Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3)

by Christi Barth

  “You’ve got to play to win,” he agreed. Was this what the portent of a proper date reduced him to? Stilted conversation and clichés? Taking sex out of the equation evidently muffled his mojo.

  Daphne rubbed her upper arm with her hand. “I had a weird day.”

  “Me, too,” Gib confessed. Good to know their kiss had equally unsettled her. But he didn’t want to talk about it right now. Not in the middle of the rapidly emptying hallway. There had to be a better place to admit that he’d doodled her in no less than seven different sexual positions before running the paper through his shredder. Maybe she’d made of mock-up of him out of flower petals?

  She stared up at him with those big, delphinium-blue eyes. The ones he’d forevermore remember glazed with passion. “Talking to you about it would really help settle my mind.”

  Bollocks. Couldn’t that wait for the date? The one he still had to summon the courage to ask her on? “Right. We’ll get it all sorted. But not now. Don’t want to miss the start of the meeting. Roll call’s the only way to find out if there’s a new member in the room.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Network the newbies, I know. Gotta lock them down before any other florist sweeps them off their feet.”

  “It’s the only reason to choke down the plonk they’re pouring at the bar,” he agreed. There. Back to their normal banter. As easy as slipping into a comfortable sweatshirt. He could contemplate dating Daphne and still treat her like a real person. Instead of just another in an innumerable line of mattress squeakers. Gib gestured with his arm toward the meeting room. “Shall we?” But she didn’t budge. Just stared at him, an expectant look on her face. “Go on, then,” he urged.

  “How long are you going to make me wait?” Daphne asked, her voice low and breathy.

  Gib gave a swift glance up and down the hallway. Had anyone else heard her plea? She couldn’t be asking what he thought. Could she? He tried to back away, but his heel barely moved before hitting the kick guard on the bathroom door. “Pardon me?”

  Closing the already-narrow gap between them, Daphne put both hands on his lapels. Then she stroked around in a tight circle. “Come on, Gib. Are you really going to make me beg for it?” Her right hand dropped to his hip. It slid down his thigh, moved inward just enough that in another second she’d feel his cock twitch at the unexpected visit.

  Enough was enough. Daphne was his best friend. Of course he wouldn’t make her beg—unless she was naked. Different rules applied in bed. Now that she’d opened this particular Pandora’s box, the possibilities raced into his brain. In fact, he’d like nothing more than to lick her all over until she begged him to crawl on top of her. Crawl into her.

  But for right now, he’d settle for a taste of her. Enough to take the edge of the lust rampant enough to drive Daphne to feel him up in the hallway. Gib grabbed her neck with one hand, her waist with the other, and reversed their positions. He drove her against the wall. Tried not to notice how well he fit into the notch between her thighs. And then he kissed her. Just like she wanted.

  Gib unzipped her lips with a single swipe of his tongue. She opened to him, giving access to the hot silk of her mouth. The firm grip he had at her neck allowed him to angle her head up to meet him. Fingers thrust deep into the dandelion-soft glory of her hair. He heard the soft, mewling noise coming from the back of her throat, the rasp of her god-awful skirt against his trousers, the muted buzz of the meeting trickling into the hallway.

  But mostly, Gib felt. Felt his cock swell. Her pulse galloping beneath his thumb. The slick mating dance of tongue against tongue a tease for what he now knew to be inevitable. Every stroke a fiery arrow straight to his crotch. Every new inch of her flesh he tasted thickening him, exciting him. Her arms cinched tight around his back, pulling him impossibly closer. This wasn’t a hi, how’s your day kiss. This was a launch sequence countdown begun kiss. Neither of them held back anything.

  If Gib didn’t stop right now, he’d push her through that bathroom door. Hitch up that oh-so-handy skirt. Hike her legs around his waist. Take her in a stall until she screamed so loud the front desk would have to come investigate. And Gib was fairly certain that didn’t fall under the parameters Milo had laid out for treating Daphne to a real date.

  So he backed off. Reluctantly. With a final, bruising brush of lips. Enough to swell her mouth so she’d run her finger over it in an hour, and think of him. Gib planted one hand on the wall, boxing her in to keep Daphne right where he wanted her. With his other, he stroked the edge of her cheekbone, following the path of summer freckles that refused to fade. “Is that what you wanted?”

