Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Tired of me already?”

  “Not for at least another eighty years.” She nuzzled his cheek, then continued. “With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I want to spotlight an aphrodisiac-based picnic in A Fine Romance.”

  Whip-smart idea. Ivy might’ve come up with the idea—and the capital—for a romance store, but Mira had put her personal stamp on it from her first day as manager.

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Come on, do you really believe in that stuff?”

  “I really believe it will sell like crazy, and make the store tons of money. If nothing else, there’s probably a placebo effect. Two people who like each other enough to share a picnic will undoubtedly begin to feel amorous as they feed each other finger food. The point is, I need to do a trial run.”

  Sam shoved Mira’s sleeve up and trailed a string of kisses up her arm. “Sweets, lima beans and day-old crusts are aphrodisiacs as long as I’m with you.”

  “Exactly the problem. Ivy and I can’t test these, because we’re already putty in the hands of our fiancés. What I need are unattached, objective volunteers. Daphne, are you in?”

  Anything to help a friend. Not to mention that as a silent partner with Ivy, anything that helped the store profit would get Daphne’s accountant off her back about how fast she’d recoup her investment. And nibbling tasty gourmet treats was far from a hardship. “Sure. I love to eat.”

  “And, Gib, I want you to do this, too.”

  What? Had Mira lost her mind? No. No freaking way. Not in a million years. Daphne could not, would not sit across a table playing sexily with food and Gibson Moore. A woman could only bear so much disappointment, and last night she’d taken her share of it for the entire year.

  “No,” he said.

  Whew. Crisis averted.

  “Stop scavenging the town for fresh meat for one lousy night. Help a girl out. It’ll be fun.”

  Gib sighed. “This is almost insulting. Or at the very least, overkill. My charm, my accent and crystal-blue eyes are all the aphrodisiac any woman needs.”

  Truer words were never spoken. As far as Daphne was concerned, Gibson Moore could talk her into bed any night of the week with the accent alone. She couldn’t begin to count the nights they’d sat on this very sofa, watching a game or a movie—and she’d had to move to the chair in order to resist the urge to touch him.

  “Be that as it may, I can’t sell you in my store.” Mira gave him an unabashed once-over, from the forehead wave of his thick brown hair down to his polished loafers. “Although I think you’d fetch top dollar.”

  “Kind of you to say. In point of fact, at a charity auction last year, I was sold for the whopping sum of three thousand dollars. Highest bid of the night.”

  Ben nipped a piece of bacon off Gib’s plate. “Dinner with you can’t be worth a quarter of that. Not even if you treated them to steaks and a bottle of Dom at Gibsons.”

  “Who said I stopped at dinner?” Gib waggled his eyebrows and smirked with a full dose of male smugness. The intimation sent Daphne’s R-rated imagination down the wrong and very dangerous road yet again. The one where she pictured his hair tousled, and a sleepy morning smile as the only thing he wore... It helped distract her from the sharp ping of jealousy that hit every single time he talked about his many, many conquests. The jealousy she could never let him see, or their friendship would be horribly damaged.

  “Look, you don’t have to believe that what you’re eating is an aphrodisiac. You just need to let me know if everything tastes good and works well together.”

  “Very well. For the lovely Mira, I will do it.”

  The room closed in around Daphne. This must be what it felt like inside bubble gum when it popped. The air vanished, and the walls almost folded in on her. In a panic, she backed through the doorway into the kitchen. It didn’t help. Her apartment had an open floor plan, so there wasn’t a comforting wall hiding Gib from her view. Backing away even more, she circled past the refrigerator to land in the hallway. Pressing both palms against the wall, Daphne concentrated on breathing.

  “What is going on with you?” Mira poked her head around the corner.

  Ivy put a hand on Daphne’s forehead. “You’re acting wacky. First you stress-cooked, and now you’re as white as a wedding gown.”

  “Don’t make me do it, Mira,” she begged in a shaky whisper.

  “Do what?”

