Daphne broke away, eyes bright and panting just a little. “Hang on, there. This is nice, don’t get me wrong. But we’re in your office. With a glass door. With Agatha right outside. Workplace hanky-panky’s not very doable. Not here, anyway. My office at least has a supply closet for these sort of shenanigans.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” Gib let her slide off his lap. Part of him couldn’t believe he’d acted so unprofessionally. The other part of him, the part with the raging hard-on, pointed out that professionalism hadn’t gotten him jack shit. It had gotten him demoted and deported. “I needed that. I needed—you,” he admitted. She’d managed to pull him back from the brink. “Didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
“I needed a break from processing a trillion and two tulips. For the party this weekend.”
He looked at her blankly. Even with his brain deadened by shock, he knew the event calendar without checking. The Cavendish had three weddings and a bar mitzvah in the next two days, but no party. “What party?”
“Duh. Your party, Gib. The one where Windy City magazine honors all its top bachelors. You’re the main attraction, remember?” Daphne rested her butt on the edge of his desk. “What’s going on? Because you’re acting very, very weird. Frankly, you’re scaring me right now. Did something bad happen?”
Bad. Catastrophic. Like a fucking stallion kick straight to his balls. “Yes.”
“Well, what happened?”
God, where to start? “It’s complicated.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “I do have a college degree. Might not be as pretty as the one Cambridge gave you, but I think I can follow along. Unless your current problem involves quantum physics. Just spit it out.”
“On second thought, it’s simple. I’ve been notified my services as manager are no longer required here. I’ve got to ship out to London, and suck up a demotion to assistant manager for who knows how long. And before you suggest that I quit, they’ll yank my work visa. One way or the other, I’ve got to leave Chicago.” He’d thought hearing the news was bad enough. But speaking the words stabbed the sword of finality through him once more.
Daphne exhaled, as though his news thumped all the air right out of her. “No.”
“In two weeks. That’s all the time Goudreau gave me to wrap up my life.” He pushed out of his chair. Paced to the far wall, then back again. Did another circuit when Daphne didn’t say anything. Wished desperately that there wasn’t a foot of snow on the ground. Gib needed to stretch his legs, run along the lakeshore until the cold knifed his chest and his muscles cramped. That would clear his head.
Twisting to face him, Daphne said, “We’ll fix it. We’ll find a way to make it right.”
“You can’t fix this.” And then, with the weight of a freight train, the truth barreled into him. “In fact, you’re the one who caused the problem.”
She sucked in a breath. “That’s not funny.”
“I agree.” He cracked his office door. “Agatha, why don’t you take those muffins down to the catering office? Chat them up for a good quarter of an hour. Find out if Raquel’s having a girl or a boy—I think her sonogram was yesterday.” Gib waited until she’d collected her sweater, purse and the bakery box. The woman went nowhere without her purse. Even carried it between the living room and kitchen when he went to her house for their monthly Sunday dinners. Then he locked the outer door behind her. Shut the inner door, too. Couldn’t take a chance on any staff member overhearing him lose his shit with Daphne.
Gib advanced on her. His anger hadn’t really had a target before. Hard to yell at a faceless conglomerate. But now he knew where to focus his rage. He knew exactly where the blame should lie. With one finger, he pointed straight at the cause of his ruin. The blonde, blue-eyed living doll with the quivering lip looking as confused as a Bears linebacker would be at the Queen’s garden party.
“You cost me my job. You cost me my life here. You cost me everything.”
“Gib, no.” Her voice shook. She slid off the desk, backed away from his tangible anger. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“But you did. This is all your fault.” He stabbed his finger in the air between them.
“How can you say that?”
Gib could barely look at her. “The only reason I’m no longer allowed to work at Cavendish Chicago is because I’m not an American. A detail I tried to remedy five months ago. Got my papers in order. Studied my ass off for the citizenship test. Let Milo stick a tie with the Stars and Stripes on it in my pocket, to put on for the ceremony. Remember what happened next?”
“Oh.” Daphne squeezed her eyes shut tight. Bit her lip.
“What’s that? Little hard to hear you over the noise of my entire bloody life crashing down around me.”
In a near whisper, she said, “I stopped you.”
“That’s right.” Gib crossed his arms over his chest. “You barged into the courtroom. Interrupted the bailiff. Pissed off the judge. And gave me an elaborate song and dance about duty. Birthright. Legacy. Queen and country. How I needed to be constant, honor my heritage.”
Her eyes flew back open. “Those things all still hold true.”
Christ. How could she be so stubborn as to refuse to shoulder the blame? “Do they? You’re in my back pocket most of the time. What part of my daily life involves my title? How often do I speak of my estate holdings? Yearn for anything British other than more soccer on television?”
This time, she advanced into his space. Balled her hands onto her hips and jutted her chin defiantly. “I know you, Gib. You wouldn’t have been happy splitting your loyalties. As much as you enjoy America, you’re British to your core. I helped you stay true to yourself. I know you made the right choice that day.”
Bollocks to that. “Really? Because here’s what I know.” He splayed his fingers and ticked points off, one by one. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be an American citizen. I wouldn’t be sacked. I’d still have a job. I’d still be here in March to throw Ben a bachelor party. I’d still be here to help Sam load up all his chocolates for the Fancy Food Show at the end of the month.”
“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 t
o 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.”
Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 22
