Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  A high-pitched ping announced their arrival. Gib gestured for her to go ahead. Thanks to her day of pampering and primping, she already felt like Cinderella. Entering the restaurant was akin to entering the ball. The rows of tables were lined with snazzily dressed couples. Black-rimmed chargers popped against the white linens. But what really popped was the view. On three sides, the bright lights of skyscraper upon skyscraper reflected the grandeur of the city. Straight out sat the dark lake, like a black sheet beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “Good to see you as always, your lordship.” The maître d’ slid his hand into Gib’s, smooth as an eel. A waif of a girl whisked away both coats.

  Gib held a finger up to his lips. “Frank, I told you to quit calling me that.”

  “Ah, but the ladies like it. Am I right?” He nodded at Daphne with a smarmy grin.

  “Not so much.” She knew that Gib never talked about his title. Or his family, or how he felt about being nobility. It didn’t matter to her if he was seventy-sixth in line to the throne of England or the illegitimate son of a...prostitute. Blood didn’t matter. Character did. Although if she did ever think about his title and baronial holdings or whatever they were, the only way it made her feel was nervous. And she was nervous enough tonight.

  “Your usual table’s ready, Mister Moore.” A wink indicating Frank would humor Gib, just this once, with dropping his title. Pretentious jerk. “Best seat in the house.”

  Daphne would’ve stuttered to a stop without Gib’s hand at her back, guiding her to the wall of windows. The usual table? Gib came here often enough to have a regular table? Had to be with his ever-changing stream of women. This wasn’t a business lunch type of restaurant. So he hadn’t remembered her mother’s promise. Hadn’t put special thought into choosing a restaurant that would have special meaning just for her. Daphne felt as though she’d just been dropped onto an assembly line. Would the entire date be formulaic?

  Wait. Better talk herself off the corner of Crazy Street and Jealous Avenue. The Signature Room, no matter how often he came, was nevertheless one of the most romantic restaurants in the city. Gib ran through women the way a frat house ran through kegs of beer at homecoming. It’d be hard to find a restaurant in all of Chicagoland where he hadn’t taken another woman.

  So she sat down without comment after he pulled out her chair. A stunning bouquet of a dozen roses caught her eye. One side of the petals were snow-white, and the other...well...rose-red. A quick glance confirmed that their table was the only one so decorated. “Fire and ice roses?” she murmured.

  The right corner of his lips curved up. “A mere token in honor of your beauty. Despite the frost outside, I’m afire inside every time I look at you.”

  Another twinge of disappointment. Sure, fire and ice roses were a step up from the unexceptional red. But his delivery sounded as well-rehearsed as a third-grade class reciting the pledge of allegiance. “That is one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard. In the summer, do you switch to circus roses? You know, the ones that are yellow like the sun on the outside?”

  If she didn’t know Gib so well, Daphne would’ve missed the minuscule twitch in his eyelid. The same tell that gave him away whenever he tried to bluster his way through a fake word in Scrabble.

  “No.” He captured her hand, stroking his thumb slowly over the side of her with a touch that raised a solid layer of goose bumps over her entire body. “Not everyone has your vast knowledge of flowers. Roses might not be original, but they are romantic. And I aim to romance you tonight.”

  For every ten yards he lost, he managed to regain enough ground for her to grant another first down. Who was she kidding? If he kept touching her like that for another five minutes, she’d clamp one of the damn roses between her teeth and dance a strip-tease tango on the table for him. “Sorry. But come on, Gib, give me a little credit. I won’t fall for your lines. Don’t bother trying to snow me.”

  “Fair enough.” A waiter set down a waist-high silver bucket on a footed stand. The ice in it crunched as he swirled the champagne bottle up and out. Then another flourish with a whisk of the napkin across the cork.

  “Dom Pérignon. Your favorite 1996 vintage, sir.”

  Huh. Gib’s favorite. Not something he picked out especially for her. Another automatic—and therefore meaningless—gesture. For a man with such a reputation of smoothness with the ladies, it surprised her. Given how their date was going so far, she’d categorize Gib as knowing very little about women and how to please them.

