Automatically leaving the aisle seat for Daphne, he slid into an empty row about halfway back. But she didn’t sit. Instead, Maria propelled her straight to the podium centered in front of a gold satin panel. Between the grimace on her lips and the bloodless cast to her cheeks, Daphne looked like she’d eaten bad oysters. And like she’d make a break for it if Maria loosened her grip at all. What the devil was going on?
Maria gaveled the room into silence. “Welcome to the January meeting of the National Association of Catering Executives, Chicago chapter. Before we do the usual round of member introductions, there’s some late-breaking news I’d like to share. News that will shine a national spotlight on the preeminence of Chicago event professionals.”
A round of applause halted her speech. Gib straightened in his chair, gaze locked on to Daphne gnawing on her bottom lip. Her discomfort was palpable. No surprise. She loathed being the center of attention. Avoided it like the plague. Years ago, before they knew better, a group of them had gotten waiters to sing “Happy Birthday” to her when they delivered a candle-bedecked crème brûlée. The whole restaurant clapped for her. Daphne had practically burst into tears and fled the table. Held captive in front of seventy of her peers? Gib knew how miserable she must be.
“The hit reality competition show Flower Power has kept us on the edge of our seats all season. We’re honored they decided to film the finals here in Chicago at the Millennium Knickerbocker Hotel. Let’s give a round of applause to Michael DeWitt for an outstanding job landing that event!” When Maria let go to clap, Daphne shrank back three steps. “We all know that Sheila Irwin’s eye-catching floral designs have propelled her easily to this final stage of competition. Sheila, you’re officially one of the four best florists in the country, and we’re so proud of you.” More clapping. More of Daphne inching backward.
God, he was so nervous for her. In a habitual gesture, Gib shot his cuffs. It always soothed him to rub his thumb along the engraving of his family crest. Grandpapa Moore had bestowed them on him for the occasion of his eighteenth birthday. Right before the charming old bugger died at the ripe age of ninety-four. His heart gave out after a wild night of whiskey—and cigar-fueled debauchery. Grandpapa had always stood by him. Taught him how to ride a horse, tell a dirty joke and tie a bow tie. Good thing he’d passed on before Gib’s cataclysmic split with the family. It would’ve broken his heart.
Sheila stood and nodded regally to the room. She must’ve gotten another in a series of face-lifts to prepare for her time on television. Her cheeks and forehead were tighter than a bass drum. Jet-black hair edged her face in a fringe, and was shorter than his in the back. Rail-thin, with what Gib’s keen eye declared to be surgically enhanced breasts rounding out the top of her designer suit.
“Having Sheila as a finalist is truly an achievement. But having two Chicago florists battling for the trophy is even better.” A low buzz of anticipation rolled through the rows. “One of Flower Power’s finalists has dropped out unexpectedly. I’m thrilled to announce that our own Daphne Lovell was chosen, after an intensive nationwide search, as the worthy replacement. Let’s hear it for Daphne!”
Gib sagged back into his seat. How could a woman so palpably nervous in a room full of general supportive colleagues choose to be on live television? Undergoing the scrutiny of millions of strangers? The minute the applause died down, Daphne mustered a sickly grin and sped down the aisle. She dropped into the seat next to Gib. Her hands trembled slightly. Gib reached over and cupped his own around them. She sucked in a deep breath and stilled beneath his touch. He stroked his thumb along the sensitive inner flesh of Daphne’s wrist. To calm her ruffled nerves or calm his urgent need to feel her?
Crooking his neck, Gib pressed his lips right against her ear. Her thick hair provided a mattress for his cheek. Too bad the silken strands weren’t draped over other parts of his body. God, they’d unlocked the floodgates with just a few kisses. Sexual, sensual thoughts of Daphne bombarded him now on a constant basis. Could they ever go back to their comfortable friendship?
