Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  “Sorry I missed out on the joke. Want to bring me up to speed?”

  Swallowing down the last of her giggles, she said, “Not in the least.”

  Sam stood and engaged in a complicated handshake/backslap ritual with Gib. “Caught the end of the show. Surprised you didn’t get pairs of damp panties hurled at you.”

  Like a magician unfurling an entire deck of cards, Gib fanned out a handful of business cards. “Panties are too obvious for this crowd. Seventeen business cards did find their way into my hands...my pockets...and I think there’s one wedged down the back of my pants.” He winced. “It’ll be embarrassing if one slides out of my cuff in a few steps.”

  Daphne shook her head. “That’s what you find embarrassing about all this?”

  “No. Most of all, I’m embarrassed by my shocking lack of judgment.” He took her hand, and his gaze caressed her cheeks so tenderly, heat rose in them. Heat rose other places, too. Places she couldn’t think about with Sam sitting right next to her. “I should’ve told you at least ten times already how gorgeous you look tonight. I fear I haven’t hit the mark yet.”

  “Night’s still young, Moore,” she taunted sassily.

  “Indeed.” He crooked his arm in an offer. “Ready to go?”

  Confused, she looked around the packed room. “Now? The party’s supposed to last another hour.”

  “And it will. Just not here. Not with me, at any rate.”

  “But your public’s waiting for you.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t care. Not about any of them. What I want is some privacy, with you. Only you. Say the word. I’ll take you anywhere.”

  So he’d just been playing to the crowd? And was now willing to walk away from all those panting women...in order to make her pant? The night was turning around. Maybe she should’ve rifled through her mom’s closet years ago. Confidence coursed through her with the heady zing of a lemon drop martini. Emboldened, she asked, “Back to your place?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll hunt up Milo and tell him to stick to his hunting grounds for a few hours.” Sam kissed Daphne on the forehead. “Have fun.”

  “Not up to me. You’d better warn Gib to bring his A game.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Flowers are love’s truest language

  ~ Park Benjamin

  Daphne tried to catch her breath. Kinda hard with her heart pounding faster than a long-haul semi with a lead-footed driver. She used the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “I expected more from the great Gibson Moore, lover extraordinaire.”

  “More of what?” Looking down at her, his brilliant blue eyes twinkled with silent laughter. Silent, probably, because he was panting just as damn hard as she was.

  “Not sure. There’s a mystique about what you do. People whisper of the results, but never the specifics. Kinda like doing a web search. No idea how the laptop found the answer—you just see it appear. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised by the venue for tonight.”

  Gib looked over first one shoulder, then the other. They’d paused for a break at the far end of the Millennium Park ice rink from all the other broomballers. The border of twinkle-lighted trees illuminated only a few families walking by. “Do you want to know the secret?”

  “To your success in bed with women?” God, yes. She wanted to hear every single salacious detail. Daphne wanted to know what he did, in what order, and how long he spent on each step. For years she’d wondered. Tried to imagine, and then felt guilty—skeevy—for wondering about her friend.

  But now she’d had a taste of his particular brand of bedroom artistry. And she hungered for more. Craved it. Craved him. Would throw him down on the ice in this frigid Chicago night and do him here and now, if he agreed. It had been fourteen days since their first kiss. Five days since the hot and heavy session that steamed up the carriage windows. And two endless days since they’d made out like teenagers on his couch after the magazine party until Milo came home. Still no sex. Even though Daphne knew, from years of stories, that Gib was a sex-right-off-the-bat kind of guy.

  So despite the fact that she wanted to drop to her knees and beg for his secret, she didn’t. Instead, Daphne batted his broom off the ice with her own. Aimed for a sneer without even the least bit of shameless supplication to indicate how badly she trembled on the brink of desperation. “I shouldn’t have to trade magic beans or anything to get it. You’ve got a smoldering gaze that weakens women’s knees, and an accent that all but unhooks their bras.”

