Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  Daphne patted the bulge in the hip pocket of her satiny black pants, a bulge created by Ivy’s three-page, detailed itinerary for tonight’s event. “I’m well aware.”

  Ivy set off in the direction of the cake table. “See the tablecloths?”

  Trying not to wince from her already-aching feet, Daphne followed. “How could I not?” Tangerine polka dots practically leaped off the white tablecloths.

  “Anything round signifies prosperity. That’s why the bridesmaid dresses are covered in polka dots, too.” Ivy picked up the toss bouquet, a miniature of the giant calla lily and rose version the bride had carried down the aisle.

  “Thanks for the trivia. I’ll file it under things I might need to know if Ivy gets hit by a bus the day before our next Filipino New Year’s Eve wedding. However, right now the only round thing that interests me is popping another crab puff. Are you ready for the next set of tag-team breaks?”

  “It’s a hell of a wedding, ladies.” Gibson Moore, the handsomest man in the room, threw an arm around each of them. “Why on earth would you want to take a break from all this merriment?”

  The scent of cypress, cedar and vetiver (and a few other things she couldn’t remember) tantalized her nostrils. As though on a zip line, it went straight from her olfactory nerve down to the place between her legs that tingled every time she smelled Gib and his damn enticing cologne. She’d asked him a few years ago what it was, and just what the heck was in it. Had to be some magical concoction of pheromones a mad scientist whipped up to drive women into a frenzy. After making a fool of herself at a department store, insisting on reading the ingredients and sniffing five different bottles, Daphne gave up. He wore the same cologne every day. It always engendered the same Pavlovian reaction—an urge to lick him up one side and down the other. But the cologne itself wasn’t special. Only when it met Gib’s skin did it weaken her knees. Not that she’d ever let him know.

  “Great wedding, isn’t it?” Ivy beamed with pride. No matter how many weddings she planned at Aisle Bound, each one was her favorite on that special day. After almost seven years in the business, she still teared up every time she sent a bride down the aisle with a final fluff.

  “You outdid yourself. Both of you,” he said, giving Daphne a quick squeeze at her waist. The heat of his hand burned through her thin blouse. Maybe he hadn’t actually seared a handprint into her skin. But tonight, alone in bed, when she looked down at her stomach, she’d see the spot he touched. She’d know. “The flowers are spectacular, as usual.”

  As usual. The business side of Daphne’s brain knew it to be a compliment. But the emotional swamp of her heart didn’t agree. As usual, Gib had a way of raising her hackles almost as fast as he spiked her libido. Newspapers got delivered, as usual. Every July here in Chicago was humid as hell, as usual. Her centerpieces, however, were artistic masterpieces. Each one the result of weeks of planning, sketching, tweaking, ordering and painstaking arranging. Absolutely nothing usual about them. Gib made it sound as simple as filling an ice cube tray with that offhand compliment.

  “Somebody’s got to do the grunt work.” She steeled herself before sneaking a peek at him. Yup. James Bond suave, Gib wore a tuxedo as though born in it. He’d gelled his hair into a Superman swoop in the front. Hard to tell if she’d rather stroke her fingers through that, or through the light mat of hair she’d seen on his chest the last time they all went sailing together on Lake Michigan. Lighting cast shadows beneath his high cheekbones. It just made her focus more on those kissable lips. Maybe kept her from glancing at the way the jacket hung off his lean frame. Kept her from wondering if he’d take it off at some point in the night so she could stare at his squeezably tight ass. Then Daphne realized she’d been so busy ogling him—really, the man was a vortex, a black hole of gorgeousness that sucked her mind right out—she’d forgotten to finish her pointed rant. Which she’d scale back to a teasing jibe. Because that was what best friends did. They teased and poked each other. Just not the kind of sexy poking at each other that she craved.

  “Seems like the only contribution you made, Gib, was to unlock the front door. Nice going on that, by the way. Oh, but wait—the Cavendish has a doorman. Well, way to go on signing the contract for this shindig without getting a paper cut.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. I pride myself on how little actual work I do here. A good manager delegates, you see, and I’m very, very good.” His voice dropped to a caress on the last three words. She’d pulled the sides of her long blond hair into a barrette to keep it out of the way. What should’ve been a simple hairstyle choice turned into a gigantic mistake. Leaning in, his final breath tickled the side of her exposed neck. It set off a chain reaction of shivers from head to toe.

