Sheila looked her up and down. Stared pointedly at Daphne’s chest, then dragged her eyes back up. “I’d still be in it if you hadn’t worn a shirt two sizes too small. Everyone knows that Mario’s a lecherous old goat.”
Suddenly, the cold burn of revenge dissipated. It all seemed so petty. So what if Sheila had tried to blackball her years ago. It hadn’t worked. Daphne’s career, albeit in a complete juxtaposition to her love life, was thriving. A bitter woman on the downward edge of her own career simply didn’t matter. “Sheila, let it go. I didn’t ask to be in this competition. I didn’t set out to undermine you. There are enough brides to go around in this city of eight million people. Can’t we have a truce?”
The host, a peppy local news anchor in a red leather suit, jammed her microphone in front of Sheila. “What’s it going to be, Ms. Irwin? Sour grapes or a sweet resolution?”
Sheila batted away the mic. “Why do you care, Mandi? It’s not as if you’re going put a former employee stabbing me in the back on the eleven o’clock news.”
“America cares.” The perfectly coiffed blonde pointed at the cameras ringing them. “This is a reality show. We never turn the cameras off. So are you going to bow out gracefully? Congratulate Ms. Lovell on a solid win?”
Daphne kept her hand extended, waiting. Held her breath. She’d had no idea the cameras were still going. Now that she did, she wouldn’t budge until Sheila finished this, one way or the other. With a snarl, Sheila grabbed a vase off her station and hurled the water in it at Daphne. It splashed her face and soaked her top. The white shirt did what always happened when wet, and turned see-through. Daphne clapped her hands to her chest. A low buzz of shock ran through the nearest audience members.
“There. I just gave you a leg up on round two. Mario won’t even bother to look at your flowers when he hands you the win.” Sheila stalked off.
Two techies rushed forward with towels. Daphne couldn’t do anything but laugh. Bad enough looking nearly naked on television. She didn’t need two burly union stagehands patting at her boobs like the start to a bad porn flick. “I’m okay, guys. Really.”
“Do you want me to ask if you can have an extra few minutes to change?” Mandi asked.
After that, the last thing she needed was any hint of special treatment. “Not necessary.” Hunching over, Daphne untied her apron from her waist. Ivy had convinced her to wear it folded halfway down. Something about reducing extra bulk in front of the cameras. Now, it was a quick and easy solution. Daphne shook it out to its full length and fastened it around her neck. She swiped a towel and patted herself down beneath the apron. “Good to go.”
Mandi nodded. Didn’t bother to hide her relief. “Two minutes, then.”
Ivy rushed over. “Are you sure you don’t want to change into my shirt?”
“Nope.” Calm had descended upon her once more. “You’ve seen me spill entire buckets of water on myself in the course of a day. Flowers can be messy. So what? I won with a dry shirt, and I can damn well do the same in the next round with a wet shirt.”
Ivy glanced at the cameras. Didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Sheila’s smack talk didn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
“Nice touch, trying to mend fences with her.”
“I thought Gib would approve.” Daphne squinted to see past the wall of spotlights. “Did he see it? What did he say?”
This time, Ivy did lower her voice to a whisper. “He’s not here.”
“Not yet?” Chicago traffic was legendary in its snarliness. She could understand anyone veering a few minutes off schedule. But they were more than half an hour into the competition. Way past the hope-he’s-just-gawking-at-a-fender-bender point, and deep into he-broke-up-with-you-and-wants-some-distance territory. It made sense. It also made the back of her throat burn with choked-back tears. “I kind of hoped he’d be, you know, a steadying presence. Unseen but felt.”
“Look at you.” Ivy lifted Daphne’s hands. “You’re rock steady. Gib trained you for this. For the actual bearing up under competition stuff. He’s already steadied you. Remember that.”
Daphne headed back to her station. This moment brought home what it would be like once he was back in England. Out of her life, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t like it one bit. So she’d win this competition, and march over to his place so he could share in her triumph. They’d find a way back to being friends whether he liked it or not.
