Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3)

by Christi Barth

  There’d be plenty of time for Milo to snipe at her after that black day. For now, she needed his reassurance. “Like you said, look at all these women. You know Gib likes to play the field. Run the board.” She’d been watching him for at least half an hour. Since the moment he walked in the door, Gib had been surrounded by a bright bouquet of women. Sure, there were twenty-four of Chicago’s other hottest bachelors in the room. But he was the cover boy. The star attraction. The prize everyone wanted to claim.

  He’d dressed to play the part, in white tie and tails complete with a silk-fringed scarf. Gib looked debonair. Rakish. Sexy. Doable. Daphne had boutonnieres for all the bachelors. Cute little clusters of white ranunculus with waving loops of beach grass. But her chances of getting within ten feet of Gib were about as good as her shot of tiptoeing through a rugby scrum. And she hated that he’d made her learn enough about rugby to even know that analogy.

  “Look again at those women around him.” Milo nudged her shoulder when she rolled her eyes. “No, I mean really look.”

  “At what? Their expensively streaked hair? The sexy dresses that cost more than my rent?”

  “Gib’s not flirting with them.”

  Daphne almost snorted her wine right out her nose. “Right. That’s about as likely as me sprouting fairy wings. Or you deciding you want to try out women for the night.”

  “Bite your tongue.” Milo shuddered. “I’m serious. He’s chatting them up, because that’s who he is. But watch him for a minute. Gib isn’t touching any of the women.”

  She hadn’t noticed. But now, looking over, Daphne saw him in what she jokingly called his princely stance: both hands tucked behind his back. “So?”

  “He’s always been about the casual, sneak invasion of a woman’s body. A stroke down the arm. Arm around the waist in a teasing hug that stays there. Dancing his fingers across a hand until suddenly they’re intertwined. Going in for a cheek peck that ends up as an ear nip.”

  “You planning to write a how-to manual? The Consummate Flirt, explained?”

  “I could never begin to explain the surreal effect he’s got on women. Gib’s Kryptonite to women’s panties. He’s like the sexified Pied Piper of babes and bimbos. No offense.”

  One more crack from him tonight and she’d definitely take offense. Or at least refill her wineglass. And by refill, Daphne meant upgrading to a couple shots of tequila. “As long as I fall into the first category of babes and not bimbos, we’re okay.”

  Milo downed the rest of her Shiraz. “We’ve lived together for years. Gone out to bars, to parties. Can’t help but notice his M.O. You know, the way you notice and blather on about whatever it is that makes the Bears’ quarterback special. The touching is a major part of Gib’s action. It makes women feel attractive. Appreciated.”

  Yes. Yes, it did. “Aren’t you the armchair shrink?”

  “I dabble.” His tone was uncharacteristically serious. “I observe people, so I can understand them better. Every problem can be broken down to how two people did or didn’t relate. I try to equip myself so that I can relate to anybody.”

  Every once in a while, the fluorescent-bright exterior candy coating Milo cloaked himself in slipped away. And the genuine, introspective, caring center was a marvel to behold. “I’ll take your word that he’s dialed back the flirt-o-meter for the night. But he’s still surrounded. I’ve made two trips to the cheese display, scored a handful of stuffed mushrooms from the waiter and demolished the fancy party mix.” She nudged the tiny, empty glass bowl in the center of the table. Right next to her carefully placed bud vase with a single tulip spearing out of it.

  “Aside from your apparent allergy to good nutrition, what’s your point?”

  “I’ve been waiting for him. Gib doesn’t seem to be interested in hanging out with me tonight.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s glanced over here half a dozen times since we started talking. Trust me, he wants an out. Why don’t you give him an excuse?”

  “How?”

  Milo tapped the edge of her glass. “Head over to the bar. Slowly.” He pointed to the opposite side of the room. “Gib will have you on missile lock before you get halfway. Especially if you put an extra swish in your step. You know, the way I walk.”

  “You’d better be right,” she warned. And then concentrated on putting one foot directly in front of the other. Daphne had a fuzzy memory of Scarlett O’Hara explaining that was how to make a hoop skirt twitch. When Milo grilled her later, she wanted to be able to honestly say she’d given it the old college try.

