool of his fisherman’s sweater scratched her neck. “Don’t think for a minute that you’re lacking in any way. You’re an amazing woman. The proof is in your circle of good friends, the two businesses you co-own, and that you’re the apple of your father’s eye.” A pinch on the cheek punctuated his listing of her attributes.

  “I’m telling you, there’s got to be something I’m missing. Gibson Moore would flirt with a tree frog if it was female. Yet he can’t stand the thought of doing it with me, one of his closest friends. What was the big secret to being a woman that Mom never told me?”

  “If I could help you, I would. I’m afraid I’m not part of that club. But I think if you were putting your lipstick on wrong, Ivy wouldn’t hesitate to step up and tell you.”

  Sitting here in the familiar antique-filled chaos of Gulliver’s in her dad’s embrace, Daphne felt herself slipping back through time. He hadn’t always had the answers when she sought his advice, but he’d always had a warm hug, and the patience to listen. Of course, now Daphne was older. Savvy enough to realize that no matter how good the hug felt, it didn’t sweep away any of her problems with Gib. Just getting it all off her chest didn’t actually solve anything.

  Marge bustled over, hair teased as impossibly high as it was impossibly scarlet. “You two doing good? Daphne, do you want some dinner to wash down that beer?”

  “No, thanks. I ate already.” Sort of. Once Gib left, she’d been too churned up to eat another bite. Before going to bed, she’d have to try at least one bite of everything. Then write up her thoughts on the menu for Mira. What the heck would she say? Surprise—aphrodisiacs apparently really do work? Maybe the whole picnic should come with a label. Warning—these products are more effective than you may believe.

  “You look down in the dumps. Did you lose a chunk of money betting on all the bowl games over the holiday?”

  “Marge, I don’t bet on sports.” Daphne shook her hands in the air, as if wafting away the very idea of it. “Watching’s enough excitement for me.”

  “Really? Your dad sure lost a bundle. He sulked all the way through his dinner about it, until you showed up.” She ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair. “I thought you two were peas in a pod.”

  After all these years, how did her father still have any secrets stashed up his sleeve? Placing sports bets and romancing Marge? Daphne couldn’t wait to get home and email all her brothers with the latest. “Dad, you gambled? Do you have a bookie that you meet in a dark alley? It sounds dangerous. I don’t want you getting kneecapped.”

  “Thanks for winding her up, Marge.” He scowled and batted her hand away. “Nobody’s coming after me with a crowbar. I never bet more than I know I won’t mind losing. Well, I mind, but you know what I mean.”

  This coming from the man who never let her spend a cent of birthday money from the grandparents. He insisted it all go straight into Daphne’s college account. “I had no idea you were such a risk taker.”

  “Sounds like you just took a pretty big gamble of your own.”

  Good point. And look where it had gotten her so far—confused, upset and alone. It’d be a cold day in the Congo before she took a risk like that again. “Well, I do feel like Gib sort of kneecapped me when he walked out tonight.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I don’t think either one of you is ready to call it yet. You changed the rules of the game. Give him a chance to familiarize himself with the new playbook.”

  Marge toed out a chair and sat down. “For goodness sake, Stu, are you coaching the Super Bowl or your daughter? Stop beating around the bush. You’ll both be uncomfortable for less time if you just spit out whatever you’re trying to say.”

  The tips of his ears turned red. Just like when he’d wordlessly dropped her off at the gynecologist for the first time. “A kiss can change everything. If you let it. If you want it to. Do you?”

  Good question. But the good questions were rarely the easy ones. To answer something this tough, Daphne needed much, much more sugar to boost her brain cells. Like an entire cheesecake’s worth, covered in chocolate and caramel sauce. “I don’t know.”

  “Gib probably doesn’t either. Why not sleep on it and see how you feel in the morning?” Finally. Her dad’s go-to solution for everything: a good night’s sleep. With the same frequency other parents pulled aspirin and antibiotics from their arsenal of cures, her dad wielded the mighty power of shut-eye. He claimed it could mend friendships, heal wounds and guarantee good test scores. All Daphne thought it did was prevent her eyes from looking like she’d gone ten rounds in a mixed martial arts cage match.

  “Just because it can change everything, doesn’t mean it has to.” Marge squeezed her hand. “Men move slowly.” She shot a poison dart of a look at Stuart. “It takes them time to wrap their heads around something new. So give the boy a little time to adjust. Just go about your business like normal, and wait for him to catch up.”

  Daphne could do normal. For years, her normal had meant hiding her true feelings from Gib. She could pull that off even without a caffeine jolt. But how long would he make her wait? And if nothing changed, how would she know if he’d decided to ignore the whole thing, or if he was still adjusting to their new normal?

  Chapter Six

  If seeds in the black earth can turn into such beautiful roses, what might not the heart of man become in its long journey toward the stars?

  ~ G. K. Chesterton

  Daphne looked at the bucket full to the brim with pine boughs and sighed. They smelled good. In fact, the whole shop smelled good. But her hands would be sticky for the rest of the day from the sap, poked by sharp needles and grooves worn into her fingers from wiring each piece of pine to a lisianthus blossom.