  She blinked a couple of times. Fast. “No.”

  The woman was insatiable! Just the way he liked it. “I can’t give you any more, pet, unless we blow off this meeting. There are about five hundred hotel rooms on top of us. Not as good as mine, naturally. But they’ve all got locks on the doors, which is all we’ll need.” Gib regretted the offer immediately. Now it hung out there, like an X-rated thought balloon over a cartoon character.

  The agenda for tonight, for once in his life, did not contain sex. He and Milo had laid out a painstaking plan. A decent amount of flattery as a base. A tip of the hat to their close friendship. Cap it off with the dazzling offer to wine and dine her. No mention of the kiss they’d shared. Milo predicted his roommate to be incapable of physical restraint if it came up. After all, an old dog can’t learn new tricks in a day. Gib had tried to resist. But when a woman rubbed herself on him, why wouldn’t he kiss her?

  “Whoa. Did you just offer to do me? And in a rival hotel, of all places?” She cocked her head to the side. Wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure which I find more insulting.”

  Maybe they were on opposite sides of a time vortex. Or an alternate reality. Everything Daphne said now directly contradicted her words, and the blatant come-on, prior to this kiss. Or maybe he’d watched too many hours of the New Year’s Day marathon of Dr. Who. “Isn’t that what you wanted from me?”

  “No.” She shook her head so hard that her hair whipped his cheek. “No. I wanted the candy.”

  “Well, I haven’t got any.” Why were they arguing about candy when he’d bet half his paycheck that her nipples were currently every bit as hard as his cock?

  This time, her hands on his chest pushed him backward. Hard. Enough so that he stumbled to catch his footing. “You always bring candy to the NACE meetings for me. Since I got slammed at work, I came straight here without grabbing dinner. I’m so hungry right now, I could eat your tie. I just wanted to know where you were hiding the candy bars.”

  Fuck. How had he managed to ruin the plan before he’d even gotten to step one? If he still had weekly appointments with Doc Debra, she’d give him one of her squelching looks. The ones that said he could be such a better man if he bothered to try. Even once. Those looks always sent his balls scrabbling to climb back up inside his body. And Milo would kill him. Would probably open the apartment door to deliver a scathing lecture, and then slam it in his face. Gib let his chin fall to his chest. “I thought—”

  “Trust me. It’s crystal clear what you thought, you horn dog.” Shoulders squared, chest heaving, Daphne looked ready to slap him.

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong.” Ready to launch into a florid apology, Gib opened his mouth. And then promptly shut it. She’d raised a single finger to trace her pink, puffy lips. Oh, she might talk a good game about how he’d so wrongly jumped to conclusions. Throw a bit of a tantrum. But no matter how much Daphne protested that she’d only wanted chocolate, he was staring at the face of a woman who thoroughly enjoyed the sweetness he’d lavished on her instead.

  So he’d be damned if he’d apologize. Committed dating might not be his thing, but Gibson Moore was bloody well an expert on kissing. “You needed a good snog more than you needed a Mallow Melt. And I’d wager you’re ready for another go-round.” His statement colored up her cheeks to the same bright shade as her lips. Gib walked her back until she was against the
wall again, and caged her in with his arms.

  “Daphne, there you are. I knew I saw you earlier.” Maria Ortiz, their chapter president, appeared at their sides from out of nowhere. With an attempt at casual swiftness, Gib dropped his arms. He knew she must’ve come down the hall from the meeting room. But his focus on Daphne obviated everything else. Two seconds later and Maria would’ve gotten a real eyeful.

  Luckily, she didn’t appear to notice the waves of sexual tension rippling through the air. She grabbed Daphne by the elbow. “Everyone’s waiting.” They hustled along the burgundy-and-gold carpet toward the double doors into the meeting room.

  Gib trailed behind. No reason not to enjoy the view. “The whole membership is waiting on us? Since when do we have to punch a clock?”

  “Not you, Gibson. Your soon-to-be-famous friend.”

  This might be an interesting meeting after all. “Who?” he asked, with the eagerness of…well, Daphne looking for chocolate in his jacket.

  “Daphne, of course. I want to kick off the meeting with her big announcement.”

  Weird. Had Daphne scored a celebrity client? Even so, she wouldn’t brag about it. Aisle Bound took great store in their client confidentiality. Moreover, his best friend would’ve told him any big news. Maria had to be confused.