  To prevent the slightest chance of being overheard, Daphne hustled them all into the bathroom. With the door firmly shut, she used the cool white tiles for support, as though facing a firing squad. “Have dinner with Gib.”

  “I don’t get it,” Mira said. “He’s one of your best friends in the world. You guys have dinner together all the time.”

  “That was—before.”

  “Before what?”

  God. She wouldn’t be able to talk Mira out of this horrible idea without revealing her secret. Daphne’s knees bent of their own accord, and she slid down the wall to the bare wood. “Before last night.”

  “Sounds like a bad movie title from the eighties,” Mira snickered.

  Ivy just looked confused. “What are you talking about? We were together all last night. I didn’t see you and Gib get into a fight.”

  “We didn’t. We went the other way.” Daphne sucked in a deep breath. “I’m his mystery kiss.”

  “Really?” Two sets of eyes, one hazel and one blue, goggled at her. Both women sank to the floor, hands loosely hugging bent knees.

  “Trust me. I wouldn’t kid about something this cataclysmic.”

  “How was he? Gib’s got such a reputation as a ladies’ man. He’s super hot, and an amazing flirt, so I’ve always wondered if, well, he could possibly live up to the hype.”

  “This is a crisis, Mira. You really want to start by me grading his kiss?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Ivy chimed in with a, “Me, too.”

  Now that the secret was out, she wanted to tell them everything. Except the more she talked about it, the more she’d sink into her own personal emotional quicksand of wanting Gib, who she absolutely, one hundred percent could not have. “He’s spectacular. He’s everything you expect him to be. He knows my lips better, more intimately from that two-minute kiss than any man I’ve ever dated.”

  They all took a moment to let it sink in.

  “Okay, but why did you kiss him?” Mira asked. “Because the way he tells the story, you made the move in the dark.”

  Daphne could still hardly believe she’d gathered a blend of stupidity and courage to seize the moment. “I did. I kissed him because I’ve wanted to for years.”

  Ivy’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? You’ve had a crush on Gib all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never told me? Even though I helped you put together outfits for dates with other men, and told you tons of details when Ben and I started dating? You kept this huge a scoop from me?”

  “How is this suddenly about you? Look, there wasn’t any point in mentioning it. Gib and I are friends. A quick slide between the sheets with a man who goes through women faster than I go through a pint of chocolate chip mint would ruin that friendship irrevocably. He’s like a movie-star crush—someone you like to imagine getting naked with, but are perfectly fine never actually pursuing. I mean, would you ever try to kiss Brad Pitt?”

  “Maybe. If the lights went out and he was standing next to me.”

  Mira poked Daphne in the thigh. “So why are you torturing the poor man? He’s going out of his mind trying to figure out who Cinderella is. Just tell him.”

  “I can’t.” Daphne realized her hands that she didn’t remember balling into fists were cramping.

  Mira tossed the curtain of long, dark hair over her shoulder with a quick twitch. �
�For God’s sake, it was one kiss. It won’t burn the friendship bridge to the ground. Tell him, and we’ll all have a good laugh about how he never guessed you were Cinderella.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ivy tapped her first finger against the floor. “Explain.”

  “When the lights went out, and when they came back up, I was standing right next to him. Sure, fifteen other women were within arm’s reach, but I was literally a foot away. And it never even occurred to Gib that it was me. That I was the one who rocked his world. Because he doesn’t see me in that way. He sees me as a buddy, a sounding board, somebody to hang with when he doesn’t have a date. It’s beyond humiliating that he couldn’t even for a moment imagine I could be the woman who kissed him.” Since when was airing deep humiliation a sanctioned New Year’s event? This party had definitely gotten off to a rocky start.

  “Maybe you’re taking this too seriously,” Ivy suggested. “Just because he’s never thought about you in that way—which we don’t actually know to be true—doesn’t mean he couldn’t.”

  “I can’t risk it. First of all, my pride still smarts. Gib is on the cover of Windy City magazine this month as one of Chicago’s top bachelors. He could have any woman in the city. He’s so far out of my league there are entire galaxies between us.”