  “Alain. You remembered.” Gib flashed a warm smile. “Daphne, this man’s the best waiter in town. A year from now he’ll remember what you wore tonight.”

  A bob of his shiny, bald head. “If you’ll permit me, miss, I’ll remember the way you look tonight for the rest of my life.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Gib’s smile morphed into outrage. “That’s obviously a line. You’re not going to call him out on it?”

  “The man’s pouring me champagne. Why would I do anything to make him stop?”

  “So you can be bribed?”

  “By the right man. For the right reasons.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He lifted his glass as Alain stepped back soundlessly. “To the breathtaking Daphne—” Gib paused and arched one jet-black brow, “—and the hope I’ll get the chance to steal your breath away later.”

  Daphne’s back teeth ground together. Another line. She’d bet a week’s worth of profit on it. “One step at a time.” A quick sip of the champagne sent her spinning into doubt again. Dom Pérignon came by its prestigious reputation honestly. It tasted like golden fairy dust dancing across her taste buds. Maybe Gib really had ordered it for them because it was quite simply the best. Oh, and maybe she should stop analyzing every second of this date and just enjoy it.

  “What do you think of the view?” Gib twisted in his chair to point at the spectacular cityscape. “We’re facing south, which I think is the best at night. North’s a bunch of condos, and east is the lake, but with a south view, we can see most of the city.”

  Like he was reading from a freaking script. “Mmm-hmm. Nice.” Daphne dutifully stared out the window while she took another slow sip. Listened to something with strings piped over the sound system. The couple behind her murmuring in Italian to each other. And wondered how much of this dinner she and her best friend would spend in awkward silence.

  Gib slammed his glass onto the table. Or tried to. It landed on top of his silverware with a sharp clank. “Look, I’ll be honest. I’m not entirely sure what to say to you.”

  So she hadn’t been the only one to notice the utter weirdness. “About what?”

  “Exactly.” He trailed his fingers down the back of her hand. Chills skated up Daphne’s arm, then tingled down her torso to the vee between her legs.

  “Is that code? ’Cause I don’t have a clue as to where you’re going with this.”

  “We already know each other inside and out.” Gib drilled his index finger against the table. “I know what you had for lunch three days ago.”

  They shared a weakness for sandwiches. The bigger and messier, the better. “I had to let you know about that new deli. You love a well-made Reuben as much as I do.”

  “Quite so. But we already share the little stuff—and the big stuff. To my point, you know I fired one of the fourth-floor housekeepers yesterday.”

  Finally. A real conversation. “Because you called me all worked up. In a lather. Spouting the same did-I-just-consign-her-to-a-life-of-homelessness-and-prostitution crap you do every time you fire someone. As though you’re a superhero. As if you’re single-handedly responsible for keeping all of Chicago gainfully employed. If I recall, once I talked you off that ledge, you promised you wouldn’t feel guilty anymore.”

  “You actually said I could mope through the weekend, but wo
uld have to shake it off by Monday. Don’t rush me.”

  Awww, his big marshmallow of a heart was showing. She turned her hand over to interlace their fingers. “Gib, a guest walked into her room to discover the maid taking a bubble bath. You had no choice but to fire Elena. As I’ve already told you at least twenty times.”

  “Exactly my point. We’ve already shared all the big stuff. Yet this is supposed to be a new beginning.”

  “I get it.” Daphne flip-flopped for the umpteenth time. Sounded like he wanted to make an effort with her. Plus, they were back to talking normally, with the added bonus of full-body goose bumps every time he touched her. “If we can’t start from the beginning, where do we start?”

  “I suppose we could try to follow a standard date outline.”

  “Your inner anal corporate executive is showing. A date outline? Do you even have one, or do you just count to ten and then unclasp their bra?”

  He tsked. “Don’t be insulting. I count to twenty. I like to take my time. Touch and taste and explore until talking’s no longer an option. Until the need to be naked is as powerful as the need to breathe. Until the anticipation spreads across you in an undulating wave of heat.”