  The Red Lacquer Room of the Palmer House Hilton was a jewel box of a room. Ornate gilt molding topped walls of shiny red lacquer. Gold velvet curtains swagged tall, paneled windows. Ornate crystalline and ruby chandeliers swung from wide, gold starbursts on the white ceiling. It made Gib think of a room in Versailles, or Russia. His own hotel radiated modern, sleek elegance. But he loved the over-the-top abundance of the historic Palmer House.

  Automatically leaving the aisle seat for Daphne, he slid into an empty row about halfway back. But she didn’t sit. Instead, Maria propelled her straight to the podium centered in front of a gold satin panel. Between the grimace on her lips and the bloodless cast to her cheeks, Daphne looked like she’d eaten bad oysters. And like she’d make a break for it if Maria loosened her grip at all. What the devil was going on?

  Maria gaveled the room into silence. “Welcome to the January meeting of the National Association of Catering Executives, Chicago chapter. Before we do the usual round of member introductions, there’s some late-breaking news I’d like to share. News that will shine a national spotlight on the preeminence of Chicago event professionals.”

  A round of applause halted her speech. Gib straightened in his chair, gaze locked on to Daphne gnawing on her bottom lip. Her discomfort was palpable. No surprise. She loathed being the center of attention. Avoided it like the plague. Years ago, before they knew better, a group of them had gotten waiters to sing “Happy Birthday” to her when they delivered a candle-bedecked crème brûlée. The whole restaurant clapped for her. Daphne had practically burst into tears and fled the table. Held captive in front of seventy of her peers? Gib knew how miserable she must be.

  “The hit reality competition show Flower Power has kept us on the edge of our seats all season. We’re honored they decided to film the finals here in Chicago at the Millennium Knickerbocker Hotel. Let’s give a round of applause to Michael DeWitt for an outstanding job landing that event!” When Maria let go to clap, Daphne shrank back three steps. “We all know that Sheila Irwin’s eye-catching floral designs have propelled her easily to this final stage of competition. Sheila, you’re officially one of the four best florists in the country, and we’re so proud of you.” More clapping. More of Daphne inching backward.

  God, he was so nervous for her. In a habitual gesture, Gib shot his cuffs. It always soothed him to rub his thumb along the engraving of his family crest. Grandpapa Moore had bestowed them on him for the occasion of his eighteenth birthday. Right before the charming old bugger died at the ripe age of ninety-four. His heart gave out after a wild night of whiskey- and cigar-fueled debauchery. Grandpapa had always stood by him. Taught him how to ride a horse, tell a dirty joke and tie a bow tie. Good thing he’d passed on before Gib’s cataclysmic split with the family. It would’ve broken his heart.

  Sheila stood and nodded regally to the room. She must’ve gotten another in a series of face-lifts to prepare for her time on television. Her cheeks and forehead were tighter than a bass drum. Jet-black hair edged her face in a fringe, and was shorter than his in the back. Rail-thin, with what Gib’s keen eye declared to be surgically enhanced breasts rounding out the top of her designer suit.

  “Having Sheila as a finalist is truly an achievement. But having two Chicago florists battling for the trophy is even better.” A low buzz of anticipation rolled through the rows. “One of Flower Power’s finalists has dropped out unexpectedly. I’m thrilled to announce that our own Daphne Lovell was chosen, after an intensive nationwide search, as the worthy replacement. Let’s hear it for Daphne!”

  Gib sagged back into his seat. How could a woman so palpably nervous in a room full of general supportive colleagues choose to be on live television? Undergoing the scrutiny of millions of strangers? The minute the applause died down, Daphne mustered a sickly grin and sped down the aisle. She dropped into the seat next to Gib. Her hands trembled slightly. Gib reached over and cupped his own around them. She sucked in a deep breath and stilled beneath his touch. He stroked his thumb along the sensitive inner flesh of Daphne’s wrist. To calm her ruffled nerves or calm his urgent need to feel her?

  Crooking his neck, Gib pressed his lips right against her ear. Her thick hair provided a mattress for his cheek. Too bad the silken strands weren’t draped over other parts of his body. God, they’d unlocked the floodgates with just a few kisses. Sexual, sensual thoughts of Daphne bombarded him now on a constant basis. Could they ever go back to their comfortable friendship?

