Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  “You can still do all of that.” She threw her arms in the air. “Go ahead and quit. We’ll find you another job.”

  All those years of owning her own business must’ve blinded her to the reality of the job market. “In two weeks? Daphne, positions at my level can take two years for an opening to come around.”

  “You’ve got savings. Stick it out until you find one.”

  Why did people assume money solved everything? He banged the wall with his fist. It didn’t begin to bleed off his tension. “I can’t. They don’t grant you a work visa to bag groceries in America. It has to be a job that requires a foreign national with special skills. Without a job, I have to leave the country. Period.” And, there it was. The simple fact that spun his life into a one-eighty. Saying it out loud again was like opening a valve. Some of his anger drained away, already replaced with crushing defeat. “You know my story now. You know the last thing I want to do is return to England. Don’t you think if there was a way out, I’d snatch it with both hands?”

  Daphne grabbed his hands. Gib tried to shake her off, but she held firm. “You have to try. Don’t just give up.”

  “I’m not giving up. I’m being realistic.”

  “Okay, you’re entitled to pitch a hissy right now. I get it. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not worth as much as, say, a bloody American passport would be,” he grumbled. Daphne certainly hadn’t known how her speech that day would affect him five months down the road. Hadn’t torpedoed his career on purpose. Yelling at her wouldn’t change his circumstances. Hard to stop, though. Especially with those small, strong hands of hers curled around his. Hard to bundle all those exposed emotions back under wraps. Like a proper British man would do.

  “What about that Four Seasons they’re building in Milwaukee? Lots of people live on the North Shore and commute to Milwaukee.”

  Finally, he managed to twist out of her grasp. Sank into his chair and tilted his head back. “It doesn’t open until next year.”

  Daphne braced herself on the arms of his chair. Straddling him, she interjected herself into his awesome view of the ceiling. “So look outside Chicago. Find a hotel someplace else for a year, and then come back when they’re ready to open. Phoenix, Miami, Los Angeles, anywhere. We’re a big country. There’s got to be at least one hotel with an opening.”

  She stared down at him with so much sympathy, so much fucking understanding. Such unquenchable optimism. As much as he wanted to keep railing at her, just because she was here and he needed someone to yell at, he couldn’t. This wasn’t just any convenient woman. This was Daphne, who understood him better than anyone. Who never turned him away, day or night when he needed to talk. Who always, without fail, could coax a smile out of him. Who evidently refused to give up on him, despite the undeniable, unfixable facts.

  Beneath the power of her unswerving stare, Gib was helpless. Not that his anger at the situation disappeared with a flutter of her lashes. No, he still seethed at being sacked, and at Daphne for the part she’d played in it. But it simply didn’t matter as much as the feelings Daphne stirred in him. The feelings he’d managed to hold at bay all these years. And yet, now that they’d crossed that invisible demarcation from platonic best friends to almost-lovers, every moment he spent with her sucked him deeper into a morass of bloody tender feelings. Feelings that scared the shit out of him. Feelings he couldn’t control. Could only marvel at how much he adored the sweet, passionate woman fighting simultaneously with him and for him.

  Gib deliberately softened his grumbling. “Sure. Big, corporate resorts where the hiring process lasts three months and eight rounds of interviews. There’s nothing to be done in two weeks but to pack.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a few other things to keep you occupied over the next few weeks.” She tugged his tie loose with a suggestive smile.

  No red-blooded man could resist that smile. Especially not with her hovering an inch above his suddenly very optimistic cock. “Christ, you’re relentless. All right. I’ll look for a job. I’ll scour the web until my eyes bleed. I’ll send off a CV to every five-star hotel from sea to shining sea. Is that bloody well good enough for you?”

  “It’s a start.” Daphne sank onto his lap, hands splayed on his chest. “One more thing, though. Do you forgive me?”

  Why? The woman was squirming on his lap, and she wanted to be serious? Daphne didn’t have her priorities straight. Gib pushed her hair behind her shoulders. He cupped her neck, lightly stroking the back of it. “Do I have to decide right now?”

