Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3)

by Christi Barth

  “Millions of people would kill to accidentally be captured on film.” Ruth shook her head. “You’re one of a kind, Lovell.”

  “Maybe so. Nevertheless, I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip.” Standing her ground got easier each time. After all, Ruth didn’t scare her. The clammy skin and near need for a paper bag washing over her right now was only about Daphne’s camera phobia.

  Ruth combed stubby fingers through her hair. “Will you at least hear me out? I did fly all the way to this ice-pit of a city to pitch you.”

  Why not? Ivy had drummed into her that it cost them nothing to be nice, no matter how crazy a client might be. A little courteous listening might dial back the concern she saw reinforcing the titanium-like tightness of Ivy’s posture. Now that she’d made her stance clear, Daphne could relax. Nothing Ruth said would make her change her mind. “Let me pour you a second cup of coffee. I know you’ll need to race out the door after that.”

  “We’ve got a flower competition show—Flower Power.” Ruth slitted her eyes. “Surely you watch it.”

  Slowly, Daphne shook her head. “I watch lots of movies. And The Bachelorette.”

  “We both do,” said Ivy. “Frankly, it’s because we like to stare at hot guys who take their shirts off ten times an episode.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Milo winked.

  “Wish we’d thought of that show. Brilliant concept. Constantly reinvents itself, so it’ll never die. God, the money that show’s brought in could buy a small European principality.” Ruth shook her head, clearing the regret from her eyes. “Well, think of a chef competition, where they all try to make dishes off the same theme in an hour.” She waited until they all nodded. “Now do it with flowers. Monkey-themed baby shower. Orange-and-purple wedding. Funky birthday bouquet.”

  As much as Daphne hated to admit it, the show sounded like fun. Maybe she’d try to catch up on a few episodes online during the next blizzard. She handed Ruth a brimming mug, and snagged another cookie. “Is this where I say no again, or is there more?”

  “Ha! You’ve got a zingy edge. Like a kumquat. Our viewers will eat you up.”

  Ewww. “And yet still I say, no.”

  Ruth barreled ahead as if Daphne hadn’t said anything. “We’ve had weeks of preliminary competitions, semifinals, quarterfinals, etcetera. Now we’re finally down to the big finish. We’re taping it right here in Chicago.”

  Huh. Maybe she’d misjudged Ruth. Watching the live competition could be a heck of a lot of fun. “Oh, well, if you’re offering free tickets, that’s a different story. Sure, I’d be happy to come sit in the audience. I’ll even bring my big foam finger from the last Bears game.”

  “The woman didn’t fly all the way out here to offer you tickets.” Milo pursed his lips, staring at Ruth. “My guess is color commentary. She wants you to narrate all the technical stuff. So they aren’t limited to talking about pretty orange flowers and even prettier pink flowers over and over.”

  “And, that would be a no as well. No talking to the camera.” God, her skin crawled just thinking about it.

  Ruth shook her finger. “You said you’d hear me out.”

  True. But the thought of all that awaited her back in her workroom made Daphne want to hurry this along. “Sorry.”

  “No need for you to do color commentary. We have a host and a judging panel already. Did you not hear me say this has been running for a whole season?” The look of exasperation she shot Milo sent him into a full retreat back to his desk. “What we’re missing is one of our four finalists. Maria Carmelo. She’s pregnant, which isn’t a problem, but her mandatory bed rest for the next four months is a huge problem.”

  Ivy’s tongue pushed out the side of her cheek. “I’d say it’s a bigger problem for her.”

  “You’d be wrong,” Ruth snapped. “The doctors assure her that both she and her baby will be fine if she stays horizontal. RealTV, however, has sponsors and advertisers and a devotedly rabid fan base. We can’t bring back a former contestant. Not once they’ve been judged as unworthy of being in the finals. The viewers wouldn’t stand for it. So we’ve got to come up with a fourth finalist, out of the blue. Someone whose floral creations are out of this world. Someone who could easily hold their own against the three best florists in the country.”

  Blah, blah, blah. Ruth could pour the sugar on all day. Daphne knew a snow job when she heard one. “Correction—someone who is desperately seeking either fame or money.” Belatedly, she remembered to add, “No offense, Ivy.”