  She skirted around the edge of the runway. Low urns overflowing with white tulips lined both sides of it. Daphne hoped that when the bachelors strutted their stuff down it, none of the urns would end up being accidentally punted across the room.

  A warm hand settled at her waist. Gib fell into step with her. “Why’s the most beautiful woman in the room walking away from me?”

  Milo’s utter rightness filled her with relief. And peeved her to no end. “To get you to walk toward me, of course.”

  “It worked. Gave me an excuse to break free. I must’ve tried twenty times to come see you, but the magazine’s publicist kept me on a tight leash. Frustrated the bloody hell out of me not to be able to talk to the one person I most wanted to.” He brushed a light kiss across her cheek. “Fancy a drink?”

  “I was just about to get in line.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re with the main attraction.” Gib raised his hand in the air, crooked a finger at seemingly nothing more specific than the glass block windows. “I’ve got someone to do that.”

  “To do what?”

  “Attend to my needs. And my most pressing need is to make sure you’re properly taken care of, my sweet.” Sure enough, a waiter suddenly appeared at Gib’s elbow, carrying two flutes of champagne. “Thanks, Franco.”

  Daphne smiled as she clinked glasses with him. “You’re outrageously spoiled, Viscount Moore.”

  “You’re incredibly stunning, Ms. Lovell.”

  “Thanks.” Self-conscious, Daphne ran her hand down the winter-white angora sweaterdress. Pearled beading created a collar on the high sweetheart neckline, then bordered each side of the deep plunge in the back. It clung to her like soft and fuzzy Saran wrap. “It was my mom’s.”

  Gib paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “Pardon me?”

  Hmm. Would he be weirded out? “When my mother died, Dad kept all her clothes in the cedar closet. He thought—hoped—I might want them someday.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then ran the backs of his knuckles down her cheek in a soft caress. “That’s lovely.” Gib clinked his glass against hers in a toast. “And quite brave of you to finally take that step.”

  “I figured it was time. If I’m going to be seen with you, I needed to step up my game.”

  His gaze swept down the length of her body to her gold sandals. Then ogled slowly back up to the loose twists of hair gathered over one shoulder. “Trust me when I say it’s both not necessary, and very, very much appreciated.”

  “Are you having a good time tonight?”

  “Of course. Great party. Mediocre but limitless wine. Lovely flowers. Interesting people.” But his overly bright words didn’t ring true.

  “How are you really doing?”

  “I’d be doing a lot better if I hadn’t jammed half my closet into shipping boxes today.”

  Panic scrabbled through her brain, as insidious as the terrifying Ceti Eel in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. She’d just watched the movie with Gib last week, and had nightmares about the stupid creature for three nights running. The thought of him leaving, however, had woken her up in a cold sweat last night. He couldn’t go. No way would he let a little thing like corporate guidelines determine his future. They’d find a way around it. They had to. “You can’t pack already. There’s still time for this situation to work itself out.”

  “You’re right. Frankly, I should’ve come to you straight off, seeing as ho
w you set this nightmare train on the rails. The solution’s right in front of me. Daphne, give me a reason to stay.” Gib dropped to one knee. Then he grabbed her hand. “Will you marry me?”

  Somehow, in the last few seconds, a giant vacuum must’ve been installed at the museum doors. Because something sure as heck sucked all the room out of the air. She looked down at her best friend. Her gorgeous, sexalicious, dreamboat of a best friend. And felt all the cheese and wine she’d ingested clawing their way back up her throat in disgust at his words. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” He rose to his feet. “Unless, of course, you’re willing to entertain the notion.”

  “That’s not funny.” Daphne wasn’t as bad as Ivy when it came to dreaming about striding down the aisle under a veil. Especially not since her mom died. She hadn’t spent years imagining the color of her wedding dress or picked out her colors. Maybe she’d spared a few thoughts as to what flowers would be nice at her own wedding, but that was purely professional mental meandering. But she had held out a hope—no, a not unreasonable expectation—that her first proposal would be magical. Romantic. Or at least fucking sincere.

