Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  “You’ve never backed down from a challenge. Except for letting that Sheila woman sweep you out like garbage.”

  “I didn’t have a choice, Dad. She fired me. There’s no hanging around to plead your case when that happens.” Instead, it had been an immediate bolt for the door before tears started to fall. Pride kept her eyes dry through the whole El ride home. Right up until Daphne collapsed, sobbing, into her dad’s arms. Not her finest moment.

  Her brother Nick had been fired from his first job flipping burgers. His plans to save up for a car evaporated after he gave a guy a hundred-dollar bill for change instead of a single. But he didn’t cry. Michael hadn’t shed a single tear when he dislocated his knee sledding—or when the doctor popped it back into place. Whereas Daphne seemed to be in possession of more than her fair share of the family tear ducts.

  “Hmph. Glad you’re getting the chance to show her what’s what. It’s about time you put that skinny-ass bitch in her place.”

  “Dad!” Stuart Lovell could let fly a blue streak when the Cubs lost. Happened every season. But he rarely weighed in on his children’s lives so...vehemently.

  “Call a spade a spade, I say. Point being, you’ll beat her. You’re better, you’re younger, you’re more motivated and you’re a damn sight prettier.”

  Unknowingly, he’d poked at a very tender spot. Daphne sucked in a deep breath of air that burned her lungs with its cold. “Honestly, that’s what worries me the most. Even more than freezing up in front of four cameras and hundreds of people.”

  “What?”

  “The whole the-camera-adds-ten-pounds thing. And that high-def will show the entire country the crow’s-feet I didn’t even know I had.” She yanked her ponytail over her shoulder. “I pull my hair up because it’s easy. No need to look in a mirror. I’m not a six-foot-tall model. I’m certainly no skinny, big-boobed actress. When I’m not working, I spend most of my time in sweats and sports jerseys.” A quick tug at the bottom of her Bears parka illustrated her point. “You raised a tomboy, Dad. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m not pretty enough to be on television. And I’m certainly not pretty enough to go out with the legendary Gibson Moore.” Daphne looked both ways to check the always heavily trafficked Wabash Avenue. But fingertips digging into her arm prevented her from crossing.

  “Stop it. Right now.”

  “The light’s green, Dad.”

  “I don’t care. Stop demeaning yourself.” He pulled out his wallet. Flipped to the well-thumbed wedding portrait that had ridden his hip for the past thirty-nine years. “Look at this.”

  “I’ve seen that picture a million times.” Still, Daphne brushed her mitten around the rounded corner, craving even that small a connection with the mother she missed so very much.

  “But have you really looked at it? Since you left home? You are the spitting image of your mother. On her worst day, she was a knockout. Beautiful inside and out. The pert little nose, your smile, those big eyes wide enough to take in the whole world—they’re hers. Mixed in with my eyes and your grandmother Irene’s hair. You, my baby girl, are even more beautiful. I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you that enough.”

  Stupid cold spell. It froze the stupid, unstoppable tears balanced on the edge of Daphne’s lashes. Every blink felt like she lifted tiny barbells. But there wasn’t a woman alive who could stop her emotions from trickling straight down her cheeks after hearing a speech like that. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He steered her across the street while she sopped up the tears with her mittens. “As for Gib, he’s been an idiot for years. There you were, right under his nose the whole time.”

  “Don’t blame Gib. We’re perfectly happy as friends.” Or at least they had been. Now they’d tasted something...more. Daphne had—just barely—kept her physical longing for Gib under control until that kiss. Didn’t drug dealers give the first hit for free, knowing their clients would do anything, pay any amount to recapture that bliss? Yup, that’s pretty much where Daphne sat after three mind-blowing kisses with Gib. Willing to risk a perfectly terrific friendship. Willing to let Ivy fuss with her hair and asphyxiate her with sprays and mousses. Willing to do just about anything to get his lips south of her collar.

  “Okay, I’ll spread the blame around.” A swift shoulder squeeze, fast and hard. The kind that said he loved her, but was about to lower the boom. “You should’ve kissed him sooner.”

  “Dad!” They were crossing into uncomfortable territory. Mostly uncomfortable because Daphne had been thinking the same thing for all six days of this new year.