“So, any other gigantic bomb you want to drop?” he whispered. “Did you win the lottery last night? Discover a long-lost secret sister? Start up an email friendship with a billionaire sheikh?”
“I tried to tell you. Earlier. Remember? You cut me off.”
True. Gib regretted that blip in their safe-to-share-any-and-everything relationship. Cowardice had won the day, since he hadn’t mentally suited up to discuss their second in a line of epic kisses. Now he and his supposedly platonic best friend had somehow totted up three in less than a week. How’d things gotten out of hand so fast?
“You could’ve given me a hint.” Gib caught a whiff of balsam and rosemary clinging to her hair.
“I said it’s been a weird day.” A hiss of frustration ran through her stage whisper. Loud enough to swivel two heads disapprovingly toward them.
Gib didn’t care. “A weird day means your supplier sent hollyhocks instead of tulips. Or Lyons Bakery was out of all three of your favorite doughnuts this morning. Agreeing to go on television? You, of all people? That’s about ten light-years past weird.”
She tugged on his lapel. “You really don’t have any candy?”
Her sweet tooth had an unfortunate tendency to stage a coup on the rest of her brain. “No. I forgot. Didn’t realize you’d planned your daily consumption around my bulging pockets. Or lack thereof.” Gib had second thoughts about that statement. “I am, however, willing to entertain you with other, non-pocket bulges.”
Daphne gave him a look that could easily restore all the melted polar ice caps to their solid, frozen glory. “I’m hitting the bar.” With a swift yank, she freed her hands.
It took a second to weigh the options. Play professional, sit on his ass and listen to the interminable roll call? Or follow the saucy minx? Gib enjoyed chasing tail. Excelled at it, in fact. But never at the expense of his career. The only way he’d risen so quickly to manager of one of the finest hotels in the country was by putting work first.
On the other hand, the deep relationships with his closest friends came first. Gib’s family treated him like something they’d scraped off the bottom of their shoes. So he’d forged a new family here in the New World. And they were all the more precious to him because they chose to care about him. Daphne upset? Acting out of character? Definitely a top priority. He caught up with her at the hors d’oeuvres table at the back of the room.
“Sorry I didn’t hear you out earlier. Want to talk through it now?”
“Here? In the middle of the meeting?” Daphne stuck a toothpick in each of the six different cubed cheeses and piled them onto her plate. In the few seconds before he joined her, she’d already managed to slather two pieces of baguette with hot artichoke dip.
“Don’t pretend that either of us will be able to pay attention until you get sorted.”
With the smooth speed of an owl, Daphne swiveled her head around to him. “Oh, I’m nowhere close to sorted. I won’t feel normal again until January twentieth is behind me.”
“What’s special about that day?”
She jammed three pieces of cheese in her mouth, then went back to reload. “Competition day.”
“So soon?” Talk about last-minute. Daphne would barely have enough time to fully work herself into a state before the competition was past.
“You see why I’m nervous. No time to prepare. Oh, and the little matter of having six cameras recording my every movement. Just like Ivy, I’m petrified my ass will show every cookie I’ve eaten in the last year as an individual lump. Ten, twelve million people will watch this.” She closed her eyes, her voice low with abject horror. “They’ll all judge me.”
“Stop.” Gib cracked out the word like a verbal whip. It worked. Her eyes flew open.
“What?”
“Dial back the self-indulgent crazy talk. N
obody is holding a gun to your head.”
“You’ve never met Ruth Moder,” she muttered. “I’d rather face off to a double-barreled shotgun than Ruth.”
Gib knew Daphne. Knew her moods, her strengths and weaknesses. So he knew that mollycoddling wouldn’t do her any good. “Be that as it may, you made this choice. No one else. Which means the pity party ends right now.”
“You’re right.” She crammed in two stuffed mushroom caps at once. With her other hand she made a five-high tower of mini quiches. Daphne elevated stress-eating to a competitive level. After a disagreement with a client’s unhappy mother, he’d once seen her put away an entire Giordano’s deep-dish pizza. The kind it usually took four of them to polish off. Then she’d cleansed her palate with a whole order of parmesan garlic fries.
