Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  Damn. Did she really have to tell them? This was Ivy’s idea, her big surprise. He didn’t want any credit for the small part he’d played in helping her.

  “Not a Cavendish property. So it must belong to one of your fellow peers of the realm? The Earls of Whosit? The Duke of Whatsit?” Mira teased.

  If only his friends knew the misery his title brought him. Would it break their obsession with all things related to the British peerage? Not that he planned to tell them. When Gib had come to America, he’d broken with his past, with the pain, and severed ties—almost irrevocably—with his family. He did his best not to ever dredge up those memories.

  “The Viscount Eversley owns it. He uses it exactly once every year for a three-day fishing trip. Which is actually more of an all-the-beer-you-can-drink stint. Don’t even think he bothers to load fishing poles onto the boat. Instead of letting it sit musty and unused, he opens it up to his friends. Really, it isn’t any bother at all.”

  Daphne raised her hand. She wiggled her fingers to get his attention. “Um, big question over here. How many bedrooms?”

  Aha. Hard to tell from her tone if the thought of sharing a room with him landed in the pro or con column. They’d done it when they were merely best friends on a camping trip to Michigan. Had fallen asleep on each other’s laps during movie night countless times. Now that they were on the brink of adding sex to their friendship, she suddenly needed her own space? That sat about as well with Gib as an order of onion rings would after his third Italian sausage at a Chicago Fire game.

  “Worried I’ll mount an assault on your chastity?”

  “No.”

  “Worried that I won’t?” Gib leaned forward, burning his eyes into Daphne’s as though they were inches apart, and not the width of the room.

  “Just answer the question,” she snapped with enough heat to whip every head in the room toward her.

  “What’s going on?” Ivy looked back and forth between the two of them. “This news was supposed to put smiles on your faces, not bring out the claws.”

  Now he felt lower than a grass snake. Ivy had presented this amazing, thoughtful opportunity, and Daphne forced him into a childish squabble. “Sorry. We’re all good here.” He jerked his chin toward the sullen blonde. “Someone’s just overtired.”

  “I’m not a child,” Daphne retorted. “And we’re far from good. Answer the question. The longer you dance around it, the more I worry. Are there only two bedrooms?”

  “Yes.” One of them with two beds. Not that he’d tell Daphne that anytime soon. She’d officially pushed him past annoyed into pissed off.

  Until four days ago, they’d never exchanged so much as an improper brush of their hands. Gib’s prowess in the bedroom catapulted him to minor legend status in Chicago. It was an image he enjoyed cultivating, and didn’t mind using it to his advantage. But he only ever engaged with willing, enthusiastic partners. How could Daphne think otherwise? How dare she? Daphne, who knew him better than anyone. Daphne, one of the very few who saw past his playboy facade. Who measured his worth as a man, not as a bed-hopping bachelor? “Worried they’ll both have mirrors on the ceiling? Handcuffs on the bedposts?”

  “Huh. Do they?” Sam asked.

  “Knock it off.” Ivy pointed her finger at Gib, then Daphne. “Didn’t you two ask to share a bedroom at the cabin in Michigan last summer?”

  “Yes.” Daphne had offered to share so Gib wouldn’t be stuck sleeping on a couch six inches too short and full of thirty years of lumps.

  “Platonically? Without any hanky-panky?”

  “I didn’t so much as smooth the covers on her bunk. We kept to our own sides of the room, like grown-ups.” What he didn’t admit was that night was one of the times when his imagination broke free of its lockdown. Lying five feet away from Daphne all night hardened his cock to an uncomfortable level. Over the entire weekend, Gib hadn’t clocked more than about five hours of sleep.

  “Yeah, well, that was then. Now I’m concerned about other, more intimate activities that grown-ups do.”

  Gib crossed the room in three fast strides to glare down at her. “Why?”