  “Not true. You’ve landed several yummy men.”

  “Yummy enough for me,” Daphne clarified. “Nowhere near as yummy as Gib. I accept it. And I don’t want to jeopardize our friendship. So I’ll chalk it up to the craziness of New Year’s and move on. But I need the cushion of time before any more cozy dinners with Gib. He’s like a giant hot fudge sundae in front of me, and I’ve had one taste.” God, how she wanted to keep on licking! “I’ve got to have a little distance until the temptation fizzles.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.” Mira leaned forward, scrunching up her nose. “If you want to be a chicken. You’ve got more backbone than that. Especially if you’ve been keeping your hand off the spoon for years. Ever hear the cliché about getting right back on the horse?”

  “Thinking about mounting and riding is giving me unhelpful visuals.”

  “Two minutes to parade,” Ben hollered from the living room.

  Mira stood, then grabbed Daphne’s hand to pull her up, too. “You’re going to do this aphrodisiac dinner. None of us believe food has magical properties to strip away your inhibitions. So confront your British sex demon, and prove to yourself that you and Gib still have the same relationship as before the kiss so great it stopped time.”

  Daphne only had one rebuttal left in her arsenal. “I don’t want to.”

  “Think of the mistletoe you put in the centerpiece,” Ivy suggested. “You’re sure to surmount all difficulties this year. But you’ve got to start by getting over this first one.”

  All this considered, she’d rather deal with a bridezilla who hated her carefully handcrafted wedding bouquet. Or have an entire week’s shipment of roses go missing. Or even swim a mile in the frigid waters of Lake Michigan during today’s Polar Bear Plunge. Who was she kidding? Giving up on men entirely sounded easier than forgetting the eye-popping, panty-drenching goodness of a Gibson Moore lip-lock.

  Chapter Three

  It is at the edge of a petal that love waits

  ~ William Carlos Williams

  A hard knock rattled the glass door to Gib’s office. “I need ten more minutes,” he said, without tearing his eyes from the computer screen. Everyone knew the rules. When his door was open, he’d talk to anyone. No problem too small, from a dispute between sous chefs about garlic scapes versus scallions to garnish the bisque, to moderating a discussion between the day and evening concierges about how to fairly split their substantial tips. But on the rare occasions Gib closed his door, it signaled he needed absolute silence and zero distractions.

  “Fat chance.” Ben barged in, shut the door behind him and then leaned against it with his arms crossed. Body language put him at relaxed and slouchy, but the cold glint in his blue eyes tipped the true scale toward pissed off. “You’re already ten minutes late. After I busted my ass to get here on time, I might add. We’re supposed to be working out, remember?”

  “Clearly not.” Bloody hell. He could’ve waved an employee out of his office without a problem. Ben, however, proved much more immovable. Flat-out stubborn, most days.

  “I watched you tuck away four of those cinnamon rolls at Daphne’s brunch. Plus, you stole the last strip of bacon right out from under my fork. I’m not the only one who needs to sweat off a few pounds. Aren’t all your precious suits hand-tailored? I wouldn’t want you to pop a button. Unless, of course, that’s your plan to score women even faster. Just walk around town with your pants already halfway open.”

  “I like the ease of accessibility, but as it’s hovering just south of zero outside, I see a gaping hole in your strategy. So I’ll join you in the gym. I just need a few more minutes.” Gib tapped his pen against the blotter on his desk. Nowadays, a blotter was more of a nod to style than a practical office accessory. But he liked the old-school look. It reminded him of his father’s desk, the one he’d played at as a child. Dark, carved wood that looked very much like his own desk here, thousands of miles and an ocean away from the original. Just the way he liked it. Because truly, Gib couldn’t get far enough away from his father.

  Ben plopped down in a chair. “Geez, you run a hotel. Guests check in, guests check out.”

  “Thank you for reducing my career to the easy life of a library book.” Gib pressed Print. Maybe putting pen to paper would help him fix the weak spots in his document. And provide a visual hint to propel Ben back out the door.