“I’m assuming this isn’t about the free publicity, or the win. This is about Sheila. The way she smeared your name. This is personal.”
She shook her head, sending her hair tumbling across her back. “This is payback,” she corrected. “At least, it will be if I win. Not even win. As long as I place higher than she does.”
“You will.”
“Mayyyybe.” Her whole body slumped in on itself, like a Boston cream doughnut with the filling sucked out.
Gib grabbed her arms. “Look at me, Daphne.” Chin still down, she gazed up at him through the curtain of her lashes. “You will beat her for three reasons. Because you are genuinely more talented. Because that pilot light of revenge will fuel you to work harder. And because, quite simply, you must.”
A smile the width of the sunrise broke across her face. “Would you be willing to write down those talking points for me?”
“If necessary.” The urge to pull her into an embrace tilted him forward from the waist. Gib forced himself to let go. Still not the time or place. Not with the low drone of scattered applause every thirty seconds. Roll call would go a lot bloody faster if they didn’t have to clap after each name. There were only a handful of newcomers at each meeting. Why bother to clap for someone you’d seen every month for five years? Perhaps all this restraint toward Daphne had turned him cranky.
“Thanks, Gib. I guess you managed to sort me out after all.”
“Not entirely.” If Daphne could face her fear, by God, so could he. “I’d like to discuss one more item.”
She swiped a chip into enough guacamole to fill a piñata. “Sure.”
Gib shot his cuffs again. Put a hand to the knot in his tie. And rued the day he’d ever darkened Doc Debra’s door. The rumor that therapy should make you feel better? Utter rubbish. The rock of Gibraltar had lodged in his throat. Someone had vacuum-sealed all the air out of the room. An invisible elephant balanced on his diaphragm. He was a citizen of the British Empire. The urge to suppress emotions had to be encoded in his DNA.
“Daphne, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Sure,” she repeated without looking up from loading her plate. “A couple of handfuls of cheese won’t begin to fill me up. Were you thinking pizza? Or I could go for a pad thai. We could take it back to my place and watch the new Bond flick. I just got it on DVD, so I can hit pause and stare at Daniel Craig till my eyes cross with sheer delight.”
If anyone made her eyes cross, it would bloody well be him. Not some poncy actor. Gib spoke through gritted teeth. “No, not tonight.”
“Well, I’ve got a lot of prep left for the DeWitt wedding on Saturday, so that’ll probably keep me at the shop pretty late tomorrow night. But if you want to swing by and split a pizza, that’s okay.”
Was she being deliberately obtuse? He’d never imagined Daphne to be a game player. “You don’t understand. I’d like to take you out on a proper date. Milo checked your schedule for me. No events on Sunday at all. Let’s go out on Sunday evening.”
Her mouth dropped open wide enough to take on a candied apple in one bite. Just for a heartbeat. When Daphne closed it, her eyes shuttered as well. “A date? A real date? You pick me up, I shave my legs even though it’s January, candles-and-wine-type date?”
“Yes.”
She cocked her head to the right. Abandoned her plate on the table to fist her hands at her waist. “Is this because I’m about to be famous? Now that I’m on television, I’m good enough to add to your rotating roster of arm candy?”
“Hardly.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Under normal circumstances, Daphne was the one person to whom he could say anything. Talk with utter ease. Now he’d dropped the dreaded four-letter word into the conversation. Gib had apparently also dropped all ability to string together a coherent thought. Immediate backpedaling was in order.
“No, I meant that you’ve always been immeasurably better than all the women with whom I’ve dallied.”
“Oh.” She waited a beat, then scooted to her right a few steps. “I need a drink for this conversation.” A few pre-filled champagne flutes were left on the end of the table. Daphne drained one, set it down, then picked up a second.