  “None taken. When I agreed to do Planning for Love, it was to raise the money to open my romance store. I’ve never hidden that fact. In fact, you’re the one who talked me into doing it.”

  Ooh, it was a low blow for Ivy to bring that up. “True. Because it was a brilliant solution to a tough problem. For you. For me, who neither wants fame nor particularly needs a windfall, it would only cause ulcers and unhappiness.” Daphne dusted the cookie crumbs off her fingers. “So my answer remains unchanged.”

  Ruth leaned back, both hands cradled around the mug. “Why don’t I tell you about the other contestants? There’s Luther McGraw from Southern Gardens, Maude Henderson from The Bloom Box and Sheila Irwin from, well, I believe you know Sheila?”

  Ohhhhh. Now it all made sense. This was, indeed, no random visit. No scroll-through the contact list, turning over every possible stone. Ruth’s diabolical plan deserved its own soundtrack: a screeching, evil cackle. The word no didn’t form so easily all of a sudden. Too shocked to spit out an automatic rejection, Daphne stalled. “Should I bother to pretend otherwise?”

  “No. We thoroughly vet all our stars. Can’t have a closet nutcase lose their minds in front of the cameras. There are a lot of weirdos out there.”

  “Auditioning for reality television?” Milo piped up. “Imagine that.”

  The look Ruth shot him this time promised that she’d never ask him to be in one of her shows, no matter what. “When we checked Ivy’s background, naturally, as her partner, we ran you through the same screening process. I could tell you the name of your elementary school, your gynecologist and the size shoe you wear.”

  Daphne had never experienced firsthand the clichéd nightmare of walking naked into a crowded room. But she certainly felt stripped bare now. “Aren’t you supposed to buy me dinner before we get all intimate?”

  “Honey, the money we’ll pay you will buy dinner every day for a year.”

  “Wait, you’re considering doing this?” Milo ratcheted his neck, turning from Ivy to Daphne and then back again. “What did I miss? Who is this Sheila Irwin?”

  Where to begin? Daphne could describe her in three words, three sentences or a three-hour diatribe. “My first boss. My mentor. Oh, and also the first person to can my ass.”

  Milo drummed his fingers against the white frame encasing the banner-size Aisle Bound logo on the wall. “More, please.”

  Saying Sheila’s name still roiled her digestive juices as badly as the iffy fried cheese curds Daphne had on a memorable-for-all-the-wrong-reasons trip to Milwaukee. Maybe eating them after two rounds of jalapeño poppers, baked beans and a burger had been a bad idea. She’d just been trying to eat a balanced meal. Dairy had to squeeze in there somewhere, right? To strike against osteoporosis? Her misguided attempt at nutrition had landed Daphne on the bathroom floor, curled around the toilet. Which is where she wanted to be anytime the memory of Sheila Irwin sludged into her brain. Daphne lowered herself onto the couch.

  Ivy took pity on her. She crossed to Julianna’s empty desk and perched on the edge of it. “Sheila took Daphne under her wing, let her intern summers during college. Taught her everything about the flower business. Like Julia Child teaching someone how to cook. Daphne adored her, and Sheila, well, she loved being adored. Two weeks after graduation—”

  Daphne cut her off. “—because you made me traipse around Niagara Falls with you.” Not Disneyland, not Manhattan, not even Miami. Nope, Ivy had dragged them to Podunk, New York, fo
r their big graduation trip.

  “It is a breathtaking natural wonder of the modern world.” Ivy firmed her lips. It was only about the five thousandth time they’d had this argument.

  “It is a giant faucet.”

  Ignoring her, Ivy turned back to Milo. “—Daphne joined the team at Lakeside Flowers as a full staff member. Sheila worked her hard. Our Daph soaked it all up like a sponge. Almost too well. Clients started asking for Daphne. Requesting that she be the only one to do their flowers.”

  “Uh-oh.” Milo wrinkled his nose as if he caught a whiff of the stench of Sheila’s rottenness across the years.