  “I like Gib. He’s polite, but not stuffy like you’d expect from a hoity-toity Brit. Somehow gets me into a box at Wrigley at least once a season. And he hangs on your every word.”

  “Tell me, how much are the dues to be a member of the Gibson Moore fan club? Is there a T-shirt?”

  “Remember, he’s damn lucky to have a shot at you. That’s all I’ve got to say.” Her father wrapped his arms around her for a strong hug. “Have a good time.”

  Daphne held on a few extra seconds, so grateful for the way he could restore her solid footing with a couple of sentences. “I think I will.”

  “Call me when you get home.”

  “You’re reinstating my curfew?”

  “I like Gib. But I’m not wild about his reputation. I want to know you’re home by midnight.” Stuart shifted from foot to foot. “Not, you know, doing things I don’t want to picture my little girl doing behind closed doors.”

  “God, I don’t want you picturing anything, either. I promise I’ll call.”

  “Love you.” He started to walk away.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “I delivered you here. My job’s done.” With a wave, Stuart continued down the slushy sidewalk. It made no sense. Daphne turned around to stare at the three-story glass facade of the Cavendish Grand. Was this a joke? Had she gotten confused, and her sexy dinner date was really a run-of-the-mill lunch date?

  “Surprise!” Mira and Ivy pushed through the doors, almost bowling over the top-hatted bellman. Both coatless on this freezing day, they wore yoga pants and hoodies. Ivy, of course, in pink and Mira in blue. Very Stepford Wives-ish of them. Plus, it made Daphne super aware she wore sweat pants with a large sap stain at the knee from her late-night adventure with pine boughs earlier in the week.

  “What’s going on?”

  Ivy tucked her hands beneath her arms. “Your father was our decoy. Because we knew you’d say no if we gave you any possible out.”

  “Say no to what?” What could be so horrible at the Cavendish, of all places, that they’d need to trick her into showing up?

  “We’re treating you to a spa day.” Mira threw up her arms into a ta-da pose. Daphne’s instinct was to blow a raspberry in response, but she held her tongue.

  They each grabbed an arm and led her into the refined gray-and-black elegance of the Cavendish Grand lobby. A soaring atrium rose three stories, with one entire wall of windows overlooking the hustle and bustle of Michigan Avenue. The walls were covered in dove-gray satin echoed in the chairs and sofas grouped around a cascade of water streaming from the ceiling into a mound of shiny black river stones. Sheets of glass formed the check-in desk, supported by columns of dark granite.

  “Wait a minute.” Daphne dug in her heels to halt their march toward the elevators. “Christmas is over. My birthday isn’t for months. What gives?”

  Mira and Ivy exchanged a look. A let’s-flip-a-mental-coin-to-see-who-deals-with-this look. Mira apparently lost. “You’ve been on edge since kissing Gib.”

  “Totally freaked,” corrected Ivy.

  Daphne wasn’t thrilled about the assessment. But they weren’t in any way wrong. Self-conscious, she unzipped her coat. Then continued to run the zipper up and down, just to give her hands something to do.

  “So the
spa day has two objectives.” Mira spoke slowly. Like a teacher trying to explain long division for the first time. “To calm you down, and to buff and polish you to within an inch of your life.”

  “You’ll be so bright and shiny, Gib might have to avert his eyes.”

  “Kind of defeats the purpose,” Daphne muttered.

  Ivy took her hand off the zipper. “You’ve looked in the mirror in the past three days more than you have in the last month. And every time you do, you frown. Scowl. Sometimes look like you’re sniffing curdled milk. Milo said he noticed you staring at your reflection in the floral cooler, and, I quote, framing your ass with your hands.”

  Also true. Daphne knew her diet of pizza and cookies and ice cream to be far from balanced. Her dentist made that abundantly clear with every new filling. Ironic. You’d think Dr. Meyers would be a little more grateful that she was helping put his kids through college one cavity at a time. Still, her addiction to sugar didn’t just affect her teeth. Daphne’s ass had definitely grown. On her feet most days, and always up for a game of pick-up basketball or tennis, she didn’t worry about it. Much. Except when a guy who usually dated models and stewardesses and actresses suddenly started running his hands all over her body. Now she couldn’t stop worrying about the size of her ass. And only hoped her breasts would distract him from it.

