Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3)

by Christi Barth

“It grew into a big family tradition. All four of my brothers would sit, trying to pretend they weren’t spellbound, as long as they could shovel more rolls in their mouths. And when she died—” Her voice caught, just for a second. Years had passed, but the pain somehow could still spike as fresh as the day it happened.

  Ivy put an arm around her waist, then leaned her head over to rest on Daphne’s. “Do you need a tissue?”

  “Tissues only treat the symptom. A shot of vodka, now that would cure the problem,” Ben suggested with a nod of sage wisdom.

  Daphne sniffed. No crying allowed. This was supposed to be a happy morning. Bad enough she’d moistened her pillow over Gib already today. “It wasn’t my idea, that first year. Dad disappeared into the kitchen on New Year’s Eve. After about an hour he came out and begged me to help. Tears in his eyes, covered in flour from head to toe. He’d wanted to surprise all of us with the rolls, as a way to keep the memory of Mom with us. Cooking wasn’t really his strong suit, though. We’d been living on takeout and spaghetti in the four months since she’d died.”

  She and her brothers had ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. None of them had believed they’d miss having Mom insist on a salad with their meat loaf, or get tired of eating burgers and fries. But even teenagers had limits. The older boys started eating at their girlfriends’ houses most nights, and the family van slowly grew a carpet of wrappers and unused ketchup packets.

  “Dad remembered that I’d always helped Mom roll them out the night before, and hoped I could figure out where he’d gone wrong. I’ve made them every year since. And it did help. We cried a bit that first year—all of us—but as the years went by, even after my brothers went off to college, they made sure to be home to watch the parade. It’s harder now that they have families. Dad started spending New Year’s in Minneapolis with Nick and his first set of grandbabies. So I keep the tradition going, with my extended family—all of you.”

  Dampness sparkled in Mira’s eyes. “Well, that’s a thoroughly beautiful story. I think I’m too choked up to be able to swallow.”

  “Then you’re missing out. Dry up the waterworks by the time the parade starts, or I’m eating your share,” Gib threatened.

  His lighthearted tone erased Daphne’s own melancholy. “Don’t worry. I expanded the menu a bit this year. Nobody’s going hungry.” She carried the last tray over from the kitchen counter to the oval coffee table.

  “There’s an egg and ham casserole, brown-sugar bacon, sausages, fruit salad with a lime and yogurt sauce, ginger-carrot muffins, and, of course, the famous cranberry cinnamon rolls. Oh, and a pitcher of Bloody Marys, along with the coffee and hot chocolate.”

  After gaping at her for a second, Gib bowed with a dramatic flourish. “You are a kitchen goddess.”

  Daphne wanted to stomp her foot at the nice compliment. She’d far prefer to hold out for a compliment on her bedroom skills. Would rather make him drool with lust than with actual hunger.

  Ben hustled into the living room to peruse the heaping platters. Sam followed him like a hound dog flushing prey. “Yeah, this is a fantastic spread. You really hit it out of the park this time, Daph.”

  Ivy, on the other hand, didn’t budge. Instead, she fisted her hands on her hips and scowled. Her stern demeanor was at odds with the festive look of her pink-and-white polka-dot sweater topping fuchsia skinny jeans. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Most of the time you subsist on pizza and pb&js. Trust me, I paid close attention while I was your roommate. Your indomitable metabolism freaks me out and infuriates me.”

  Mira nodded. “Every time you eat cookies all day long and not gain a pound? It’s like you’re giving women everywhere the middle finger. So not fair.”

  Ivy held her ground. “You only cook this much when you’re stressed out. There’s enough food here for at least a dozen people. Come on, you know I’m just going to pester you until you tell me.”

  Nope. No reason to share last night’s humiliation with her friends. Their sympathy would only get her all churned up again. Daphne needed to not think about Gib and his lips. They were friends. Best friends. As close as siblings. And it was eight kinds of ooky to think about craving the lips of an almost-brother. Or so she kept telling herself. “Pester away. But you’ll waste your breath. I’m fine. We’re a bigger crowd this year now that Ben and Mira are part of our circle. Just thought I’d throw a real brunch like a grown-up. You know, start the year off right.”

