Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound) Read online

  “Just like last time.” Ruth rested her sensible low wedges on the edge of the table. “Do you two have to take each other’s temperature on everything?”

  Milo rolled his eyes. “The big stuff. All the time. But they usually do it over margaritas and chips.”

  Daphne let Ivy trundle her down the hall. In her flower prep room, the spicy scent of pine slapped at her nose. “What? Why are we pretending to have a confab?”

  “We’re not pretending.” Ivy crossed her arms over her chest. She looked one head bob and a pair of harem pants away from being a genie. “I’m telling you to do this.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I saw you just now. How many years later is it, and your face still droops when we talk about Sheila. She castrated your career. Attempted to, anyway.”

  Daphne picked up the wire and a pine bough. Might as well be productive while Ivy wasted her breath on stupid suggestions. “That’s right. She didn’t succeed. You and me, we’re an unstoppable team.”

  “Thanks for making my point for me. Don’t hide behind the safety of our team. Go out there and show her that you can floralize her skinny ass into next week.”

  “Floralize? Not even a word.” She nipped off the end with wire cutters, and wrapped it with floral tape. God forbid the tiny, barely sharp edge snag someone’s dress.

  Ivy planted her hands on the worktable and leaned forward. “You need this boost to your confidence. And you need to publicly punish Sheila, the same way that she publicly punished you. She treated you like crap. Left you a pathetic shell of yourself.”

  The reminder was utterly unnecessary. “Only for a little while. You picked me up and dusted me off.”

  “Exactly. This is your chance to pick yourself up. To serve up her revenge. Sheila could’ve made you a partner, could be garnering all the acclaim that we are. Instead, she was a shortsighted, self-centered bitch. She didn’t deserve you. Go out there and prove it to her.”

  Ivy painted a tempting picture. Since Daphne and Sheila worked in the same town, with all the same vendors, revenge had never been a possibility. She couldn’t afford to be petty. Wouldn’t risk losing a single referral just for the sake of revenge. But this competition might be the one and only way to grind the spiteful hag’s nose into the dirt. On the other hand, it could be a second helping of humiliation for Daphne. If karma kicked her in the ass again and she lost. Why take that risk?

  “She might not be as cutting edge as we are, but Sheila still knows her way around a dozen roses. What if I don’t beat her?”

  “Are you kidding?” Ivy tossed her ponytail. “You are the most competitive person I know. Wait, I take it back. You and Gib probably share that title. Every time we play a game, you treat it like a third world war. You’re cutthroat. You’re resourceful. And you are one hell of a florist. Don’t for a second think you’ll do anything but wipe the floor with her. Along with those other two florists.”

  Excellent points. Ivy was one heck of a salesperson. But she’d only chipped away at one layer of worry. Daphne’s anxieties around doing this show had as many strata as the Grand Canyon. She picked another handful of boughs out of the bucket. “I’ve never competed, not in a flower show, and definitely not on television. There are a lot of unknowns to worry about.”

  “I’m sure you’ll worry about all of them sufficiently. We’ll probably triple our cookie and candy budget for the month to keep you in a good mental place.” Ivy reached across, grabbing both of Daphne’s hands. “But you need this, sweetie. Your self-esteem has never been overflowing. Which is ridiculous, because you are a whole package of goodness. Creative, talented, funny, beautiful—everyone sees it but you. This is your time to shine. It’ll be sooo good for you.”

  “Do I even get a say in this decision?” She’d never been steamrolled by compliments before. But Daphne trusted her best friend. In business and in the messiness of her personal life, Ivy had never steered her wrong. New year, new start. Time to face down old fears. Maybe use the windfall to vacation someplace with a sexy, shirtless masseuse. Daphne took a second to think about being oiled down on a sandy beach by—damn it, why were the talented hands in her vision attached to Gib’s body?

  “No, you don’t.” Ivy smiled. “It’s a one-off. No cameras trailing you twenty-four/seven. Three other contestants, so the spotlight will be diffused. Just a single day of doing nothing but making bouquets. You can do that. You can do that with both eyes shut.”

  “I might have to, so I don’t see the cameras,” Daphne joked. And just like that, the decision was made.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  As if she’d had any choice once Ivy started in on her. “I kicked off the year by bungee jumping off an emotional cliff. If I could screw up the courage to kiss Gib, I can do anything, right?”

  Chapter Seven

  True friendship is like a rose: we don’t realize its beauty until it fades

  ~ Evelyn Loeb

  Gib tightened the already-perfect Windsor knot at his throat. The tie boasted wide diagonal black-and-light-gray stripes. It echoed the narrow pinstripe in his suit. He tugged infinitesimally at the silver pocket square. Then he patted a hand along the hair he’d gelled upright at his forehead. A little wavy, because he knew the ladies liked it. He’d kept his five o’clock scruff for the same reason, instead of going home to scrape it off before the NACE meeting.

  Then he banged the top of his head against the mirror. What kind of a man hid in a hotel bathroom? From his best friend, no less? Clearly, a spineless one. And Gib had never thought of himself that way.

  He’d dislocated a shoulder on the soccer pitch at age nine, and hadn’t shed a tear when the coach yanked it back into place. At no less than three garden parties, a polo match and one interminable interval during La Bohème, he’d made small talk with Her Majesty the Queen. Not to mention the inner fortitude it took to all but renounce his family and create a new life in a foreign country at the tender age of twenty-two.