The bell dinged. Mario straightened his chrysanthemum-covered red silk tie. “Round two is about speed. Whoever finishes first will receive an extra ten points. It will give an advantage, but you’ll still be judged on creativity, balance and overall beauty.”
Fast was no problem. The only thing that might slow her down was indecision over which flowers to pluck from the well-stocked cooler. Without a bride’s preferences to guide her. Daphne preferred to take her time when designing. So many options with so many lovely blooms. But they’d used speed rounds on Flower Power before. Thanks to Gib’s homework, they’d prepared for this eventuality. He’d hammered home the importance of going with her gut. Ivy was right. In the seats or not, Gib was steadying. And she’d be grateful. Right up until she clunked him over the head with the giant trophy for acting like an idiot.
Chapter Eighteen
Love is like a beautiful rose, it takes time and patience before it fully blossoms ~ Anonymous
Gib slammed through the condo like a man possessed. He’d changed his tie three times. Changed his suit for a sport coat and slacks. How the hell was he supposed to dress to support the love of his life? Especially as he couldn’t let slip that three-little-word detail to Daphne. Since leaving her shop, he’d barely been able to function. As if making the heart-wrenching decision to leave her had sapped him of all mental powers.
He’d completely forgotten the weekly update with the events manager. Told his London realtor to let two perfectly good properties slide because he couldn’t decide between living in Chelsea or Hyde Park. Left his gloves God knows where. Not in his coat pocket. Not in his briefcase. As he upended the sofa cushions, Gib glanced at his watch. Late enough that he’d have to skip meeting everyone at the shop and go straight to the competition.
He patted his breast pocket to be sure Daphne’s card, at least, was where it belonged. Writing it had taken four attempts and kept him up until almost dawn. But at least when she read it, she’d know how proud he was. How much faith he had in her creativity and her designs. That to him, she’d always be the best florist in the country, hands down. Gib hoped it would be just the ego boost she needed to power through her fear of the cameras.
A knock sent him sprinting to the door. Milo must’ve warned them he was running late, and they’d swung by to pick him up. Gib snatched his coat off the rack. “I can’t find my blasted gloves,” he yelled through the door. Might as well try to fend off his misery by messing with Ben a little. “Ivy, you’ll have to sit on my lap. Let me put my hands in your pockets to stay warm.” He threw open the door. Not to Ivy. Not even to Ben. But to the little brother he hadn’t see in almost ten years.
“Sounds like quite the plan,” said Gerald. He looked taller. Finally caught up to stand even with Gib. Filled out from the way his face puffed. Hard to tell much more beneath the layers of winter gear. But it was still like looking in a slightly distorted mirror. One that shaved off a few years and lightened his hair to the color of ash wood.
Gib’s mind whirled with a hundred thoughts. A pang of joy rose up at seeing the brother he’d always loved. Almost immediately followed by the remembrance that the same man attempted to send Gib to rot in a jail cell in his place. Love clashed with bitterness, hurt, anger, sadness. How to reconcile those emotions? Of course, if he’d figured that out, Gib wouldn’t have set up shop on an entirely separate continent to avoid Gerald. He flailed at the most obvious question. “What are you doing here?”
“In America? Or on your doorstep?”
“Either, I suppose.”
“I’m freezing my bum off. Going to invite me in out of the cold?”
Gib hesitated. Just for a moment, but he knew from Gerald’s thinned lips that he had noticed. “Of course.” As his brother crossed the threshold, Gib clapped an awkward arm around his shoulder. “Good to see you. I’m afraid you caught me off guard. I’m on my way out.”
“Gibson. I’ve flown across the Atlantic to see you after how many years? Surely, whatever pressing engagement to wine and dine your latest bird can wait.”
Not really. Nor did Gib think he could quickly sum up the importance of a reality television show competition. And he certainly wasn’t going to try and summarize his on-the-rocks relationship with the only woman he’d ever truly loved. Better to sit down for ten minutes, find out what the hell was going on with Gerald and then shove off to the show. Gib took his brother’s hat, coat, scarf and gloves. Checked his watch one more time. “Have a seat.”