  “Uh-huh.” Clearly unconvinced, Ivy gave her the stink eye for another moment, then moved into the living room.

  Interrogation averted, Daphne grabbed her mug of minty cocoa. She posed in front of the holly-and-pine-framed fireplace, arm raised. “I’d like to make a toast. To my mother, Shelly Lovell, who I miss every day. And to all of you, for making the supreme sacrifice of crawling out of bed before noon to share my little tradition. Happy New Year.”

  They all echoed her toast, clinking ceramic mugs. But when Daphne tried to sit down, Ivy held up a restraining hand.

  “You’re not finished yet. Before we start in on this orgy of food, you have to explain the centerpiece.”

  Could she blame the crackling fire for her suddenly flushed cheeks? Daphne didn’t mind her flowers being in the spotlight. But she never liked that light shining on her. Discussing her geeky obsession with the Victorian floriography would be sure to bore her friends to tears. “Nobody cares about that.”

  “They will once you explain it. Daphne’s big on the language of flowers.” Ivy pointed to the low glass bowl, full of shiny greenery and spiky blue flowers. “If she took the time to make a special centerpiece for today, it means something.”

  Mira bent over to sniff the display. “Ooh, lovers used to send secret messages through nosegays and boutonnieres, right? That might be fun to highlight at A Fine Romance. Maybe highlight a flower of the month and its meaning.”

  “If she starts brainstorming for the store, we’ll lose her for at least an hour. Especially if Ivy joins in.” Sam pressed a tender kiss to Mira’s forehead. “Reel her back on topic, Daphne.”

  “Well, there’s rosemary, for remembrance. For my mom.”

  “Nice,” Gib said as he scooped a spoonful of eggs onto his plate.

  Daphne ran her fingers through the fluffy greens. “Parsley, for festivity.”

  “Great.” Ben plucked off a leaf and popped it in his mouth. “When brunch is over, you can dump it into a pot and make stew. And when you do, count me in for a bowl.”

  “Very funny. After the workout I gave my pots and pans this morning, I probably won’t be cooking again until the spring thaw.”

  Gib used the tongs holding a fat sausage link to point at the cluster of tiny white berries. “Isn’t that mistletoe? I’ve seen a bunch of it over the past month. Our head housekeeper, Letitia, keeps hanging it over the time-card punch station. I’ve tried explaining to her that it’s inappropriate, but she’s got her eye on one of the maître d’s. She thinks trapping him under mistletoe is the only way to get him to notice her.”

  “Might work,” said Sam.

  “True,” Gib conceded.

  Ben loaded two cinnamon rolls onto his plate, leaving a drizzle of thick icing across the table. “You of all people should be in her corner.”

  “Not in the least. I’ve never dipped into the company well. Too dangerous. Rife with complication to get involved in the workplace, and twice as bad since I’m the manager. Regardless, a built-in kissing station is a bad idea with three hundred employees of both genders.”

  A kissing station at Gib’s work. Daphne was sure the maître d’ wasn’t the only man that housekeeper hoped to trap into a secret smooch. “Mistletoe means I surmount all difficulties. I thought it would be a positive affirmation to start the year.”

  Gib barked out a laugh. “What’s the flower to avoid all difficulties? Seems easier.”

  Men. Always wanting a short cut. “The language of flowers is rather limi
ted. It’s not like that full Klingon dictionary you bought last Halloween.”

  “I wanted to be able to converse with all women, no matter their nationality. And trust me, those Star Trek nuts are quite keen to show their appreciation if you go the extra mile.”

  “Gib, you’re incorrigible,” Mira laughed. “What’s the tall flower?”

  Daphne appreciated being pulled off the detour her mind took in picturing Gib rolling around in bed with a lusty, green-skinned Trekkie. “As my former roommate, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that one. It’s hyssop, for cleanliness. You know, that thing I’m woefully lacking? Sort of my New Year’s resolution. To de-clutter and remember to clean before it gets so bad I can write my name in the dust on the mantel.”

  “This is the year you’re going to land a man,” Gib declared.