  “So, any other gigantic bomb you want to drop?” he whispered. “Did you win the lottery last night? Discover a long-lost secret sister? Start up an email friendship with a billionaire sheikh?”

  “I tried to tell you. Earlier. Remember? You cut me off.”

  True. Gib regretted that blip in their safe-to-share-any-and-everything relationship. Cowardice had won the day, since he hadn’t mentally suited up to discuss their second in a line of epic kisses. Now he and his supposedly platonic best friend had somehow totted up three in less than a week. How’d things gotten out of hand so fast?

  “You could’ve given me a hint.” Gib caught a whiff of balsam and rosemary clinging to her hair.

  “I said it’s been a weird day.” A hiss of frustration ran through her stage whisper. Loud enough to swivel two heads disapprovingly toward them.

  Gib didn’t care. “A weird day means your supplier sent hollyhocks instead of tulips. Or Lyons Bakery was out of all three of your favorite doughnuts this morning. Agreeing to go on television? You, of all people? That’s about ten light-years past weird.”

  She tugged on his lapel. “You really don’t have any candy?”

  Her sweet tooth had an unfortunate tendency to stage a coup on the rest of her brain. “No. I forgot. Didn’t realize you’d planned your daily consumption around my bulging pockets. Or lack thereof.” Gib had second thoughts about that statement. “I am, however, willing to entertain you with other, non-pocket bulges.”

  Daphne gave him a look that could easily restore all the melted polar ice caps to their solid, frozen glory. “I’m hitting the bar.” With a swift yank, she freed her hands.

  It took a second to weigh the options. Play professional, sit on his ass and listen to the interminable roll call? Or follow the saucy minx? Gib enjoyed chasing tail. Excelled at it, in fact. But never at the expense of his career. The only way he’d risen so quickly to manager of one of the finest hotels in the country was by putting work first.

  On the other hand, the deep relationships with his closest friends came first. Gib’s family treated him like something they’d scraped off the bottom of their shoes. So he’d forged a new family here in the New World. And they were all the more precious to him because t
hey chose to care about him. Daphne upset? Acting out of character? Definitely a top priority. He caught up with her at the hors d’oeuvres table at the back of the room.

  “Sorry I didn’t hear you out earlier. Want to talk through it now?”

  “Here? In the middle of the meeting?” Daphne stuck a toothpick in each of the six different cubed cheeses and piled them onto her plate. In the few seconds before he joined her, she’d already managed to slather two pieces of baguette with hot artichoke dip.

  “Don’t pretend that either of us will be able to pay attention until you get sorted.”

  With the smooth speed of an owl, Daphne swiveled her head around to him. “Oh, I’m nowhere close to sorted. I won’t feel normal again until January twentieth is behind me.”

  “What’s special about that day?”

  She jammed three pieces of cheese in her mouth, then went back to reload. “Competition day.”

  “So soon?” Talk about last-minute. Daphne would barely have enough time to fully work herself into a state before the competition was past.

  “You see why I’m nervous. No time to prepare. Oh, and the little matter of having six cameras recording my every movement. Just like Ivy, I’m petrified my ass will show every cookie I’ve eaten in the last year as an individual lump. Ten, twelve million people will watch this.” She closed her eyes, her voice low with abject horror. “They’ll all judge me.”

  “Stop.” Gib cracked out the word like a verbal whip. It worked. Her eyes flew open.

  “What?”

  “Dial back the self-indulgent crazy talk. Nobody is holding a gun to your head.”

  “You’ve never met Ruth Moder,” she muttered. “I’d rather face off to a double-barreled shotgun than Ruth.”

  Gib knew Daphne. Knew her moods, her strengths and weaknesses. So he knew that mollycoddling wouldn’t do her any good. “Be that as it may, you made this choice. No one else. Which means the pity party ends right now.”

  “You’re right.” She crammed in two stuffed mushroom caps at once. With her other hand she made a five-high tower of mini quiches. Daphne elevated stress-eating to a competitive level. After a disagreement with a client’s unhappy mother, he’d once seen her put away an entire Giordano’s deep-dish pizza. The kind it usually took four of them to polish off. Then she’d cleansed her palate with a whole order of parmesan garlic fries.