  “We know you’re beautiful.” Mira linked her arm through Daphne’s. “The mailman leaves a little trail of drool behind every time he looks at you. Gib obviously thinks you’re hot. The only thing left is to get you to believe it. This is the Day of Daphne.”

  Ivy had tried to talk her into a spa day several times. The thought of someone covering her in goop and poking at her never sounded remotely appealing to Daphne. But this gesture from her friends was too thoughtful to refuse. “Does this get me off the hook from you messing with my hair?”

  “Not at all.” Ivy walked backward, facing Mira and Daphne as they walked past the check-in desk. “I’ve got plans for your hair. Hot rollers and hair spray. Trust me, it’ll drive Gib wild.”

  She’d sit through any torture that guaranteed Gib’s hands on her faster. In fact, skipping dinner and going straight to the smooches sounded great to Daphne. “Okay.”

  “You won’t regret it,” Ivy promised. Daphne wondered if she could demand that in writing.

  Mira tugged off Daphne’s coat. “Plus, we’ve got a plan to make the whole day painless.”

  Yup. She’d heard that one from Dr. Meyers, too. And had learned the hard way that his definition of painless differed from the dictionary’s version. His version meant “once a couple days go by and you pop lots of ibuprofen, there won’t be any more pain.” Daphne hoped that Mira’s definition ran to the more traditional. “So I won’t have to get naked in front of some hulking woman named Ilke who doesn’t speak English grinding her elbow into me?”

  “God, stereotype much? Where do you get these ideas?”

  “Seventies B movies that I watch with Gib.” Their favorite was Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama.

  Ivy huffed out a breath. “It figures. Since this is your first time, I made sure to put you with a woman. Beth’s wonderful. Magic fingers. We’ve already checked in.”

  “They’re letting us use the couple’s massage room.” Mira winked. “I might have dropped the manager’s name to make it happen. Don’t tell Gib. It’ll be a tight squeeze for all three of us, but more fun that way.”

  Daphne pulled off her mittens. Hopefully they were the cause of her sweaty palms. But with each sweep of the second hand, she got more and more nervous about the night ahead. The spa would have to pump Valium through the air vents to calm her down. “I’m still not hearing the painless part.”

  “Bellinis, to take the edge off. Thought they’d appeal to you more than cucumber water. And then I’m going to tell you all about the woman I hired this week. She’s going to be the matchmaker at A Fine Romance.”

  This was news. Daphne goggled at Ivy. “I thought you hated the idea of running a dating service out of the store.”

  “I did. But Mira wore me down.”

  Mira cleared her throat. Loudly.

  Ivy caught the hint. “That is, Mira’s keen business acumen and well-thought-out proposal convinced me. The first few Match-n-Mingle events are already sold out. If this is how Chicago wants to find love, who am I to stand in the way?”

  If this was their monthly partner’s meeting, Daphne would suck it up and pay attention. Would even happily debate the pros, cons and possible profit margin. But a recounting of the strengths and weaknesses of candidates today? After a week of long hours topped off by a very, very long wedding? It would only make her nod off. No matter how hard Beth-of-the-magic-fingers dug into her back muscles.

  “Here’s a little tip. I don’t find blow-by-blows of job interviews entertaining. No matter how many Bellinis you pour down me.”

  Undaunted, Mira just smiled. Like she knew a delicious secret. “That’s because you’ve never interviewed Tabitha Bell. Here’s a teaser—she claims she knows everything there is to know about men because she was raised in a brothel.”

  Okay, that was a new angle. “So she’s a time traveler from Regency England?”

  “Nope, this is real. Nevada still has legal brothels. Piqued your curiosity yet?”

  “Obviously.” This story had scooted to the top of her need-to-know list. Right up there with wanting to see a picture of Prince Harry’s latest unclothed and unauthorized photo shoot. “Who wouldn’t want to hear the inside scoop on a brothel?”