  Was it upside-down-backward day? Had he figured out his best kiss ever came from his best friend? Was he about to offer himself up to her, and maybe carry her off to the bedroom to finish what they’d barely begun? “What do you mean?”

  “Surmounting difficulties? Keeping the place tidy so it’s always prepared for an unexpected visitor? Obviously you’re on the prowl.” He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Now that Mira and Ivy are cozily hooked up, you’ve decided that it’s your turn to bag a trophy.”

  “Better than your catch-and-release habit.” Her retort tumbled out automatically, the way they always yanked each other’s chain. It was the most normal she’d felt conversing with him since the kiss. Maybe Daphne could recalibrate her emotions. Go back to their standard friendship, unimpeded by her unrelenting lust.

  “Hey, nobody gets hurt my way.”

  And normalcy disappeared just that fast, pinched off like a dead flower. “Want to bet?”

  Ben sank cross-legged onto the pale purple throw rug in front of the fireplace. “I know somebody Gib wants to catch—and keep.”

  Ivy pounced on his announcement. “Who?”

  “The mysterious Cinderella from last night’s wedding.”

  Freezing in place, Daphne tried not to react. Nobody needed to know that her heart had just sped up in an almost opposite amount that time had suddenly slowed down.

  Sam shook his head. “You’ve really gone round the bend on this girl. You talked me deaf in one ear about it last night.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it now.” Gib stood abruptly, heading to the kitchen to top off a mug that looked suspiciously still full of coffee.

  “Oh, I think we do,” said Ivy. She perched on the purple sofa arm next to Sam. “Gibson texted me three times last night, begging for the guest list to the wedding. He has some ridiculous notion that I’d violate the privacy of my bride and let him phone up every single female guest.”

  Sam scratched his head. “What’s your game plan? Just burst out with, hey, did ya happen to kiss a random stranger during the blackout?”

  “Seems like a straightforward question.” Gib sat back down, irritation obvious in his stiff spine and clenched jaw. It made Daphne want to stroke a soothing hand from those chiseled cheekbones down to his lickable lips. God, why couldn’t she stop looking at him like a playground of passion? That kiss unlocked a door she’d dead-bolted shut for years, and now she couldn’t find a mental crowbar to slam it back into lockdown.

  Ivy pursed her lips. “It seems like a way to piss off about—what—a hundred or so women?”

  “Why—did you change your mind? Will you give me the list?” Hope bubbled off his voice.

  “Of course not. But if your kisses are as spectacular as you claim, maybe your Cinderella will come looking for you.”

  Mira waved her napkin in the air to interrupt. “Speaking of dating, I need a favor.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Tired of me already?”

  “Not for at least another eighty years.” She nuzzled his cheek, then continued. “With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I want to spotlight an aphrodisiac-based picnic in A Fine Romance.”

  Whip-smart idea. Ivy might’ve come up with the idea—and the capital—for a romance store, but Mira had put her personal stamp on it from her first day as manager.

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Come on, do you really believe in that stuff?”

  “I really believe it will sell like crazy, and make the store tons of money. If nothing else, there’s probably a placebo effect. Two people who like each other enough to share a picnic will undoubtedly begin to feel amorous as they feed each other finger food. The point is, I need to do a trial run.”

  Sam shoved Mira’s sleeve up and trailed a string of kisses up her arm. “Sweets, lima beans and day-old crusts are aphrodisiacs as long as I’m with you.”

  “Exactly the problem. Ivy and I can’t test these, because we’re already putty in the hands of our fiancés. What I need are unattached, objective volunteers. Daphne, are you in?”

  Anything to help a friend. Not to mention that as a silent partner with Ivy, anything that helped the store profit would get Daphne’s accountant off her back about how fast she’d recoup her investment. And nibbling tasty gourmet treats was far from a hardship. “Sure. I love to eat.”

  “And, Gib, I want you to do this, too.”

  What? Had Mira lost her mind? No. No freaking way. Not in a million years. Daphne could not, would not sit across a table playing sexily with food and Gibson Moore. A woman could only bear so much disappointment, and last night she’d taken her share of it for the entire year.

  “No,” he said.

  Whew. Crisis averted.