  “Gib, I’m serious.”

  Damn it. He deserved to be mad for at least five sodding minutes. “If you could go back and change the past, would you still do it? Even knowing it would cost me my job?”

  “Yes.”

  Didn’t she understand how forgiveness worked? Daphne had to regret her part in the utter ruination of his life first—then he could forgive her. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Don’t you want to think about it for a second?” Gib asked flatly.

  “No. I still believe it was the right choice. A choice you made, by the way.” She stabbed him in the sternum with her index finger. “I didn’t hold a gun to your head. Especially considering the twenty-minute wait in line to go through the courtroom metal detectors. You’re a grown man, Gib. One who listens to the counsel of his friends, but ultimately makes his own decisions. Something I said that day resonated. You must’ve been having second thoughts about changing your citizenship already. So don’t you dare throw all the blame on me.”

  “That’s your apology?”

  “I apologized already. But I’ll do it again, if you need a repeat. I’m sorry about what happened today. I’m sorry this big bad news came out of nowhere and crashed into you. Doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. You’re Gibson Moore. You’ve got this town wired. You’ve got connections all across the country. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s you.” Daphne cocked her head to the side and beamed at him. “Forgive me now?”

  Of course he did. But Gib didn’t want to let her know how easily he rolled over at one of her smiles. Daphne had his heart wrapped in a bow around her little finger. No reason to give her any more of an upper hand by letting her know that, though. “I’m not finished being angry. Not by a long shot.”

  “I understand.” Dipped her head to the opposite side, with another smile that was like high beams on his heart. “Forgive me now?”

  “How about we agree you acted without malice, and leave it at that?”

  “Not good enough. Look, you’re going to forgive me. And in case you really do only have two weeks here, you might as well stop wasting time and do it now.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I suppose so.” Gib gave himself up to the distraction of her kisses. While trying not to think about being marooned a bloody ocean away from her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love

  ~ Max Muller

  “Love the flowers, boss,” said Milo. “Filling the martini glasses with balls of those white flowers—”

  “Chrysanthemums. The official flower of our great city.” Daphne didn’t bother to look up from the burgundy depths of her Shiraz. It was rare that she both worked an event and attended it as a guest. The novelty of pseudo-drinking on the job, even though she’d finished placing all the flowers an hour ago, made her savor every sip. “Geez, Milo, you signed the invoice for them. Don’t you pay attention?”

  “They’re white and they smell spicy. What else do I need to know? Anyhoo, it plays up the martini bars at each end of the room. Or so I just heard the Style editor from the Chicago Trib say. Maybe we’ll get a mention in tomorrow’s paper. Well done.”

 
This was the perfect time of year for extra good publicity. All the brides who got engaged at Christmas and New Year’s were about to start planning. Having Aisle Bound uppermost in their minds couldn’t hurt. Frankly, it was the reason they’d taken this gig. Notorious cheapskates, Windy City magazine balked at paying their normal rates. They’d compromised by promising Daphne a mention in their multipage spread of the party in the February issue.

  “Thanks. This was a tough one.” With such a low budget, she’d been tempted to use carnations, the cheapest flower known to man. And only used on homecoming floats. “A party to honor the city’s hottest bachelors doesn’t really scream out for flowers.”

  “What did you want to use for centerpieces? Deodorant, and a stick of beef jerky in a beer mug?”

  “We are so on the same wavelength. That was totally my first instinct,” she mocked. “Or the classic fishbowls full of condoms.”

  “In the spirit of public safety, those should probably be handed out at the exit.” Milo came around the high-top table, hand outstretched. “How bad is the wine? Give me a taste.”

  Daphne stared at him. Wondered if today was prank-your-boss day. Because there could be no rational excuse for the way Milo looked. “Holy Mother of God, what are you wearing?”