  This week’s Aisle Bound bride—the difficult one, anyway—wanted every chair at dinner to have its own swag draped across the back. Even though there were only fifty guests, this single piece of her order would take Daphne an entire afternoon. Without allowing her to make any headway on the centerpieces, bouquets, corsages or ceremony arrangements. Maybe she should skip the NACE meeting tonight. Turn on some Weezer and work till her fingers bled or the music ran out. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d pulled an all-nighter. Flowers were delicate, and short-lived. This wasn’t the kind of job where you could work very far ahead on a project.

  Except she absolutely could not, would not, skip the NACE meeting. These meetings were vitally important to
her business. The networking couldn’t be matched for any price. Much of the wedding industry worked by word of mouth. One night of chatting over acidic wine and cubed cheese on toothpicks could net her five or ten referrals. Clients didn’t want to do the work themselves. And Daphne didn’t blame them one bit. There were over two hundred reception sites to choose from in Chicagoland. After wading through all of those, who had the energy to call fifty different florists?

  NACE meetings were also a long-standing tradition between she and Gib. The two of them wisecracking from the back row was the only way to survive the tedium of the official program. Gib always brought a handpicked bag of classic candy like Curly Wurlys and Flakes for them to split. Or, in reality, for her to hog while Gib fought her for a scant third of the pieces.

  He’d be there, no doubt. If she didn’t show, he’d interpret it the wrong way. What was she supposed to do, send a note? Please excuse Daphne, she has work to do and swears it has nothing to do with what happened last night. Whether everything changed or nothing changed, they were still friends. That alone wouldn’t change. Gib ran last night. Daphne refused to let him think she’d run away, too.

  “It smells good in here.” Ivy joined her in the back of their shop. Her rose-colored, midcalf tight skirt with a ruffle at the bottom and fitted jacket pointed to a day packed with client meetings. Daphne hoped they all not only signed up for Ivy’s services, but desperately needed a florist, too. The Aisle Bound summer schedule was pretty much finalized, but there were still a few fall weekends clamoring to be penciled in as profit makers. “I brought you a snack. It’s National Chocolate-Covered Cherry Day, so here’s a chocolate cherry scone from Lyons Bakery.”

  Daphne wiped clammy palms on her lavender apron before snapping up the sugary goodness. Finally, someone to be the whipping boy for her frazzled nerves. “Did Lisbet forget to turn over the calendar page? Shouldn’t we remind her that Christmas is over?” Daphne shook the nearest branch. Its needles flared like a Victorian debutante’s fan. “I had more than my fill of dealing with all things pine-related last month. As did all of her expected guests, I’m sure. Why on earth didn’t you talk her out of this?”

  “Me? I only mediate between the bride and whoever she brings along to the appointment. From day one, you told me, and I quote, to ‘keep my big, loud mouth shut during any and all floral consultations.’” Ivy made air quotes with her fingers to drive home her complete lack of responsibility in the matter.

  “Still holds true, by the way. That particular clause in our partnership contract will never expire. But the next time you see me letting a bride do something this stupid, at least kick me under the table.” Shin splints would be far preferable to another Christmas in January snafu. Daphne scarfed down the scone in three bites. It didn’t soothe her much. It did make her crave a white-chocolate mocha. With whipped cream and chocolate jimmies.

  “It will be my pleasure.” Hitching up her skirt, Ivy shimmied onto the white iron stool with a lavender cushion at the counter. It looked like a salvage from a turn-of-the-century ice cream parlor. “I agree that the pseudo-Christmas decorations are a big mistake. Lisbet is one of our more—how do I put this—artistically challenged clients.”

  “Stop sugarcoating it. She’s got crappy taste.”

  Ivy wrinkled her nose. “I’d never say such a thing. You know the rule. Whatever makes the bride happy is the right choice for them.”

  Uh-huh. Sure. Just as believable as oh, say, all the dirty magazine centerfolds having natural breasts. Or that an aging movie star’s trophy wife hadn’t demanded a prenup. Daphne grabbed another pine branch. Shook the water off the ends. “You’ve got that super-saccharine tone in your voice. Like a pixie stick took over your vocal cords. Lisbet must be a hot mess. Come on, where else has she gone wrong?”

  “Daphne, we don’t talk badly about clients. Ever. Not even the ones who believe their dachshund will successfully pull a wagon carrying the six-month-old ring bearer down the aisle. And especially not the ones who invited all the groom’s ex-girlfriends as a surprise.”

  Daphne pitied her friend for the wedding day fraught with guaranteed trouble. On the other hand, Daphne couldn’t wait to hear all the gritty and entertaining details. Too bad it wasn’t a week when the reality show Planning for Love followed Ivy around with cameras rolling. “You are going to earn your keep this weekend. Sounds like it has the potential to turn messy. Need any help?”

  Ivy shook her head. “All in a day’s work. Ultimately, I’m sure that Lisbet and Brett will have a wonderful day. And by that, I mean I’ll make sure.”