  Daphne gulped. “I guess we should be honored you chose to go vertical for the night and join us. Must be a big sacrifice, getting out of that comfy leather chair in your office.”

  “You couldn’t keep me away. All the pretty women are down here. A wedding this big is like chumming the water for a shark.” He bared his perfect teeth in a menacing grin.

  Ivy pinched her lips together. She always hated it when they bickered. Daphne couldn’t get her to understand that volleying the snark back and forth was a game to them. One they both enjoyed tremendously. “Remember, there are clients present,” Ivy hissed. “Best behavior. Save the sniping for our party room. Or someplace more appropriate, like a cage match.”

  “No worries. I just popped by to check on you. Be sure everything was running like clockwork. As usual,” he said, raising one eyebrow at Daphne in an I’m pushing your buttons and what are you going to do about it way.

  “Since you’re here, we could use your help.” Ivy checked her watch for possibly the five hundredth time tonight.

  “We could?” No. What Daphne needed was for Gib to disappear for half an hour while she recovered from the whole neck-chill thing. It would probably take at least that long for her heart rate to drop back into double digits.

  “It’s time for the bouquet toss. I’ll be with Diwata. You two need to herd the single ladies toward the center of the dance floor.”

  Gib rubbed his hands together with the untempered glee of Scrooge McDuck contemplating a pile of gold doubloons. “My pleasure. Nice of you to put all the available eye candy together for me. As a man, I appreciate one-stop shopping.”

  Daphne reminded herself that the inner Gib was far different from the playboy exterior he so meticulously maintained. The real Gib rarely worked less than a sixty-hour week. Loyal beyond measure to his friends, he also bent over backward to help his staff with any personal crises. He did play fast and loose with women, but exercised great caution doing so at any Cavendish events. Daphne reminded herself of these things to keep from kneeing him in the ’nads when he made such idiotic comments.

  “Go on. Take care of the bride. We’ll do the rest.” She shooed Ivy away. The DJ, a friend who’d worked with Aisle Bound enough to know Ivy’s predilection for timeliness, made the announcement at almost the same moment. Good. No time alone with Gib. Laughing, shrieking girls launched themselves onto the dance floor. Right on the edge, Daphne and Gib were caught up in it, unable to do more than be pushed into the center.

  “God, it’s like a rugby scrum,” Gib shouted.

  “Except that I imagine girls smell much better.”

  “You forget, I went to a private boarding school deep in the English countryside. The only things we smelled of were old money and dry rot.” That broke the snarling tension between them, and they both laughed.

  See? Gib was funny. So much fun to hang with, and tease. Why couldn’t they just be good friends? Why did she have this stupid crush, as impossible to remove as her own shadow? Life would be so much easier if she wasn’t always on guard, always braced against the onslaught of his charm and good looks. If only her hormones didn’t go into overdrive every time their
thighs brushed when they sat on a couch. If she didn’t discard men faster than a losing hand at a poker table because none of them were Gibson Moore.

  She reached for him, almost caught the crisp edge of his French cuff to pull him out of the throng. Then all the lights went off. Oddly enough, the noise stopped, too. As if everyone held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Having studied the schedule, Daphne knew the lights shouldn’t be off. No weather to speak of outside, unless you wanted to cuss a blue streak at the temperature hovering right above zero. Something had probably gone wrong at the breaker box. Any minute now a waiter would backtrack through the darkness into the bowels of the building to get a message to a custodian. Meanwhile, other waiters would break out emergency light sticks and pass them out to the guests. The glowing green-and-purple tubes would only add to the festive mood.

  The professional part of Daphne knew all this. Aisle Bound planned for every eventuality, and had contingency upon contingency in place. She also knew she had at least two solid minutes of pure blackout. Two minutes, in the dark, with Gibson Moore. This could be her only shot. Who needed the magic of midnight? She’d steal her New Year’s kiss right now.