  He bent, bracing his hands on either side of her head. It positioned his lips to within a breath of hers. Given his druthers, he’d rather be kissing them. Rather than waiting to hear why his closest friend wanted to be able to lock him out of her bedroom. Not a propitious step in anticipation of their big date. Did she expect it to go so badly they wouldn’t still be together in April? For that matter, did she not expect it to last beyond tomorrow night?

  They’d only kissed so far. No betrayal of friendship there. Hell, she’d stayed fully clothed. Gib hadn’t even unclasped her bra. It all came down to one question. “Don’t you trust me anymore?”

  Before Daphne could answer, Ivy tugged him away. She sat on the couch, and pulled Gib down on her other side. Then she took his hand, and Daphne’s, and held them on her lap.

  “This is about your date tomorrow night, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” Daphne shifted, tucking her legs up beneath her. “It’s awkward.”

  Since when did the thought of spending time with him make her so uncomfortable? Gib’s temper ratcheted back up a notch. Last he checked, there wasn’t a gun to Daphne’s head. “We’ve been to dinner hundreds of times. We’ve already kissed. Nothing scary there. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. All three times.”

  Sam shifted Mira in his lap. “Are you wondering if he can seal the deal? ’Cause I can get you a signed affidavit from about eight dozen women attesting to it. Probably without walking more than ten blocks.”

  “Not helping, Lyons,” Gib snarled.

  Ivy banged their hands against her thighs. “Enough. I won’t let you two go out at all. Not if it causes this much tension.”

  “There’s no dating by committee. You don’t get a vote.”

  The look she gave him was the same his Latin teacher gave him the first time Gib conjugated a verb wrong. Condescending pity. “Evidently there’s still a few things you don’t know about women. Of course I get a vote.”

  “We’re a pretty tight-knit group, Gib.” Mira leaned forward to pat him on the knee. “All we’re saying is that you and Daphne better not screw it up.”

  “Swear to it,” Ivy demanded.

  “What? That I’ll show her a good time?” Gib knew how to wine and dine a woman. Nobody did it better. If charming a woman into bed was an Olympic event, Gib wouldn’t just have the gold—he’d hold all the medals.

  “No. Promise that nothing will change, no matter what happens on your date. Gib, you’ll still go running with Mira and Ben. Daphne, you’ll still have Gib over every Halloween for that horrible marathon of monster movies you both like. The inevitable sex—no matter how good, bad or indifferent—won’t change our group dynamic.”

  “Did you just accuse me of performing indifferent sex?” That stung more than the fear of Daphne not trusting him. Engaged to Ben or not, he’d offer Ivy a go-round in her office right now. See if she didn’t melt into a smiling, satisfied puddle after less than fifteen minutes with him.

  “I’m pretty sure that was aimed at me.” Pulling a throw pillow into her lap, Daphne huddled even deeper into the corner of the couch. “I’m not the one featured on the cover of a magazine this month for my dating acumen.”

  Ivy waved her hands as if erasing a chalkboard. “You’re both focusing on the wrong thing. Forget about the date until you’re on it. And don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements for the trip. A lot can happen between now and April. As long as you promise to stay best friends, it’ll all work out. Promise.”

  Gib had to hand it to Ivy. Her expertise in handling difficult people, difficult situations, was unmatched. And she was right. Their years of deep friendship were the only reason he’d taken this step toward a different sor
t of relationship with Daphne. It was the basis of everything. The foundation of the community he’d so carefully cobbled together here in his adopted city. The very bedrock of his happiness. From the sheepish look on her face, Daphne had come to the same conclusion.

  “You and Ben, Daphne, Milo, Sam and now Mira—all of you—are, quite simply, my home. Nothing will change that.” He kissed Ivy on the forehead. “Sorry if I did anything to make you think otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Daphne piped up. “Sorry I got all in my head. Then blurted it out like an idiot.” She leaned across Ivy, golden ponytail slipping down till the tips of it caressed her breast. Right where he wanted to be. Lucky ponytail. “Of course I trust you, Gib. I’ll dish out another heaping scoop of apology. I love hanging out with you. Putting on a dress? Letting you pay for dinner? It shouldn’t change anything.”