  She didn’t doubt her partner’s abilities for a second. “Can you hang out back here and keep me company while I get started on these swags?”

  “Sure. Julianna’s doing a client walk-through of the Field Museum for the rest of the morning. We’re pretty quiet. Are we having an impromptu partner meeting?”

  “God, no.” Daphne shuddered. Numbers gave her mental hives. “You know I require a pitcher of margaritas when we start discussing profit margins and all things accounting.”

  “Then are we finishing the blow-by-blow description of last night’s smoochfest? Because I’m still not clear on whether or not I’m supposed to be mad at Gib.” Ivy waved her hand back and forth like a teeter totter. “Right now, I’m leaning heavily toward being both insulted on your behalf and ready to seek revenge. Maybe we could do something to his beloved car. Shaving cream the windows? Fill it with packing peanuts?”

  Daphne’s mood immediately lifted. Best friends were waaaaay better medicine than a stupid good night’s sleep. Not that she’d done more than catnap all night. “Good brainstorming, but I don’t want you to be mad at Gib. You’re sworn to secrecy. I want the status quo of our happy little group to remain unchanged. This kiss thing is just between him and me.”

  Milo poked his head around the door. The frosted blond tips spiked skyward. A vintage mustard tie wider than his hand fluttered from his neck. “Hardly.”

  Like a gossip grenade, the presence of their office manager splintered any hopes of this remaining a secret into infinitesimal fragments. “Were you eavesdropping?” Daphne demanded.

  “Just a little.” He edged into the room. High-waisted pants that would’ve looked right on Jimmy Stewart—in his heyday—skimmed across shiny brown wing tips. “Purely out of male solidarity.” Milo wagged a finger at Daphne. “You broke my roommate last night, you know. He came home completely shattered. A mere shadow of his former self.”

  Daphne bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Really?” Unexpected, but welcome news. An upset Gib meant that he hadn’t just taken their kiss in stride. It affected him. Exactly how, she didn’t know. But any reaction was better than none. “Tell me more.”

  Slowly, Milo swung his head back and forth like a pendulum. “Sorry. It would be a breach of the roommate code.”

  Ivy harrumphed. “What about the you-work-for-us code?”

  He struck a thinking pose, stroking a wholly imaginary beard. “Good point. As long as it’s on the record that I’m not recklessly spilling secrets.”

  Right. As if he didn’t share every single secret he learned with everyone from the shoe-shine guy to his parents back in Iowa. “Of course. You’re the soul of discretion,” Daphne muttered, not bothering to coat her sarcasm in even a thin layer of legitimacy.

  “What do you want to know? You kissed him—”

  “He kissed me,” she corrected hotly. Bad enough that she’d leaped off that particular cliff on New Year’s Eve. Daphne refused to take the blame for this latest episode. “Gib started it.”

  “Whatever.” Milo swished away her objection with nails that shone from a fresh buff. “He might’ve started it, but you finished him. Gib’s not moody. He’s either working hard or playing harder. Last night, though, he was wallowing. The man couldn’t eat. He could barely string two sentences toget
her. He looked like the big, scary monster from inside his childhood closet had just leaped out from behind the tapestries and scared twenty years off of him.”

  With pursed lips, Ivy gave a tight nod. “Good. He shouldn’t be able to walk out on Daphne without feeling shaken.”

  “But Daphne looks fine,” Milo protested. He waved an arm up and down at her. “Why are you so worried about her when Gib is a wreck of a man?”

  Good to know she’d camouflaged the worst of her emotional crisis. Better to know that the forty-five dollars she so reluctantly spent on concealer was actually worth it. “The whole storming out with no explanation thing stung, I’ll admit.” Stung? It was the worst rejection of her life. Gib piloting a riding mower across her heart would’ve hurt less. “But I’m definitely not a wreck.” In fact, hearing that Gib hadn’t shrugged off their kiss as one among millions cheered her more than a triple-chocolate brownie.

  “Glad to hear it,” trumpeted an unfamiliar voice from the hallway.

  All three of them swung around to gawk at the woman framed in the door. She stood with her feet braced wide to counterbalance the matching briefcase, laptop case and purse that could double as an overnight bag. A no-nonsense brown bob was tucked behind both ears. Short and wide, she wore a blue suit that made her look like a postal box.

  “Ruth?” Ivy hustled forward first, arms spread for a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Ruth dropped the bags in a pile. “Thought I’d come accept your wedding invite in person.”

  Hardly. Wiping her hands on her apron, Daphne bit back a suspicious grunt. Ruth Moder blasted through cities faster than Godzilla. If she fell asleep in the same time zone she’d woken up in eighteen hours earlier, she considered it a lazy day. RealTV kept her hopping. The network produced all its own programming, and promised no repeats before midnight or after dawn. That left a lot of hours of reality television to fill. Ruth was their closer, contracting people, companies, pets, whatever had a chance at keeping America’s eyelids in the vertical and locked position. Her appearance here at Aisle Bound could be nothing less than wholly job-related.