  Daphne pushed her way closer as her hand moved up his arm. Light wasn’t necessary. She’d stared at Gib for endless hours, memorizing the contours of his face, the shape of his body. Once everything lined up, she framed his face in her palms. On tiptoe, she closed her eyes. And dove in.

  The first brush of her lips against his was light, questioning. Oh so soft. Timid. As if with the mere touch, she’d open her eyes to discover it was all a dream. But why waste the moment with hesitancy? He feathered back a kiss, as delicate as the breath he’d blown on her neck earlier. It was all the green light she needed.

  To brace herself, she slid her hands down, digging her fingers around his broad shoulders. Daphne slid her tongue along the crease of his lips. They opened, eagerly, she’d like to think. Gib’s hands came up, fingers thrusting into her hair, thumbs caressing her cheeks. She’d begun the kiss, but he owned it. He learned the shape of her mouth, tasting, then plundering the inside. Each sweep of his tongue pushed a sweep of warmth deeper into her body. Every nip, every deep, wet incursion that stood every nerve ending in her mouth up at attention led her to surge closer. To press against his rock-hard muscles, and something even harder which pressed back against her stomach in obvious appreciation.

  Bodies still crowded around them. A buzz of worry spread through the room. Daphne focused solely on the sound of a low moan rumbling in Gib’s throat. At twenty-nine, she didn’t dispute she’d not only had sex before, but had her fair share of great sex before. But she’d never been turned inside out into a puddle of sensation with only a kiss. Lost herself to the intricate mating of two mouths, joining. Stirring and pulling sensations from all her senses to create a giant pool of hot, raw lust.

  Without conscious thought, Daphne lifted her right leg to wrap around his calf, twining them closer. God, she wanted to cover him like a vine, leaving no inch untouched. And then, she knew without a doubt, Gib would make her unfurl like a blossom opening to the brilliance of the sun. She would open to his heat and—

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay where you are. Cavendish staff members will bring out emergency lights momentarily while they work to resolve the problem.” The DJ’s calm announcement quieted the crowd. His microphone and sound system were working. Hotel power must be on, which meant some idiot had managed to hit the kill switch for the entire light panel. They’d come back on any second. With a last, lingering pull on his lower lip, Daphne disentangled herself from Gib. And nearly keeled right over. Thank goodness for the crush of women around her, jostling forward and holding her up.

  Being on the receiving end of a kiss by Gibson Moore was a powerful thing, indeed. The end result? Not much different from running a marathon (or so she imagined, because really, she saw no reason to run that many miles. Unless she was being chased by pitchfork-wielding villagers, or to nab the last doughnut in a fifty-mile radius.). Knees buckled, heart both racing and palpitating, breathing heavily, Daphne could barely think for the sheer joy of it.

  In a harsh barrage, every bank of lights came back on at once. Blinking, Daphne locked her gaze on to Gib. Mouth open, eyes glazed, he looked as dazed as she felt. Not bad. She’d happily take credit for rocking his world. Gib spun in a circle, arms outstretched. Then, in a move completely out of his fastidious character, he spiked his fingers through his hair. He tugged at it manically while he spun around again the other way, head swiveling back and forth. Finally, he spotted Daphne. A smile burst across his face. Brusquely, with the barest minimum of civility, he pushed aside the two women between them.

  “Daphne, oh my God. It was wonderful. No, she was wonderful. Simply enchanting. The best kiss I’ve ever had.” His blue eyes burned, slightly unfocused and wild. “You’ve got to help me find her.”

  The compliments were nice. A huge relief, actually. Thank goodness the earth had moved for him, too. Finally, after all these years, now he’d see her as more than a pal. Now Daphne could safely admit her true feelings, how much she adored him. As soon as Gib stopped swiveling his head like an owl, frantically sweeping the room with that blue-flame stare of his. “Who are you looking for?”

  “The woman who just kissed me. I swear, if it takes kissing every woman in this room, including the bride’s ninety-year-old grandmother, I will. I’ve got to find her.” Gib dug his fingers into her arm. “You were next to me, right? Did you see who it was? Will you help me find her?”