  Glass halfway to her lips, Daphne paused. Swallowed hard. Found it amazing her bra hadn’t unclasped itself at his words. “Duly noted.”

  Their waiter came by with menus. While he recited the specials, Daphne drained her glass. Then drained her water glass. A man who used the word undulate to describe sex had to be really, really good at it. If practice truly made perfect, Gib should be a freaking black belt in sex. She couldn’t wait to put him through his paces.

  Once the waiter left, Gib cleared his throat. “Let’s see—usual topics for a first date. You’re from Chicago, I’m from England. Moving on.”

  “How about college? I mean, I know you went to Cambridge, and I’ve heard some of your stories about your cricket team, but there must be more.”

  “All right. Saying you went to Cambridge is too broad, like if you’re from the United States, instead of Illinois. I went to King’s College. Founded in 1441. Boasting such famous alumni as Salman Rushdie, the economist John Maynard Keynes, Robert Walpole, the first Prime Minister of Great Britain, and yours truly.”

  Daphne mimed an exaggerated yawn. “Welcome to Snoozeville. I could pull all that up on my phone in three seconds.”

  “I don’t think I ever told you I was in the choir there.”

  She pounced on that tidbit. Normally Gib stayed as closemouthed as an oyster about his college days. On the rare occasion he did speak of it, a priceless pearl was revealed. “You can sing? How could you have kept something that juicy to yourself?”

  “Because I didn’t want to be trotted out like a trick pony every time a birthday cake appears. But I’ve sung my whole life. Papa said it was a waste of time. God, how he hated it.” A rueful, hollow laugh accompanied the downward slash of his brows. “Which is probably the main reason why I kept it up all the way through school.”

  “We’re going to karaoke. I won’t take no for an answer. We’ll do a duet. Something cheese-a-licious. ‘You’re the One that I Want’ from Grease. Or ‘Promiscuous.’ I’ll be Nelly Furtado and you can be Timbaland.”

  “I’d be more likely to do the famous Act II duet from Tristan und Isolde.”

  “So you don’t just listen to opera to annoy me. You really like it?”

  “Love it. Dabbled with the notion of doing it professionally, before my father made his displeasure with the idea known. So I contented myself with singing at university. The King’s College Choir is quite famous.”

  A jagged gash in her heart opened every time Gib let slip the depth of the pain his father caused him. She still didn’t know why, what caused the great schism in his family. It didn’t matter. If his father ever came to America, she’d kick him in the balls for putting that dark shadow behind Gib’s eyes. So she countered with levity. “For what? Those dopey-looking Peter Pan collars on top of your choir robes?”

  “A woman who wears an apron at work has no room to criticize.” He refilled her glass. “The choir’s made too many recordings to count. Every year they do a Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols that’s broadcast worldwide on Christmas Eve. I never miss it. Well, thanks to TiVo.”

  Daphne made a mental note to check YouTube as soon as she got home. An angelic-looking Gib in a choir robe was a vision she did not want to miss out on. “I never asked. What did you end up doing on Christmas Day?”

  “Doc Debra.”

  Good thing she’d put her champagne down, or Daphne would’ve done a spit take. “Come again?”

  He looked about one percent sheepish, four percent complacent and ninety-five percent cocky as hell. “All of you did the family thing. I was lonely. Doc Debra was, well, Jewish and looking for a way to make the day go by faster. So we made merry. I gave her a reason to be jolly. Instead of Jack Frost nipping at her nose, I nipped at her—”

  Hands waving, she cut him off. “Enough! Here’s the deal. You can brag about your success in the sack to your friend Daphne. You can’t do it to your date Daphne.” She usually laughed at his sexual shenanigans. But not tonight. Not after shaving above the knee for him.

  “Sorry. I forgot that we’ve drawn a new line in the sand.”