  “That’s just the starting point.” He balanced the broom against his thighs. Propped his elbows on the rail behind them. The corners of his mouth lifted infinitesimally into a mysterious smile. “There’s one thing, in particular, I do when I’m out with a woman.”

  She’d been head over heels for Gib since they first met. He could read aloud from a calculus textbook and she’d still want him with the heat of an exploding sun. But beyond that, they’d all wondered for years how he did it. How Gib charmed his way so effortlessly into every single bed he set his sights on. “Tell me,” she demanded.

  Gib crooked a finger. Her sneakers slid her across the ice. She used Gib’s body as a brake. Pressed up against his side and reveled in the feel of his warmth against her from ankle to shoulder. “Answer me this: are you having fun?” he asked.

  “Best time ever.” An evening spent with her best friend was always fun. A night of take-no-prisoners broomball against the lazy, weak team Four Seasons had scrabbled together to try and take down the Cavendish’s? In other words, a guaranteed win? Always good. Daphne loved playing, win or lose. Last time they’d lost to the Ritz-Carlton’s team. Gib was sure they’d transferred up ringers from Brazil. He thought he recognized two from a late-night soccer match he’d caught on cable. She didn’t care one way or the other which hotel won the broomball tournament. It was just nice to escape the constant prison of four walls in the middle of a Chicago winter. Stretch her legs. Breathe some fresh air. Even if the cold did sear her lungs. Get her blood pumping, and hope that Gib would make it pump even harder in a few hours.

  “That’s the secret.”

  “What?” Had she missed it? The giant silver bean rising beyond the rink had caught her eye. Squinting, Daphne had tried to see their reflection in its curved, shiny surface. Did one second of inattention deprive her of knowing?

  His warm breath whispered across the top of her ear. “I help women enjoy themselves.”

  “Makes you sound like a sex therapist teaching the finer points of masturbation.”

  “Far from it. The only real magic is in being able to read them. To know exactly what it would be that they most want to do.”

  Then why weren’t they in his bed, right now? Naked? “You thought tonight, more than anything, I wanted to play broomball?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But—”

  “What you needed, more than anything, was to release some tension. Trying to stay upright in trainers on ice while whacking a ball with a broom? An easy, quick way to do it. I wanted to see you tonight. A cozy night on the couch ignoring a movie together—” he leered at her with all the subtlety of Grouch Marx, “—sounded like a perfect plan. But it wasn’t what you needed. You needed the stress relief. So here we are.”

  “I’m not tense,” she protested. Daphne was sure of it. Because she was expending an enormous amount of energy to just enjoy this time with him. To not let it be overshadowed by, yes, the immeasurable stress of the imminent loss of her best friend.

  “Please. Stress is like high cholesterol. Denying it doesn’t make it go away. You’ve got a bar mitzvah, a sweet sixteen and a wedding to prep this week. Four meetings with prospective clients. Your competition’s in six days. We’re running drills for Flower Power every day. It’s got you nervous, rattled
. When Ivy made you a hair appointment, you almost broke out in hives.”

  “Because it’s a waste of money. Who cares if I’m on national television? The important thing is to keep my hair out of my face while I work. I’ll just throw it in a ponytail and be done with it.”

  “No.” Gib caught her bundled back hair in his hand. Wrapped it around his palm and tugged her into a soft kiss. “Let Ivy do this for you. It’s her contribution to the win that Team Daphne’s going to take home.”

  Oh. She hadn’t thought about it like that. And it made sense. She and Ivy were a team. It was weird doing the competition without her. Ivy must feel left on the sidelines. “Aren’t you perceptive? Maybe something of Doc Debra’s did rub off on you.” Daphne couldn’t entirely keep the bite out of her voice as she said, “Besides her panties, I mean.”

  He cocked his head and frowned. “I’ve told you about most of the women I’ve dated over the years. Why are you so fixated on that one in particular?”

  “It’s just weird. You’ve got to admit that most people don’t sleep with their shrinks.”

  “Ah, but how many want to? Look at Tony Soprano.”