  Her heart dropped, shattering into a million pieces. Crap. In Gib’s mind, it was more likely that a ninety-year-old seated clear across the room kissed him into oblivion, than one of his closest friends standing right next to him? She’d just kissed him inside freaking out, and he still couldn’t imagine for a single instant that she might’ve been the one to do it? Couldn’t think of her as anything more than a sister? Forget making the short list. He hadn’t even bothered to put her on the list of possible kissers?

  Daphne wanted to scream. Well, she really wanted to grab him by the collar and kiss him again. This time with his eyes open, so there’d be no doubt who had stirred him up. Then pour a pitcher of ice cubes down his pants for insulting her. For not including her. For not thinking she was woman enough.

  Yup, working on New Year’s Eve sucked. And that naked, fat-ass Cupid would probably still be laughing at the epic backfire of her stupid, reckless stunt in six weeks on Valentine’s Day. Daphne glanced at her watch. In half an hour, she’d face down midnight alone, not kissing anyone, and feeling less desirable, twice as foolish and more alone than when the night started. Happy New Year? Not even close.

  Chapter Two

  All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today

  ~ Indian proverb

  Nose buried deep in the bag of cinnamon hazelnut coffee beans, Daphne inhaled. Usually the sweet, rich scent perked her up with a single whiff. Or at least enough to fill the carafe with water and jab at the on button. Not today, though. Not on freaking New Year’s Day—the day when you were supposed to do everything the way you wanted it to go the rest of the year. The trouble with working until the ass crack of night was that morning still came, just as early as ever. Lack of sleep, even a desperate need for sleep, never postponed the unrelenting dawn. Guess this meant three hundred and sixty-five days of unrelenting exhaustion lay ahead of her. Or that coffee’s magical rejuvenating powers wouldn’t have an effect on her this year. Woo hoo.

  Going back to bed wasn’t an option. Her guests could knock at her apartment door any second. Using the microwave as a makeshift mirror, Daphne contemplated her reflection. She’d twirled her hair into a messy topknot to keep it out of the way. Two layers of concealer didn’t begin to disguise the dark circles under her eyes, big enough to deserve their own zip code. On the plus side, hittin
g the after-Christmas sales had netted her the snazzy, deep apricot warm-up suit. Paired with a push-up bra with the jacket zipped to just below her breasts, it showed off her assets in a way guaranteed to jump-start a man faster than a triple shot of espresso. The fuzzy Tigger slippers that completed her ensemble? Well, they were orange. Not sexy, but they matched, and more importantly, put a smile on her face with every step.

  To heck with Gibson Moore. If he couldn’t see her as a viable possibility for last night’s kiss of the century, well...the lips reflected in the microwave door pushed down and out into a pout. Who was she kidding? Putting herself on display for Ben and Sam to politely ogle this morning wouldn’t change anything. Their friendly, respectful appreciation wouldn’t take the blinders off his eyes.

  Sure, it’d put a bandage on her bruised ego. But when she finally ripped off that bandage, Daphne would still be the woman who’d tossed and turned all night. Who couldn’t sleep a wink after participating in the best kiss of her life. Okay, maybe the element of reckless naughtiness amped it up a little, but Daphne knew most of the credit belonged to Gib. For years, she’d secretly imagined how epically wonderful a kisser Gib would be. This was one case of ignorance truly being bliss. Because now that she’d experienced firsthand the leading edge of his bedroom talent—well—he’d laid on her the kind of kiss that ruined a girl for anyone else. Ever. When your dreams simultaneously came true and went horribly askew, what could be next?

  Ben burst through the front door without bothering to knock. “Is there coffee?” He brushed back his sexily-too-long blond hair. In jeans and a Cubs sweatshirt Sam had given him for Christmas, he looked as grouchy as a bear awakened halfway through hibernating season. “Because Ivy only dragged me out of bed with the understanding there would be vats of coffee here. And something to hop me up on sugar, too.”

  Ivy bit her lip. “Sorry. Lack of sleep apparently wipes out all of Ben’s memory where manners are stored.” Still, she ran a loving hand over his back. “I don’t live here anymore, remember? You can’t still barge in without knocking. What if Daphne was in here, strutting around half-naked with a guy?”