  “Yeah. Jealousy fits Sheila like a well-tailored glove. She couldn’t take being upstaged, even though Daphne was making money for her hand over fist. So she fired her. At the top of her lungs. Claimed it was because she was ‘too innovative.’ No severance, no recommendation. Worse than that, she blackballed Daphne. Told every florist in town that she’d let her fingers linger too long and too often in the till.”

  Outrage jack-in-the-boxed Milo out of his chair. “She accused you of stealing?”

  “Yeah.” Daphne tried to shrug it off. But even after all these years, it still put a stake of humiliation and hurt straight into her chest.

  “Daphne couldn’t get a job. Anywhere,” Ivy said with grim finality. “When I came to her a month later with the idea for this partnership, she was waiting tables at Gulliver’s.”

  Thank God Marge took pity on her. “Made good tips. I’ve got awesome legs, and I’m not afraid to show them off.”

  Ivy stared for a moment, then hauled Daphne up by the arm. “You’ll have to excuse us, Ruth. I need to consult with my partner.”

  “Just like last time.” Ruth rested her sensible low wedges on the edge of the table. “Do you two have to take each other’s temperature on everything?”

  Milo rolled his eyes. “The big stuff. All the time. But they usually do it over margaritas and chips.”

  Daphne let Ivy trundle her down the hall. In her flower prep room, the spicy scent of pine slapped at her nose. “What? Why are we pretending to have a confab?”

  “We’re not pretending.” Ivy crossed her arms over her chest. She looked one head bob and a pair of harem pants away from being a genie. “I’m telling you to do this.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I saw you just now. How many years later is it, and your face still droops when we talk about Sheila. She castrated your career. Attempted to, anyway.”

  Daphne picked up the wire and a pine bough. Might as well be productive while Ivy wasted her breath on stupid suggestions. “That’s right. She didn’t succeed. You and me, we’re an unstoppable team.”

  “Thanks for making my point for me. Don’t hide behind the safety of our team. Go out there and show her that you can floralize her skinny ass into next week.”

  “Floralize? Not even a word.” She nipped off the end with wire cutters, and wrapped it with floral tape. God forbid the tiny, barely sharp edge snag someone’s dress.

  Ivy planted her hands on the worktable and leaned forward. “You need this boost to your confidence. And you need to publicly punish Sheila, the same way that she publicly punished you. She treated you like crap. Left you a pathetic shell of yourself.”

  The reminder was utterly unnecessary. “Only for a little while. You picked me up and dusted me off.”

  “Exactly. This is your chance to pick yourself up. To serve up her revenge. Sheila could’ve made you a partner, could be garnering all the acclaim that we are. Instead, she was a shortsighted, self-centered bitch. She didn’t deserve you. Go out there and prove it to her.”

  Ivy painted a tempting picture. Since Daphne and Sheila worked in the same town, with all the same vendors, revenge had never been a possibility. She couldn’t afford to be petty. Wouldn’t risk losing a single referral just for the sake of revenge. But this competition might be the one and only way to grind the spiteful hag’s nose into the dirt. On the other hand, it could be a second helping of humiliation for Daphne. If karma kicked her in the ass again and she lost. Why take that risk?

  “She might not be as cutting edge as we are, but Sheila still knows her way around a dozen roses. What if I don’t beat her?”

  “Are you kidding?” Ivy tossed her ponytail. “You are the most competitive person I know. Wait, I take it back. You and Gib probably share that title. Every time we play a game, you treat it like a third world war. You’re cutthroat. You’re resourceful. And you are one hell of a florist. Don’t for a second think you’ll do anything but wipe the floor with her. Along with those other two florists.”

  Excellent points. Ivy was one heck of a salesperson. But she’d only chipped away at one layer of worry. Daphne’s anxieties around doing this show had as many strata as the Grand Canyon. She picked another handful of boughs out of the bucket. “I’ve never competed, not in a flower show, and definitely not on television. There are a lot of unknowns to worry about.”

  “I’m sure you’ll worry about all of them sufficiently. We’ll probably triple our cookie and candy budget for the month to keep you in a good mental place.” Ivy reached across, grabbing both of Daphne’s hands. “But you need this, sweetie. Your self-esteem has never been overflowing. Which is ridiculous, because you are a whole package of goodness. Creative, talented, funny, beautiful—everyone sees it but you. This is your time to shine. It’ll be sooo good for you.”