  “Yeah, he’s a stellar role model for you.” Daphne bit her lip. They’d promised each other to give a real relationship a go. Something deeper, more honest, more intimate than their already-close friendship. Which meant no longer hiding her true feelings behind snark and smiles. Damn it. “She was the last woman you slept with. Right before all...this...started between us.” She swirled her hands in a circle.

  “So? She certainly wasn’t the first. There’s no whitewashing my past. What difference does it make?”

  Female neuroses were not easy to explain. “Pretend you went to dinner at Alinea. Had their sixteen-course, haute cuisine tasting menu.”

  “I don’t need to pretend. I’ve done it.” Gib patted his stomach with a satisfied smile. “Amazing. I could talk for days about how good it was.”

  “Exactly.” Exactly what she was afraid of. “It blew you away. After a dinner like that, would you really want to go to SuperDawg and have a hot dog the next day?”

  He shuddered. “That’s one Americanism I never adopted. I wouldn’t eat a hot dog covered in tomatoes and relish any day.” Then Gib dropped his broom to the ice. Tucked an arm around her waist to slide her in between his legs. “Are you saying that Doc Debra is the meal at Alinea? And you’re the simple, greasy hot dog?”

  “I wouldn’t have called it greasy, but yes. I’m the hot dog.” Damn it. Now, on top of everything else, Daphne desperately craved one of their pineapple Supershakes and an order of Supertamales. “So I’m worried you might need a, um, sexual palate cleanser. Or that I’m just the palate cleanser before you move on to another sixteen-course meal. Or that you would never, ever stoop to sullying your taste buds with a hot dog.”

  Cupping her cheek, he slowly stroked his thumb down her jaw. “Such a lot of worries in that pretty head of yours. I knew you were stressed. Had no idea I was part of the problem. I’m sorry.”

  Hmm. Best friend and almost-hope-to-be-lover about to be deported? The thought of Gib’s imminent departure definitely stressed her out more than any stupid reality television show. When she allowed herself to think about it. Which wasn’t very often, because there were still almost two weeks left, and somebody was bound to snap him up.

  “I don’t want to disappoint you.” There. She’d said it. And didn’t feel one iota better for baring her soul.

  “Daphne, I’ve had that sixteen-course feast. If you want to continue with this ridiculous restaurant analogy, I’ve had the cinnamon rolls at Ann Sather’s, and barbecue at Roscoe’s. Five-star meals at Charlie Trotter’s, and that incredible lobster bisque at Gibsons. Were they all delectable? Yes? Could I go back and revisit them? Yes. But I won’t.” His other hand rose to frame her face. As if she wasn’t already pinned beneath his electric-blue eyes, like a summer sky illuminated by lightning. “I’m choosing you. I’m not comparing you to anyone else. It’s impossible. It would be like comparing sand.”

  It hadn’t been that great being a greasy hot dog, but sand kind of sounded worse. “You lost me.”

  Gib chuckled. Dropped his hands back down to cinch her tight against him. “Well, the restaurant thing was making me hungry. There are millions of grains of sand out there—” he chucked a thumb toward the lakeshore, “—all of which would be easy to grab. Instead, I’m choosing the single, solitary diamond that is you. I don’t care about anyone else. I’ve stopped looking, do you hear me? You are the woman I want. The only woman I want.”

  Good thing he had a strong grip at her hips. Daphne thought her knees might buckle. Gib had been kind to her over the years, thoughtful. Made it clear their friendship was important. But that was the most tender thing he’d ever said to her. That any man had ever said to her. She licked her lips. “I...I prefer the diamond comparison to the greasy hot dog.”

  “Duly noted.”

  A whistle blew, indicating the end of break time. Gib plucked his broom off the ice. “Are you ready?”

  She’d been ready for years. She’d been ready since their first kiss. She’d been ready since first goggling at his face. “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  Gib hung up her coat in the closet next to his. “Good game. Glad we stopped those blighters before they scored.”