  “You let me pay for dinner all the time,” he groused. At least they were back on a solid footing. And speaking of solid, the prospect of seeing her in a dress hardened his cock to pure steel. He rested an ankle on his knee. It lessened the obvious tenting in his trousers, but not by much. Gib had to get off the couch before anyone noticed. If this kept up, he’d have to start carrying a portfolio in front of him at all times. Or start wearing a jock strap. Even if he double cupped it, though, the thought of Daphne’s legs bare beneath a swirly skirt would probably still ramrod him straight through his zipper.

  Daphne toyed with the ends of her hair. “The prospect of going on a date with Chicago’s most eligible bachelor scared the pants right off of me.”

  “Then this will be a very good date. My work’s half done.”

  “Ha. I just need to get my head in the game.”

  “Precisely why I’m here.” Gib stood, relieved for an excuse to get up. He crossed the room and hefted the grocery bag. “Have I ever mentioned I captained the debate team at Eton?”

  Daphne rolled her eyes. “Only about a million times.”

  “And when you do, your accent gets even more butler-like,” Mira added. “I expect you to pull a tray of tea and crumpets out of that bag.”

  “No such luck. But if Daphne does well enough, there might be a gingerbread scone hiding at the bottom of this bag as a reward.” Gib knew how to motivate Daphne. Sure, she’d accepted the stint on Flower Power out of equal parts pride and revenge. But that only propelled her so far. Bribing her infamous sweet tooth might get her the rest of the way.

  “You had me at gingerbread.” Daphne bounded off the couch. “What do I need to do?”

  “My legendary experience at Eton—we beat Harrow four years running—means I can whip you into shape. You’re a domineering smart-ass to your friends. But you morph into a shy wallflower in the spotlight. At the NACE meeting, I thought you were going to either puke or pass out. And you were only up at that podium for less than a minute. Let me help you get past that fear.”

  “How?”

  Gib pulled out a tiny piñata. Red, white and green ruffles covered the papier-mâché elephant. “We’re going to practice. I watched every episode of Flower Power last night.”

  “You’re kidding.” Daphne’s jaw dropped. “You did that for me?”

  “Of course. Your competitors had to be studied. To find their Achilles’ heels. I fast-forwarded through the commercials. It only took six hours.” Six hours he’d never get back. Six hours of inane commentary and ridiculously dramatic music. He’d wanted to claw his eyes out for about five hours and fifty minutes of it. But the research had paid off. Gib now knew their weak spots. A little coaching, a lot of Daphne’s amazing talent, and she’d be untouchable in this competition.

  “After all that reality television, are you brain-dead yet?” Sam asked.

  Ivy tapped the very pointy toe of her shoe into his shin. “Hey, don’t bite the hand that pays for your trip to Bermuda. If it wasn’t for reality television, I wouldn’t have opened my store, and you wouldn’t have met the love of your life.”

  “True. But it doesn’t make it good TV. Or any less mind-numbing.”

  “Maybe when you’re in the audience at a live taping, you’ll see it differently.” Gib reached into the bag once more to produce a shiny sheaf of papers covered in flowers. “I got tickets for all of us to Daphne’s show. Already sold out, by the way. I had to pull out all the stops with my ticket broker to nab these. He was fuzzy on the terms, but I think I owe him both my firstborn son and my ancestral home. Possibly one of my kidneys.”

  “Can’t wait.” Sam trotted out another of those increasingly common smiles. “Honest, Daph, I’ll be in the front row clapping for you until my palms blister.”

  “The piñata is the starting point. Head into the back, and make a centerpiece around the piñata, using whatever you’ve got on hand. Sometimes the trick to the show is the lack of flowers, sometimes it’s an almost impossible theme. We’ll practice under both conditions. Every day. With me throwing questions at you and generally trying to be as distracting as the two-hundred-person audience and announcer will be.”

  Daphne ran her fingers down the elephant’s trunk. The motion was so evocative of what he wanted her to do to him that Gib almost dropped the piñata. “But wedding setup starts in less than an hour,” she said.