  Gib brushed off his knee. “I disagree. It’s a win-win situation. I become a citizen…or enough of one to satisfy the Cavendish HR department. You become a viscountess. A title for a green card. Fair trade.”

  He was serious. Mind-bogglingly incredible. Could Gib really not see what an insult he’d just offered? Or did he just not care? They surged forward in line as a sextet of bimbettes lurched away from the bar clutching the signature drink. In honor of the men of the hour, it was blue. Daphne was sure it tasted sweet and nauseating. Worse yet, it probably stained everything it touched bright blue, too.

  “I can’t believe you’d make light of such a thing. You’re talking about marriage. A very real, very serious pledge. A lifelong institution.”

  “Right. These days, that could mean the life span of a mayfly. Which is a grand total of about thirty minutes.”

  She shook her head. Wished it would clear away this conversation, like shaking an Etch A Sketch. “Where is this coming from? You really have such disdain for marriage?”

  “No. I believe in marriage. I also believe it can be whatever two people need it to be. Right now, my need is for it to be a certified document I can show the INS and the Cavendish.”

  “You’re assuming I’d be willing to throw away a shot at a real marriage? My shot at sharing what my mother and father had?”

  “For God’s sake, Daphne, this isn’t the Middle Ages. Virginity is no longer a requirement to snag a decent guy. In fact, I’ll fill you in on a secret. Guys our age? Scared to death of virgins. Too needy. Too much effort.”

  There, Daphne had to agree with him. Women weren’t enthusiastic about breaking in virgins, either. Not that she’d veer off into that entertaining sidebar. “You’d marry any stranger off the street just to stay in America?”

  “Of course not. Nobody knows better than me how many messed-up women are roaming the streets of Chicago. So many pretty ones, but so many basket cases, too. Which is why I turned to you. My best friend. The keeper of all my secrets. No unknown dangers there. But if you’re going to get in a huff about it, forget I asked.”

  Fat chance. How was she supposed to forget a botched proposal that essentially pimped her out for a title? She fumed while Gib ordered their drinks from the bartender. Without asking. Because he knew her well enough to know that when the wine sucked, Daphne preferred anything dark and strong on the rocks. And yet evidently he didn’t know her, really know her, at all.

  “Does this whole sham proposal thing mean that you didn’t really forgive me the other day? That you still blame me for the actions of some stuffed shirt at Cavendish HQ?”

  He shifted from foot to foot. Looked down at the floor. Put his hands in his pockets. “Of course not. Sorry if you thought that. I’m still having trouble processing my life being turned upside down. I forgave you. Though I did mention that I wasn’t over being angry. It’s only been two days.”

  But we may only have ten left, she thought. Did he really intend to waste them nursing a grudge?

  Gib looked at his watch. “Time for me to take my victory lap on the runway. Stand where I can see you. I’ll toss you a secret wink.”

  “Ooh. I’m all aquiver.” The mocking edge to her tone belied the actual, jellylike knees that were inevitable as he strutted his stuff. Because nobody looked as good in a tuxedo as Gibson Moore. And he took her breath away every damn time.

  “Don’t knock it till you see it.”

  Half an hour later, the room echoed with applause. Daphne had to admit, it hadn’t been a wasted half hour. Whether or not Milo had pegged their sexual preferences didn’t matter. The score of men parading down the runway to a throbbing bass Daphne felt in her molars were sheer man candy. Hot, handsome hunks with wide shoulders, long legs and smiles that ignited her hormones from across the room. Windy City magazine sure knew how to winnow down a city of four million men to the best and sexiest.

  Of course, none of them had the suave animal magnetism of the cover stud. It was like comparing kumquats to grapefruit. Tabby kittens to majestic lions. A fast-food burger to the Kuma’s Corner ten-ounce Led Zeppelin burger, topped with pulled pork, bacon, cheddar and pickles. Her perpetually unslaked hunger woke right up. Hmm. This cocktail party shouldn’t last much longer. Maybe they could swing by Kuma’s afterward.