  “Stop scavenging the town for fresh meat for one lousy night. Help a girl out. It’ll be fun.”

  Gib sighed. “This is almost insulting. Or at the very least, overkill. My charm, my accent and crystal-blue eyes are all the aphrodisiac any woman needs.”

  Truer words were never spoken. As far as Daphne was concerned, Gibson Moore could talk her into bed any night of the week with the accent alone. She couldn’t begin to count the nights they’d sat on this very sofa, watching a game or a movie—and she’d had to move to the chair in order to resist the urge to touch him.

  “Be that as it may, I can’t sell you in my store.” Mira gave him an unabashed once-over, from the forehead wave of his thick brown hair down to his polished loafers. “Although I think you’d fetch top dollar.”

  “Kind of you to say. In point of fact, at a charity auction last year, I was sold for the whopping sum of three thousand dollars. Highest bid of the night.”

  Ben nipped a piece of bacon off Gib’s plate. “Dinner with you can’t be worth a quarter of that. Not even if you treated them to steaks and a bottle of Dom at Gibsons.”

  “Who said I stopped at dinner?” Gib waggled his eyebrows and smirked with a full dose of male smugness. The intimation sent Daphne’s R-rated imagination down the wrong and very dangerous road yet again. The one where she pictured his hair tousled, and a sleepy morning smile as the only thing he wore… It helped distract her from the sharp ping of jealousy that hit every single time he talked about his many, many conquests. The jealousy she could never let him see, or their friendship would be horribly damaged.

  “Look, you don’t have to believe that what you’re eating is an aphrodisiac. You just need to let me know if everything tastes good and works well together.”

  “Very well. For the lovely Mira, I will do it.”

  The room closed in around Daphne. This must be what it felt like inside bubble gum when it popped. The air vanished, and the walls almost folded in on her. In a panic, she backed through the doorway into the kitchen. It didn’t help. Her apartment had an open floor plan, so there wasn’t a comforting wall hiding Gib from her view. Backing away even more, she circled past the refrigerator to land in the hallway. Pressing both palms against the wall, Daphne concentrated on breathing.

  “What is going on with you?” Mira poked her head around the corner.

  Ivy put a hand on Daphne’s forehead. “You’re acting wacky. First you stress-cooked, an
d now you’re as white as a wedding gown.”

  “Don’t make me do it, Mira,” she begged in a shaky whisper.

  “Do what?”

  To prevent the slightest chance of being overheard, Daphne hustled them all into the bathroom. With the door firmly shut, she used the cool white tiles for support, as though facing a firing squad. “Have dinner with Gib.”

  “I don’t get it,” Mira said. “He’s one of your best friends in the world. You guys have dinner together all the time.”

  “That was—before.”

  “Before what?”

  God. She wouldn’t be able to talk Mira out of this horrible idea without revealing her secret. Daphne’s knees bent of their own accord, and she slid down the wall to the bare wood. “Before last night.”

  “Sounds like a bad movie title from the eighties,” Mira snickered.

  Ivy just looked confused. “What are you talking about? We were together all last night. I didn’t see you and Gib get into a fight.”

  “We didn’t. We went the other way.” Daphne sucked in a deep breath. “I’m his mystery kiss.”

  “Really?” Two sets of eyes, one hazel and one blue, goggled at her. Both women sank to the floor, hands loosely hugging bent knees.

  “Trust me. I wouldn’t kid about something this cataclysmic.”

  “How was he? Gib’s got such a reputation as a ladies’ man. He’s super hot, and an amazing flirt, so I’ve always wondered if, well, he could possibly live up to the hype.”

  “This is a crisis, Mira. You really want to start by me grading his kiss?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Ivy chimed in with a, “Me, too.”

  Now that the secret was out, she wanted to tell them everything. Except the more she talked about it, the more she’d sink into her own personal emotional quicksand of wanting Gib, who she absolutely, one hundred percent could not have. “He’s spectacular. He’s everything you expect him to be. He knows my lips better, more intimately from that two-minute kiss than any man I’ve ever dated.”

  They all took a moment to let it sink in.

  “Okay, but why did you kiss him?” Mira asked. “Because the way he tells the story, you made the move in the dark.”