  Elbow on the desk, Ben propped his head on his fist. “Isn’t that the whole point of being the big-cheese manager? You know, that you delegate everything? I’m supposed to meet Ivy for dinner in exactly two hours. If I’m late, she’ll read me the riot act.”

  “Some things are too important to hand off.” If Ben wouldn’t leave, ignoring him was the next best plan. So Gib turned to the printer and drummed his fingers while waiting for the paper to spit out. No matter how annoying Ben became, this project needed to be finished. And it needed his full concentration to be not just finished, but perfect. He had twelve separate attempts at a personal plea for Cinderella to step forward. A carefully worded ad for three papers, different-length notices to fit all forms of social media, and a flyer. So far, none of them had the right tone. Or a way to make come kiss me again sound anything more than skeezy.

  “What’s this?” Ben scanned the sheaf of papers Gib had spent much of the day actively avoiding.

  Gib sighed. He’d have better luck ignoring a squalling toddler kicking the back of his seat on a transcontinental flight. “I don’t come to your office and mess up your desk.”

  “My desk is my couch. One of the perks of working from home. But you’re welcome to fly out with me to RealTV headquarters next week and shuffle around the DVDs in our video library.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ben continued to paw through the stack of printouts. “Organic alfalfa farming? Since when do you care about alfalfa?”

  Funny. After skimming all twelve articles last night, Gib still knew only one thing about the topic. “Believe me when I say that I truly do not care one iota about alfalfa. And I’m quite convinced the word organic is a way to charge someone twice as much because you were too cheap to fertilize properly and spray for bugs.”

  “So what’s with the articles?”

  To generally annoy the crap out of him? To ruthlessly exhume his carefully buried guilt over leaving England? “My caretaker sent them to me. Hickson’s constantly trying to keep me involved with the operation. He wants to make some rather pricey changes. Becoming an all-organic operation carries a hefty enough price tag that he requires my buy-in.”

  “You ha
ve a caretaker?” Ben dropped the papers. His gaze skewered Gib faster than a puppy distracted with a new chew toy. “Does this have to do with that mysterious royal title of yours I just found out about?”

  “I’m a member of the nobility. Not a royal.” And he thanked God every day for that distinction. “Not unless seventy-five other people in the line of succession drop dead first.”‘

  “It still fascinates me.” Ben pushed to his feet and executed a sloppy bow. “The Honourable Viscount Moore. Do you have a castle?”

  Why were Americans so gobsmacked by titles? Gib enjoyed using that peculiarity to his advantage with long-legged brunettes. But from his friends, this line of questioning became tiresome and borderline embarrassing all too quickly.

  “The castle belongs to my father, the Earl of Ashburnham. It’s always cold, and doesn’t have satellite television.”

  “Boo hoo. The castle can’t rock a single movie channel? Hard life, man,” Ben mocked.

  Gib knew how to wring out some sympathy. “None of the sports channels, either.”

  “Now that’s a deal breaker.” Ben sat back down, topping off his hoodie-and-sweats ensemble with a look of outrage.

  “Which is why I stay far away.” Absolutely true. Of course, the lack of cable channels ranked about eight hundredth place below the more substantial reasons why he eschewed the family holdings. But Gib saw no reason to air all his dirty knickers.

  “So how do you explain the alfalfa?”

  As an unending punishment inherited from his mother’s side of the family? “My father is busy with the Ashburnham castle holdings. So as his heir, I manage my own separate, smaller estate. Or rather, I pay a caretaker to do it for me.”

  “You really are the king of delegating. But no castle on your land?”

  “Merely a manor house.” He held up a hand, anticipating Ben’s next question. “Fully wired for sound and cable, which I’m sure my staff appreciates. The estate primarily deals in alfalfa, sheep and a few other odds and ends. As the revenue from it helps keep me in my hand-tailored suits, I try to pay it minimal attention once a quarter. Now, may we please move on to a more interesting topic? Say, for instance, the fact that an overly entitled group of twentysomethings stoned out of their minds caused the toilets to overflow in half the suites on the eighteenth floor?”