  Gib was just so much more…everything than the rest of them. It was why she’d called Adam Miller the morning after her perfect date with Gib. On paper, Adam had it all. Checked off every box on the ideal-man-for-Daphne list. Except for one. The one at the bottom, that counted for more points than all the other boxes combined. The one that simply read Gibson Moore. So she’d apologized profusely to Adam. Showered him with compliments. After all, why cut off a solid connection to Bears tickets? But above all, she’d been honest with him. Instead of the old it’s not you, it’s me speech? Daphne gave him the newly invented it’s not you, it’s all about him version. Being such a nice guy, he seemed to understand. Even with Gib maybe, maybe, moving to another country, she didn’t regret turning Adam down. He didn’t deserve to be a second choice.

  Confetti swirled under the pulsing blue-and-white spotlights. Gib took a final bow, tossing his scarf deep into the crowd. Then he was promptly mobbed by a circle of women. More like three-quarters of the room rushed the stage all at once. Those poor bachelors didn’t stand a chance. Daphne curled her legs onto the red leather ottoman and wished it had a back. Leaning against the exposed brick wall behind her might snag her dress.

  “Finally, someone I recognize.” Sam sat down heavily on the coffee table. To be fair, it did look identical to the ottoman, aside from being tan and having one of her mum-ified martini glasses in the middle. On the other hand, Sam was never one to stand on ceremony. Even if it held an entire Russian samovar set, he still probably would’ve sat without blinking an eye. Daphne adored that about him. Funny, since it made him the polar opposite of Gib.

  “Milo’s around. And of course, your favorite bachelor is front and center.” She pointed at Gib. Or rather, his dark hair jutting out above the tight circle of long, highlighted female tresses. Women who appeared thoroughly comfortable in their slinky cocktail attire. Whereas Daphne felt like her mom’s dress was a costume. Completely unnatural.

  Sam shoved a hand through the dark hair flopping onto his forehead. “I can’t talk to Milo. He’s on the prowl. That flannel skirt of his always means business.”

  “Yes, I’ve been so warned. Glad he’s getting some action tonight.”

  “And Gib’s…occupied.” He rolled his eyes.

  Daphne rolled hers right back. Gib’s dark, full-of-sex laugh rolled atop the chirping women clustered around him. It reached across the room to her like a thumping bass on the car radio and vibrated straight to her core. “No kidding.”

  “I’m glad. It means we can h
ang out while I wait for that waitress to bring me a drink.”

  “The waitresses don’t deliver drinks. Except to the bachelors.”

  “Hey, I’m plenty hot. I could pass for one of those bachelors. The waitress probably thought I dressed down to please the ladies.”

  She eyed the T-shirt showing at the neck of his blue flannel shirt. “As what, a hot lumberjack?”

  “Sure. Maybe I’ll suggest that one to Mira. See if she runs with it.”

  “Ewww. Getting details of your sex life from Mira’s okay, but from you it’s just weird.”

  Sam leaned in with a smirk. “Odd—’cause I’d pay good money to hear Gib pass on a few details about what happens when you two hit the sheets.” The smirk fell away as he rumbled into a belly laugh, clutching his stomach. “Sorry, I barely got that out with a straight face. And Mira’s going to get an earful from me about just how much she’s telling you and Ivy.”

  “Don’t worry—you come out really well in every story.”

  “Good to know. You look terrific, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  He narrowed his eyes, gave her a once-over. “The flowers are imaginative and clever enough to be yours. But you’re not here to work dressed like that.”

  “Nailed it.” Daphne high-fived him. She did enjoy the unexpected compliments from her friends. “I did the flowers. And Gib asked me to come and watch him strut his stuff. Before…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Before you got him thrown out of the country?”

  Really? Had all the guys gotten together and pledged to extract their verbal pound of flesh from her? “I’m not doing this again. I already went a round with Milo tonight. I apologized, Gib forgave me—” Or at least he said he did. She thought. His bitterness still floated right at the surface. “Anyway, that’s between the two of us. You all need to let me off the hook.”

  Sam let her stew for a minute. Finally he nodded and said, “Okay.”

  Damn it to hell. Was Ben on rotation to come after her next? Maybe she could talk to Ivy. Get her to cut him off at the pass. Daphne wished Sam’s hypothetical waitress would butt in right about now. Either to change the topic, or to bring a tray of those coconut shrimp within reach.