  Where to begin? With the fact he thought it was okay to talk about banging other women while on a date? Which led her to believe he still didn’t truly see her as a desirable woman. Gib still looked across the table and saw the best friend that ate wings with him in her sweats. She’d been kidding herself to think otherwise. How many chances should she give him? Daphne didn’t have Mira or Ivy around to consult, but it felt like one more would be her limit. On the off chance she’d yet again blown something he said out of proportion, Daphne led with the legally reprehensible issue.

  “Isn’t Doc Debra your therapist?”

  A one-shoulder shrug. When her finger drumming finally clued Gib in that Daphne expected more, he said, “She was. Until about a month ago.”

  “Isn’t that wildly unethical? Yank-her-license unethical?”

  He leaned forward. Crossed his heart and said, “Nothing happened while I laid on her couch twice a week.”

  “Wow. Bet that’s the first time you’ve ever uttered those words.”

  “Cut me some slack. Do you want to know what happened, or do we lower the cone of silence?”

  Daphne rolled her hands in a go on gesture. Dating etiquette probably said he shouldn’t tell her. But he’d already said too much. Not spilling the whole story now would be like using a condom during sex with a pregnant woman.

  Leaning back in his chair, Gib extended his legs to poke out from beneath the tablecloth on her side. “A few weeks after the doc cut me loose, I ran into her at a holiday party. Bad party and even worse booze. We left to find better drinks.” Gib paused, finally choosing his words carefully. “We had fun. So when I felt glum on Christmas, I called her. No big deal.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s a good doctor. Ask Sam. I hooked him up with her practice. Says it’s going great. If it wasn’t for her, I never would’ve pulled myself together enough to give this whole relationship thing a go. Doc Debra puts her patients first. No way would she risk her license just to screw me.”

  Gib probably believed that to be true. Having spent years lusting after him, however, she also believed that a woman would do just about anything for the chance at a few hours of bliss in his arms. Was that the champagne talking? Maybe. Jealousy that another—in an extremely long line of women—had beaten her to the punch? Definitely.

  Their waiter dropped by again. This time he deposited a basket of rolls. Hovered a bit, waiting for their order.

  The butter pats were cut into tiny hearts. So adorable. “Is that brioche heart-shaped?”

 
“Of course,” said the waiter. And if Daphne had been even a second slower, she would’ve missed his sideways wink at Gib. But she saw it. More to the point, she knew what it meant. These weren’t special gestures he’d gone out of his way to arrange for her. They were part of his usual modus operandi.

  “If I go check the other tables, will their brioche be heart-shaped?”

  After glancing at Gib, the waiter muttered, “No.”

  Daphne meticulously folded the napkin back over the rolls and pushed the basket to the center of the table. They were lovely rolls. Maybe some other lucky table would enjoy them. “This is like the roses and the champagne, isn’t it? You order these stupid romantic rolls every time you’re here. Hell, you probably don’t even have to ask for it anymore. The hostess probably alerts the kitchen to start rolling out the Gibson Moore special date package as soon as you book your reservation. Every time. Every woman.”

  He put his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers and rested his forehead on them. Even closed his eyes. Very similar to a yoga breathing pose. Did the man have to freaking meditate to summon up a response? Finally, he laced his fingers into a fist and looked over at her.

  “Daphne, you’re hardly the first woman I’ve ever dated. A fact of which you are well aware.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t care that you’ve slept with half the city. Your past isn’t the issue. It’s the present. All I care is that when you’re out with me, well,” her voice husked to a near whisper, “you’re out with me. Not just the next in a string of sets of perky breasts and long legs. This whole night has been a checklist of lines and moves. I wanted it to be personal. You can date any random woman any night of the week. But tonight, I kidded myself that you wanted to be with me, not just any woman.”

  Gib shoved a hand through his hair. Swiped it down his jaw. “Daphne, it is personal.”

  “My last gynecologist visit was more personal than this date.” Yeah, that sent the waiter scuttling away. “Oh, you do it up nicely. Your dates probably feel charmed. Looked after. I want to feel treasured, Gib. I want to be irreplaceable. I want to be different. I want to matter. And you’ve made it more than clear that I don’t matter at all.”