“Really?” Gib plucked the glass out of her hand and set it back down. “If you need alcohol to consider the mere idea, what sort of pharmaceutical cocktail will it require to get you through the actual date?”
“I haven’t agreed to it yet, have I?” With a jerk of her chin, she led him out the door. Gib followed her to a gold-and-crimson brocade divan recessed in an alcove. Instead of sitting, she paced in front of it.
“Why?” he asked.
“That’s my question. Why? Why now, after all this time?” She stabbed her fingers at her sternum. “Why me, after all those women?”
“Do you need a recounting of your finer points? How many compliments will it take to shake a ‘yes’ out of you?” Flowery compliments were the currency he used to bribe pretty strangers into dinner and drinks. Gib had thought that with Daphne he could be direct. Tell her that he wanted to spend time with her, without having to go through the whole song and dance as to why.
“I’m serious, Gib.” Daphne sat down, hands on her knees. She had to crane her head to look up at him. “You can’t just crook your finger and expect me to come running. Or, for that matter, potentially jeopardize a friendship that means the world to me. We can ignore one aphrodisiac-fueled night of flirting. A real date changes everything.”
“Quite right.” This entire ordeal brought to mind the memory of his first date ever, with Pippa Jones-Smythe. Her father, the Duke of Savoy, grilled him for a quarter of an hour. Gib was forced to stand an inch from the roaring fireplace the entire time. Sweat poured off his body. He’d locked his knees to keep them from shaking. And remembered thinking Pippa had damn well let him get to second base to justify all the trouble.
“So explain to me why I should date you.”
Gib pressed his fingers to his suddenly throbbing temples. She already knew him, liked him. Even loved him, as a friend. Why put him through this ringer? “I might remind you that I’m the number one bachelor in the city, according to Windy City magazine. They did put me on their cover this month. Apparently, I’m quite a catch. I promise I know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Bully for you. I already know how fun you are, Gib. We do stuff together all the time. That doesn’t explain why we should upgrade to the deluxe package.” The impassive mask finally lifted. Like a storm rolling in off the ocean, her eyes darkened. “What happens when the next B-list starlet checks in to your hotel? Or a leggy chorus girl doing eight shows a week at the Ford Oriental? You always go for a splash with your choice of date. I’m more of a puddle.”
Never would he have guessed insecurity loomed behind her relentless grilling. Or her reluctance to give him—them—a try. Gib sank down next to her, capturing her chin between his thumb and first finger. “First of all, I don’t date. I dally.”
“Really? You’re going to argue semantics with me?”
“Sounds like something your therapist would say.”
“She did. On multiple occasions.” The Suzuki method of learning violin—by repeating everything so many times a student had no choice but to learn? Doc Debra applied that to therapy.
Daphne jerked her chin out of his grasp. “Don’t try to psychobabble your way out of this.”
“But Doc Debra was right. I enjoy the company of women. The way they laugh, the way they smell like a summer day. The slow build-up to a seduction. From a shared smile on the street to tangling fingers over wine to—”
She leaned away from him, like a clothespin popping open. “Stop right there. I don’t want the X-rated version.”
“I don’t connect with any of those women. We flirt, we spend some mutually agreeable time together, and we fall into bed. That’s where it ends.” Gib racked his brain for how to explain the difference to her. “I might mention the name of my first horse—”
“Archibald,” she said with a nod.
“—but none of them know that he died after missing a jump with a trainer. Or that when I heard the news, I hid in the tack room at Eton for twelve hours, remembering him. None of them know that I refuse to check my mailbox alone on my birthday. But you do.”
“Because you need someone to hold your hand when you realize your family didn’t send so much as a card. Again.”
“Right.” Gib took her hand. Brushed the back of it against his cheek. Now that he’d begun, it turned out to be simple sharing how he felt. Because Daphne was the one person he could tell anything.
Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound) Page 12