  “You like?” He gave a spin. The green plaid kilt flew up, and Daphne quickly averted her eyes. Some things could never, ever be unseen. “It’s Scottish Highland Dress. A Prince Charlie jacket, black tie and a kilt.

  She didn’t care what he called it. Every other man in the room had on pants. Daphne didn’t realize that particular dress code choice had apparently been open to interpretation. “You’re wearing a skirt.”

  “Don’t you dare get judgy.” He waved his hand at the crowd in the packed brick Museum of Contemporary Art Warehouse. “Look at all these women strutting their stuff. Skintight dresses to show off their waists. Cleavage that’ll expose their nipples if somebody sneezes. Airing their attributes for all the hot bachelors to ogle. Well, my best feature happens to be my legs. Why shouldn’t I show them off?” He waggled a knee-sock-covered calf in the air.

  Daphne smothered a giggle. “So you expect to pick up a guy tonight? Wearing that?”

  He fig-leafed his hands and gave her a look of pitying condescension. “Sweetie, you don’t actually think they’re all straight, do you? Percentage wise, I’ve probably got a far better chance than you of scoring tonight. That is, if you were still single. If you weren’t already going home with the hands-down yummiest man in the room.”

  Trust Milo to pick off the emotional scab, jab a fork in the wound and then squeeze lemon juice over it. “Gib’s not what I’d call a slam dunk.”

  “Why not? I thought you said he’d forgiven you for wrecking his life.” He blinked at her, pretending—it could be nothing but sarcastic pretense—the question was wholly innocent.

  Daphne glared at him. Milo might be her office manager, but evidently he was first and foremost Gib’s friend and roommate. “Shut up. I didn’t do anything. He assessed the situation and made a reasoned choice, in which I was merely tangentially involved.”

  “What a mouthful of crap. Did you find a rent-a-lawyer to write up that excuse for you?”

  “Of course not.” Maybe Ivy’s marriage-counselor mother had stopped by to take them to lunch. Just maybe, the whole story had played out over chicken pot pie at the Walnut Room in Macy’s. And then, out of love and solidarity for Daphne, Mrs. Rhodes had used her quarter century of experience to squarely lob the guilt ball back into Gib’s court. No reason to explain it to Milo. “This has nothing to do with Gib’s possible—not at all guaranteed—relocation.”

  “Then what gives? I’d expect him to be eager to squeeze in as much nooky as possible with you before he’s deported.” Another look of as much faux innocence as Charles Manson at his parole hearings. “I mean, before he leaves.”

  There’d be plenty of time for Milo to snipe at her after that black day. For now, she needed his reassurance. “Like you said, look at all these women. You know Gib likes to play the field. Run the board.” She’d been watching him for at least half an hour. Since the moment he walked in the door, Gib had been surrounded by a bright bouquet of women. Sure, there were twenty-four of Chicago’s other hottest bachelors in the room. But he was the cover boy. The star attraction. The prize everyone wanted to claim.

  He’d dressed to play the part, in white tie and tails complete with a silk-fringed scarf. Gib looked debonair. Rakish. Sexy. Doable. Daphne had boutonnieres for all the bachelors. Cute little clusters of white ranunculus with waving loops of beach grass. But her chances of getting within ten feet of Gib were about as good as her shot of tiptoeing through a rugby scrum. And she hated that he’d made her learn enough about rugby to even know that analogy.

  “Look again at those women around him.” Milo nudged her shoulder when she rolled her eyes. “No, I mean really look.”

  “At what? Their expensively streaked hair? The sexy dresses that cost more than my rent?”

  “Gib’s not flirting with them.”

  Daphne almost snorted her wine right out her nose. “Right. That’s about as likely as me sprouting fairy wings. Or you deciding you want to try out women for the night.”

  “Bite your tongue.” Milo shuddered. “I’m serious. He’s chatting them up, because that’s who he is. But watch him for a minute. Gib isn’t touching any of the women.”