  “Anyone with a modicum of civility and couth.” Sheila Irwin glared down her surgically narrowed nose at them. She looked annoyingly perfect, from her highlighted hair to her vacationing-at-the-Cape preppy combo of turtleneck and sweater. Topped off with the cliché of a string of pearls. And, because she never did anything halfway, a matching pearl bracelet. No bags under her eyes. Even though Daphne knew Sheila probably did two events this weekend. No Sunday sweats that verged on jammies for her. The only jarring note to Sheila’s appearance was the attitude coating her from head to toe. Similar to the slime that grew in flower vases when the water didn’t get changed after four days.

  “Or anyone with a stick up their ass.” Ivy delivered the inflammatory words with a smile as sweet as Sam’s famous marshmallow frosted s’mores cake. It warmed Daphne to the core that Ivy stuck up for her. She just hadn’t expected it to escalate to a mud-slinging battle in the hushed and sophisticated lobby of the Cavendish.

  “It’s not surprising you have such a gutter mouth, considering the company you keep.” Sheila sniffed. “It is, however, amazing they let you on television.”

  Ivy’s face held on to a pleasant mask with the determination of a local affiliate’s weather girl. “RealTV courted me. They kept throwing money at me, begging me to do their show until I finally agreed. Not like you, having to claw your way through round after round of competition.”

  Wow. Ivy’s usual sweetness-and-light personality had morphed into a leather-studded warrior princess. She was in it to win it. Daphne couldn’t help but enjoy watching.

  “Your attempt to gloss over the facts is the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.” Sheila stroked the pearls at her neck. “Everyone in the industry knows RealTV only chose you because you slept with that videographer.”

  Ivy widened her stance. Jammed her fists onto her hips. “Take that back.”

  “Certainly. I misspoke. It was because you fucked that videographer.”

  A mother exiting the elevator gasped. She grabbed the hands of her two toddlers and hustled away with a ferocious frown. Round-eyed, Mira clutched Daphne’s hand. Daphne kind of wanted to dive behind the nearest chair. But she couldn’t let Ivy take any more of Sheila’s vitriol. The snarky catfight had just turned much too bloody. “Whoa. Sheila, you’re way out of line. And w
e both know your grudge isn’t with Ivy. If you have to let off some steam, aim it at me, where it belongs.”

  “Gladly.”

  Daphne held up her hand. Not done yet. They’d need to reach some sort of a peace—even if only temporary—before RealTV turned on their cameras. Both their businesses would suffer if this nasty sniping hit the air. But she’d have to finish her thought before Sheila said something else inflammatory that might derail her.

  “Don’t forget that we’re going to share a very small television screen in two weeks. It’s no secret here in Chicago that we don’t like each other. But do we really need to broadcast our problems nationwide? Can’t we call a truce? Agree to act professional while we’re on Flower Power?”

  Sheila resettled the strap of her Coach purse a little higher on her bony shoulder. “That’s really up to you. I am a consummate professional. The reputation of Lakeside Florist is unsurpassed.”

  Okay. Agreeing wouldn’t kill her. Lakeside Florist did routinely handle some of the biggest and best events in the city. They did the symphony gala every year, and for the past fifteen years had sold more Valentine’s Day bouquets than any other vendor. All reasons why Daphne had interned there in the first place. “Sheila, you are absolutely right. Your shop is top notch.”

  “You, on the other hand, work at an upstart patchwork of a business.”

  Too bad Daphne’s blatant attempt at ass-kissing didn’t halt Sheila’s tirade at all. In fact, she’d raised her voice. Enough to make the concierge look over with a raised eyebrow. Daphne was a fixture at the hotel, so she gave a silent shrug of apology to Monique. But better to let Sheila get it all out of her system now than in front of an audience of hundreds.

  “Flowers are obviously not the priority at Aisle Bound, and it shows in your work. Your slapdash designs will make a mockery of the final round of competition. On the bright side, you’ll be exposed as a laughingstock. As someone who chases trends,” she spit out the words as if they tasted fouler than burned coffee, “and doesn’t respect the art and classic beauty of flowers. Maybe this will be enough to erase you from the NACE vendor list once and for all. And then I won’t have to risk having my name sullied by anyone remembering you used to sweep the floors of my shop.”