  “Maybe they’ll spread word of our epic victory and scare The Peninsula’s team so much that they’ll forfeit in fear.” Daphne looked down the hall toward his always-spotless kitchen. She’d once—only once—left a spoon in the sink. Milo’s face had twisted into the same pained grimace as the time he passed three kidney stones. “Milo’s not here?”

  “Milo’s going to an all-night gay comedy rave in Boytown. Starts at midnight, goes till dawn. Some sort of charity thing. He thinks it’ll be a great place to find his soul mate.”

  “He’s skipping right past hookup and boyfriend? He wants to nail down his soul mate?”

  “Dream big, right? He might get lucky. If it doesn’t work, the charity will still get the money for him sitting there all night.”

  “Good point.” Milo gone for the whole night. They were all alone. The possibility of finally, finally making love with Gib flashed bright in her head. This was it. Except, for some unknowable reason, Gib wasn’t leaping into sex. He was slow rolling it worse than a poker player with a full house. It was up to her.

  “Cold one tonight. Shall I make us some cocoa?” He shut the closet, unbuckled his watch and laid it on the console table next to his keys.

  “No, thanks.”

  Gib turned on a lamp, killed the overhead lights. Shut the blinds on the bay window. “I’ve still got half a pint of mint chocolate chip in the freezer. Want some?”

  “Nope.” She toed off her sneakers. Kicked them into the corner.

  “Movie?” He crossed the length of the room, stopping in front of her with his brows kicked up in a question.

  “Nope.” What was that old saying? Nothing ventured, nothing gained? Daphne took a deep breath and pulled her sweatshirt off. She stood in front of Gib in only a black satin bra with scalloped edges. “For a man who prides himself on being able to read women? You’re kind of falling down on the job.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice. “That will be the last time you make a comment like that all night,” he promised. With the speed of one of those diamond-shiny vampires, Gib was in front of her. “Are you truly ready to do this?”

  “I’m so far past ready I’m already halfway to orgasm.”

  “Don’t. Don’t rob me of a moment of giving you bliss.” In the space of another single blink, he lifted her into his arms.

  Well, she’d have to be dumber than a clump of moss to turn down such a request. Looked like he was on board with her plan. Gib carried her to the back of the apart
ment. Pushed open the door to his bedroom with his foot. But didn’t carry her inside. God, now what? Second-guessing the whole friends-to-actual-lovers thing? Or something as simple as trying to remember if his condom stockpile was current?

  “I’ve thought about this night. Since before New Year’s,” he admitted. “I always wondered what it would be like to take you to bed.” Gib’s voice darkened, deepened.

  Daphne could only whisper back, “Same here.”

  “Since New Year’s, I started to think about it in more detail. If, for example, I should just grab you the next time you swing by the office. Whisk you up to the penthouse suite at the Cavendish.”

  “The view’s great.” And she would’ve gone. In a heartbeat.

  “But, if we do this right, you’ll be too distracted to notice the view. Then I thought about lighting the fireplace next time we watch a movie. Seeing your skin painted in the shadow of the dancing flames.”

  She stared at the rapid thrum of his pulse in his neck. “Sounds hot.”

  “Then we’ll come back to that idea. However, it’s not right for tonight.”

  At this point she would take a quickie in the coat closet. Anything to get him to stop talking and start doing. “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve learned my lesson. Because you’re special, and deserve a night tailored specifically to you.” He carried her in and stood her on her feet. Kicked the door shut. In the thick darkness, Daphne scrambled to unbutton her jeans. Gib lunged forward and grabbed her hands. “No. Let me.”

  It wasn’t the eighteenth century. She didn’t need help shucking her clothes. Besides, getting naked could be awkward. Bending and twisting and jiggling. Daphne wanted to get between the sheets and get to it. “You’re wasting time. Time we could be naked.”

  “You’re half right. I’ve wasted too many bloody years ignoring what was right in front of me.” Gib ran his hands down her arms, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. “And you’ll get naked. But please, let me do it. Let me do everything.”