  “Exactly. Right now you’re tired and in a hurry. Just like you will be on competition night.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice soft as six-hundred-thread-count sheets, she looked up at him with eyes that shimmered. A man would do just about anything to earn a look like that. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  No. Not yet. Gib hadn’t figured out—entirely—what it would take to get her into bed. He’d run through a bunch of tried-and-true scenarios. None seemed right for Daphne. But he’d damn well try them all until he found one that worked. Because the next time he saw that look of gratitude on her face, he wanted her to be naked. And underneath him.

  Chapter Nine

  A rose is a rose is a rose

  ~ Gertrude Stein

  “Daphne, you spent all of breakfast yammering on about last night’s wedding.” Her dad ran a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.

  “A lot happened. Besides, we were only in there for fifteen minutes. We had doughnuts and coffee, not an all-you-can-eat brunch.” Daphne gripped her dad’s arm as she skated across a patch of black ice on the sidewalk. Chicago’s skyscrapers provided all-day shade in some areas. Walking downtown could be dangerous in winter, when the temperature rarely rose above freezing. It made his request to “stretch their legs” for a few blocks less than appealing. But walking off those doughnuts was probably a smart idea.

  He ticked points off on his fingers. “I know about the crazy number of bridesmaids. I know exactly where you stand on using pine for decoration after Christmas.”

  “So you’re going to throw out the wreath on your front door as soon as you get home?”

  Stuart sighed. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll make you one of eucalyptus instead.”

  “That should keep the neighbors from complaining.” He scooped a handful of snow off the top of a newspaper box. Being a man, and stubborn, Stuart refused to wear gloves. Calloused hands molded it into a hard-packed ball. “I also know the bride cried when she saw the bouquet you made for her.”

  Such a great feeling. Well, not the tears. The makeup artist had shot her a look of pure venom when that happened. But knowing she’d contributed to the bride’s happiness on such a special day softened Daphne’s heart to near marshmallow levels. What a great perk of her job. “Made it worth every sore finger and scratch I accumulated this week.”

  He lobbed the snowball at the apex of the stone archway over the doors to Holy Name Cathedral. Perfect hit. With his arm, her dad probably could’ve hit the top of the 210-foot-high steeple. No wonder all her brothers had gone to college on athletic sch
olarships. “What I don’t know is anything about your date with Gibson Moore.”

  Blindsided. Had the doughnuts been a ploy just to soften her up so he could get some dirt? He could be sneaky that way. “How did you find out?” Daphne asked. She tried to sound casual. She probably sounded guilty and accusatory. Just like when he’d caught her sneaking back in long past midnight after going to the Justin Timberlake/Christina Aguilera concert at the United Center.

  “I’m your father. I’ve got my ear to the ground where you’re concerned.” He wiped his hands on faded jeans. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Because she’d already exposed a boatload of insecurities to him once this week. Because she didn’t want to come across as an emotional wreck. As the problem child. Worse, as a total girl. “You stopped vetting my dates when I graduated from high school.”

  “And yet four days ago you blurted out that Gib kissed you. Little late to put that cat back in the bag.”

  When he dug his heels in, her dad had the tenacity of a puppy gnawing on a slobbery piece of rope. Might as well give him the basic deets and get past it. “Fine. We’re going out tonight. On a real date. Are you happy now?”

  “Are you?”

  Damn it. Perceptive fathers were an anomaly. Why’d she get stuck with one? “Yes. No. Mostly.” Daphne kicked at a snow drift. “Maybe more nauseous than happy.”

  “Probably just that third jelly-filled not sitting right.”

  “Actually, it’s the combination both of the prospect of going out with Chicago’s hottest bachelor, and being on television in fourteen days. I’m not sure which one scares me more.” The practice with Gib yesterday went well. Eventually. After she broke the heads off three gerbera daisies and let not one but two vases slip right out of her hands to shatter in the sink. Daphne hoped another few sessions would spank her nerves into at least a sham of calmness.