  “Do I even get a say in this decision?” She’d never been steamrolled by compliments before. But Daphne trusted her best friend. In business and in the messiness of her personal life, Ivy had never steered her wrong. New year, new start. Time to face down old fears. Maybe use the windfall to vacation someplace with a sexy, shirtless masseuse. Daphne took a second to think about being oiled down on a sandy beach by—damn it, why were the talented hands in her vision attached to Gib’s body?

  “No, you don’t.” Ivy smiled. “It’s a one-off. No cameras trailing you twenty-four/seven. Three other contestants, so the spotlight will be diffused. Just a single day of doing nothing but making bouquets. You can do that. You can do that with both eyes shut.”

  “I might have to, so I don’t see the cameras,” Daphne joked. And just like that, the decision was made.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  As if she’d had any choice once Ivy started in on her. “I kicked off the year by bungee jumping off an emotional cliff. If I could screw up the courage to kiss Gib, I can do anything, right?”

  Chapter Seven

  True friendship is like a rose: we don’t realize its beauty until it fades ~ Evelyn Loeb

  Gib tightened the already-perfect Windsor knot at his throat. The tie boasted wide diagonal black-and-light-gray stripes. It echoed the narrow pinstripe in his suit. He tugged infinitesimally at the silver pocket square. Then he patted a hand along the hair he’d gelled upright at his forehead. A little wavy, because he knew the ladies liked it. He’d kept his five o’clock scruff for the same reason, instead of going home to scrape it off before the NACE meeting.

  Then he banged the top of his head against the mirror. What kind of a man hid in a hotel bathroom? From his best friend, no less? Clearly, a spineless one. And Gib had never thought of himself that way.

  He’d dislocated a shoulder on the soccer pitch at age nine, and hadn’t shed a tear when the coach yanked it back into place. At no less than three garden parties, a polo match and one interminable interval during La Bohème, he’d made small talk with Her Majesty the Queen. Not to mention the inner fortitude it took to all but renounce his family and create a new life in a foreign country at the tender age of twenty-two.

  “Stop being a ponce,” he muttered. A tug at the bottom of his jacket. What would he do next to postpone the inevitable? Unlace and relace his shoes? Disgusted with himself, Gib slammed his shoulder against the door and stepped into the hallway.

  “Hey there,” said Daphne. She gave him a casual finger waggle of greeting.

 
Unbelievable. At least fifty people clogged the fourth-floor hallway of Chicago’s historic Palmer House Hotel. Another twenty-five were probably already in the room, waiting for the monthly NACE meeting to begin. Or, more likely, trying to see how many glasses of wine they could toss back before the meeting started. The chances of him stepping out of the blasted bathroom directly into Daphne’s path should’ve been slim. Gib never took statistics at university, but he still knew it shouldn’t have happened.

  “Uh, hello.” He gave her a swift once-over. Gib had teased her plenty over the years about her utter lack of fashion sense. She was too pretty to hide behind bad clothing. Now that he knew—intimately—the tightly lush curves of her body, it physically pained him to see her fading into the background.

  The black skirt hung on her like a bag. Daphne always tried to dress professionally for these events. She just didn’t try very hard. A rust cable-knit sweater also hung on her shapelessly. Gib did approve of the black boots that probably hit just below her knee. He’d approve a lot more if he could see her in just the boots and her knickers…

  No! No stray sexy thoughts. They’d tormented him for an entire night and day already. The memory of her bowing under his hands, moaning under his mouth ran through his head with the unflagging sharpness of an alarm clock with no off switch. Milo had only said what Gib knew in his heart. Daphne was special. She didn’t deserve to be laid and left. Kissed and kicked out. He’d bloody well ask her out on a proper date. Not a preamble to sex. Not a drink to loosen her up. A right, proper date, with dinner and absolutely no funny business. No matter how boring it sounded. He’d keep his lips to himself all night.

  “Good crowd tonight.” Daphne pivoted around, taking in the crush of people rushing down the hall. For the most part, men and women alike wore dark business suits. The only difference to be seen was the sky-high heels on the women. “The pot for the fifty/fifty raffle should be worthwhile. I might spring for more than one ticket.”