  She hadn’t noticed. But now, looking over, Daphne saw him in what she jokingly called his princely stance: both hands tucked behind his back. “So?”

  “He’s always been about the casual, sneak invasion of a woman’s body. A stroke down the arm. Arm around the waist in a teasing hug that stays there. Dancing his fingers across a hand until suddenly they’re intertwined. Going in for a cheek peck that ends up as an ear nip.”

  “You planning to write a how-to manual? The Consummate Flirt, explained?”

  “I could never begin to explain the surreal effect he’s got on women. Gib’s Kryptonite to women’s panties. He’s like the sexified Pied Piper of babes and bimbos. No offense.”

  One more crack from him tonight and she’d definitely take offense. Or at least refill her wineglass. And by refill, Daphne meant upgrading to a couple shots of tequila. “As long as I fall into the first category of babes and not bimbos, we’re okay.”

  Milo downed the rest of her Shiraz. “We’ve lived together for years. Gone out to bars, to parties. Can’t help but notice his M.O. You know, the way you notice and blather on about whatever it is that makes the Bears’ quarterback special. The touching is a major part of Gib’s action. It makes women feel attractive. Appreciated.”

  Yes. Yes, it did. “Aren’t you the armchair shrink?”

  “I dabble.” His tone was uncharacteristically serious. “I observe people, so I can understand them better. Every problem can be broken down to how two people did or didn’t relate. I try to equip myself so that I can relate to anybody.”

  Every once in a while, the fluorescent-bright exterior candy coating Milo cloaked himself in slipped away. And the genuine, introspective, caring center was a marvel to behold. “I’ll take your word that he’s dialed back the flirt-o-meter for the night. But he’s still surrounded. I’ve made two trips to the cheese display, scored a handful of stuffed mushrooms from the waiter and demolished the fancy party mix.” She nudged the tiny, empty glass bowl in the center of the table. Right next to her carefully placed bud vase with a single tulip spearing out of it.

  “Aside from your apparent allergy to good nutrition, what’s your point?”

  “I’ve been waiting for him. Gib doesn’t seem to be interested in hanging out with me tonight.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s glanced over here half a dozen times since we started talking. Trust me, he wants an out. Why don’t you give him an excuse?”


  “How?”

  Milo tapped the edge of her glass. “Head over to the bar. Slowly.” He pointed to the opposite side of the room. “Gib will have you on missile lock before you get halfway. Especially if you put an extra swish in your step. You know, the way I walk.”

  “You’d better be right,” she warned. And then concentrated on putting one foot directly in front of the other. Daphne had a fuzzy memory of Scarlett O’Hara explaining that was how to make a hoop skirt twitch. When Milo grilled her later, she wanted to be able to honestly say she’d given it the old college try.

  She skirted around the edge of the runway. Low urns overflowing with white tulips lined both sides of it. Daphne hoped that when the bachelors strutted their stuff down it, none of the urns would end up being accidentally punted across the room.

  A warm hand settled at her waist. Gib fell into step with her. “Why’s the most beautiful woman in the room walking away from me?”

  Milo’s utter rightness filled her with relief. And peeved her to no end. “To get you to walk toward me, of course.”

  “It worked. Gave me an excuse to break free. I must’ve tried twenty times to come see you, but the magazine’s publicist kept me on a tight leash. Frustrated the bloody hell out of me not to be able to talk to the one person I most wanted to.” He brushed a light kiss across her cheek. “Fancy a drink?”

  “I was just about to get in line.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re with the main attraction.” Gib raised his hand in the air, crooked a finger at seemingly nothing more specific than the glass block windows. “I’ve got someone to do that.”

  “To do what?”

  “Attend to my needs. And my most pressing need is to make sure you’re properly taken care of, my sweet.” Sure enough, a waiter suddenly appeared at Gib’s elbow, carrying two flutes of champagne. “Thanks, Franco.”

  Daphne smiled as she clinked glasses with him. “You’re outrageously spoiled, Viscount Moore.”