“I’d love a cup of tea. What they served on the airplane was revolting.”
Gib headed for the kitchen. “International travel isn’t for the faint of heart.” Were they really discussing tea? Their big reunion kicking off with a review of the weak, oversteeped plonk served at thirty thousand feet? No. Time to shake off his shock and get down to it. He put on the kettle. Checked his watch again. Turned off the stove. Filled a mug and jammed it into the microwave instead. Gib refused to let Daphne down by not showing up. If he had any hope of making it to the show, he’d have to hustle this along. “What made you decide to pay me a visit?”
“A favor.”
Gib froze, one hand in the tea tin. That couldn’t be right. After maintaining only sporadic contact, mostly through their grandfather, his brother wouldn’t actually have the brass balls to start in with Gib for a fucking favor. Would he? “Pardon?”
“I flew out here to ask you to come home with me.”
Coincidence? That his past would chase him down to return to England the same month Cavendish all but deported him? Doubtful. He shoved the tin back into the cupboard. No tea. No more politely meaningless chatter. Gib was about ten seconds from flattening Gerald to the wall with a hand at his throat and demanding answers. He settled for stalking over to his brother, getting an inch from his face.
“Drop the act,” Gib demanded. “You tell me everything, right now. Don’t bother to sugarcoat it. Don’t beat around the bush. Be straight with me or I’ll throw you out so fast your balls will bounce up into your throat when you land.”
Gerald had the good sense to quake backward a few steps. “All right.” He smoothed his thin, navy tie. “I pulled a few strings to get you reassigned to London. You’re supposed to be on your way back. Except nobody’s received confirmation that you’ll be on a plane in two days. So I trekked out here to get it all sorted.”
Yet again, Gib was torn. Go with utter shock or mind-searing anger? No. It just wasn’t possible. Castellan Compagnie was a huge corporation. They’d implemented a sweeping HR policy. Gerald, a reprobate who considered work beneath his status and partied away his days, couldn’t be responsible for that sort of multinational restructuring. “How, exactly, did you get me reassigned?”
“I needed you back at home. But you don’t write, you don’t call…” He trailed off into a weak laugh.
“Don’t,” snapped Gib. “Don’t joke. Don’t fucking presume to toy with me.”
“Living here’s certainly roughened your edges.” Gerald held up his hands when Gib charged forward, pinning him to the refrigerator with a shoulder to the chest. Fear and surprise flickered in his pale blue eyes. “Sorry. I know the wife of one of the Castellan directors.”
Gib pulled back a little. “Know? As in you’re old-school chums? You decided to catch up over a spot of tea and she agreed, as a lark, to redefine employment in a company she doesn’t even work for? ”
“Fine,” he huffed. “I’m sleeping with her.”
Classy as ever. “There’s so little on your résumé that you’re trying to pad it by adding adulterer as a title?”
Gerald sneered down his nose. “Like you’ve never shagged someone else’s piece of ass.”
“No. I haven’t.” It was his own personal line in the sand, one he’d never crossed. Marriage might never have been on his to-do list. Not until Daphne, at least. Not that it mattered now, with him an ocean away from the woman he wanted to wake up next to for the rest of his life. But he’d always respected the hell out of people who chose to make that commitment. Sure, he’d been approached by more than one antsy-for-action wife. And politely declined. Gib refused to participate in the breakup of a relationship. He didn’t need that on his conscience. And he’d found it to be much less hassle to scoop them up after a divorce. Divorcées tended to be quite desperate.
“Claudette’s in an open marriage, anyway. The French are very broad-minded about that sort of thing. She knows I’m in a spot of trouble. It was actually her idea. Her husband’s new to Castellan. Needed to take a stand on something to get noticed right from the start. This policy was as good for him as it was for me.”
Disgusted, Gib dropped his arm and gave Gerald some breathing room. It certainly explained the out-of-the-blue announcement from Goudreau. On a business level, at least. Not on a how-the-hell-can-you-fuck-with-people’s-lives level. “It never occurred to you that I might not appreciate this change in plans? Having my career, my life disrupted without so much as a by your leave? That I might see this as yet another horrible betrayal on your part?”
Gerald shrugged. “It was the only way to guarantee your return home. I knew politely asking you wouldn’t do any good.”
True. His likely reaction would’ve been to laugh. Dismiss it as a joke. “Why? Why do you care where I live, after all these years?”
“Father’s remarrying.”
And the surprises just kept on coming. Gib walked out of the kitchen, right to the antique server in the dining room where they kept all the liquor. Pulled out the first bottle and poured himself two fingers of whatever it was and threw it back in a fast gulp. Wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Was anyone going to tell me that he and Mum got divorced?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Gerald hovered behind a chair. Probably trying to keep the entire table between himself and Gib. “It all happened rather of a sudden. About six months ago.”
“I see.” But he didn’t. And even though the separation from his family was by his choice, Gib suddenly felt left out. Alone. Saddened more than he thought possible at yet another chasm yawning between him and his parents.
“Father started up with Clare Hastings. Daughter of the Earl of Falmouth. She plays at managing an art gallery in Notting Hill. Everyone knows she was using it to look for a husband. Father discovered he liked having a pretty young thing fawning over him. Left Mum and moved in with her. They’re to be married soon.”
“I suppose my invitation got lost in the mail,” Gib said, hollowly. Wondered if his soon-to-be-stepmother might be young enough to be his sister.
Gerald let out an aggrieved sigh. “He’s acting like a complete git. Kicked me out of both the London town house and the castle.”
Did he even hear himself? Whining about no longer sponging off the parents in their multiple houses? Definitely what Milo called a first-world problem. “You’re his favorite. Why’d he show you the door? Christ, you didn’t hit on Clare, did you?”
He drummed his fingers. Flicked them restlessly over the curve at the head of the table. “We had words.”
“Obviously.” Gib refilled his glass. Decided not to be a complete bastard and filled one for Gerald, too. He slid it across the table and sank into a chair. Hoped that the connection between having his job in Chicago taken away and their father’s apparent midlife crisis would reveal itself soon.
“Thanks.” Gerald tapped the gold rim of the glass, but didn’t take a sip. “He tried for the umpteenth time to get me to gear up for a run for Parliament. According to him, there are so many scandals in polit
ics nowadays, the spots on my record are old enough to be overlooked.”
None of this ranked as news. None of it explained anything. Gib was running out of patience. And time. Daphne expected him to be in the audience, cheering her on. It was the last thing he could do for her. “Why don’t you? Let Father and his cronies set you up with a nice seat in the House of Lords. They don’t make you wear wigs anymore. Buy yourself a nice bowler,” he suggested. “You’d fit right in.”
Gerald flattened his palms, straightened his elbows as if preparing to launch into a lecture from a podium. “It’s not right.”
That might be the truly most shocking thing Gerald had said so far. “Since when are you overly burdened by the concepts of right and wrong?”
“You mean because my life is one endless string of house parties and drinking? Well, it was. But not anymore.” He pushed the tumbler back across the table toward Gib. “I’ve been sober for nine months.”
Aha. That was the most shocking thing to fall from his brother’s lips. It had been a long time coming. For just a moment, Gib could overlook all the ugliness between them and be genuinely proud of Gerald’s accomplishment. Maybe, with this new leaf, there was hope for them yet. He lifted his glass in a toast. “Good for you.”
“Ironic, isn’t it, that Father kicked me out after I cleaned up my act?” Gerald gave a humorless chuckle. “It takes everything I have to stay on the straight and narrow. I can’t bloody well be responsible for an entire constituency.”
Not only sober, but also with a more mature outlook, apparently. Gib’s respect began to rise. “What made you do it?”
He tipped an imaginary cap. “You did.”
Riiiiight. “You mean from when I yelled at you to stop the drugs and the drinking before you killed yourself—that message finally sank in after ten years?”
Gerald shook his head. A shock of hair flopped onto his forehead. “I quit the drugs right away. Well, I didn’t really have any choice but to dry out when I was in prison.”
Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 28