  “Stop being a ponce,” he muttered. A tug at the bottom of his jacket. What would he do next to postpone the inevitable? Unlace and relace his shoes? Disgusted with himself, Gib slammed his shoulder against the door and stepped into the hallway.

  “Hey there,” said Daphne. She gave him a casual finger waggle of greeting.

  Unbelievable. At least fifty people clogged the fourth-floor hallway of Chicago’s historic Palmer House Hotel. Another twenty-five were probably already in the room, waiting for the monthly NACE meeting to begin. Or, more likely, trying to see how many glasses of wine they could toss back before the meeting started. The chances of him stepping out of the blasted bathroom directly into Daphne’s path should’ve been slim. Gib never took statistics at university, but he still knew it shouldn’t have happened.

  “Uh, hello.” He gave her a swift once-over. Gib had teased her plenty over the years about her utter lack of fashion sense. She was too pretty to hide behind bad clothing. Now that he knew—intimately—the tightly lush curves of her body, it physically pained him to see her fading into the background.

  The black skirt hung on her like a bag. Daphne always tried to dress professionally for these events. She just didn’t try very hard. A rust cable-knit sweater also hung on her shapelessly. Gib did approve of the black boots that probably hit just below her knee. He’d approve a lot more if he could see her in just the boots and her knickers...

  No! No stray sexy thoughts. They’d tormented him for an entire night and day already. The memory of her bowing under his hands, moaning under his mouth ran through his head with the unflagging sharpness of an alarm clock with no off switch. Milo had only said what Gib knew in his heart. Daphne was special. She didn’t deserve to be laid and left. Kissed and kicked out. He’d bloody well ask her out on a proper date. Not a preamble to sex. Not a drink to loosen her up. A right, proper date, with dinne
r and absolutely no funny business. No matter how boring it sounded. He’d keep his lips to himself all night.

  “Good crowd tonight.” Daphne pivoted around, taking in the crush of people rushing down the hall. For the most part, men and women alike wore dark business suits. The only difference to be seen was the sky-high heels on the women. “The pot for the fifty/fifty raffle should be worthwhile. I might spring for more than one ticket.”

  “You’ve got to play to win,” he agreed. Was this what the portent of a proper date reduced him to? Stilted conversation and clichés? Taking sex out of the equation evidently muffled his mojo.

  Daphne rubbed her upper arm with her hand. “I had a weird day.”

  “Me, too,” Gib confessed. Good to know their kiss had equally unsettled her. But he didn’t want to talk about it right now. Not in the middle of the rapidly emptying hallway. There had to be a better place to admit that he’d doodled her in no less than seven different sexual positions before running the paper through his shredder. Maybe she’d made of mock-up of him out of flower petals?

  She stared up at him with those big, delphinium-blue eyes. The ones he’d forevermore remember glazed with passion. “Talking to you about it would really help settle my mind.”

  Bollocks. Couldn’t that wait for the date? The one he still had to summon the courage to ask her on? “Right. We’ll get it all sorted. But not now. Don’t want to miss the start of the meeting. Roll call’s the only way to find out if there’s a new member in the room.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Network the newbies, I know. Gotta lock them down before any other florist sweeps them off their feet.”

  “It’s the only reason to choke down the plonk they’re pouring at the bar,” he agreed. There. Back to their normal banter. As easy as slipping into a comfortable sweatshirt. He could contemplate dating Daphne and still treat her like a real person. Instead of just another in an innumerable line of mattress squeakers. Gib gestured with his arm toward the meeting room. “Shall we?” But she didn’t budge. Just stared at him, an expectant look on her face. “Go on, then,” he urged.

  “How long are you going to make me wait?” Daphne asked, her voice low and breathy.

  Gib gave a swift glance up and down the hallway. Had anyone else heard her plea? She couldn’t be asking what he thought. Could she? He tried to back away, but his heel barely moved before hitting the kick guard on the bathroom door. “Pardon me?”

  Closing the already-narrow gap between them, Daphne put both hands on his lapels. Then she stroked around in a tight circle. “Come on, Gib. Are you really going to make me beg for it?” Her right hand dropped to his hip. It slid down his thigh, moved inward just enough that in another second she’d feel his cock twitch at the unexpected visit.

  Enough was enough. Daphne was his best friend. Of course he wouldn’t make her beg—unless she was naked. Different rules applied in bed. Now that she’d opened this particular Pandora’s box, the possibilities raced into his brain. In fact, he’d like nothing more than to lick her all over until she begged him to crawl on top of her. Crawl into her.

  But for right now, he’d settle for a taste of her. Enough to take the edge of the lust rampant enough to drive Daphne to feel him up in the hallway. Gib grabbed her neck with one hand, her waist with the other, and reversed their positions. He drove her against the wall. Tried not to notice how well he fit into the notch between her thighs. And then he kissed her. Just like she wanted.

  Gib unzipped her lips with a single swipe of his tongue. She opened to him, giving access to the hot silk of her mouth. The firm grip he had at her neck allowed him to angle her head up to meet him. Fingers thrust deep into the dandelion-soft glory of her hair. He heard the soft, mewling noise coming from the back of her throat, the rasp of her god-awful skirt against his trousers, the muted buzz of the meeting trickling into the hallway.

  But mostly, Gib felt. Felt his cock swell. Her pulse galloping beneath his thumb. The slick mating dance of tongue against tongue a tease for what he now knew to be inevitable. Every stroke a fiery arrow straight to his crotch. Every new inch of her flesh he tasted thickening him, exciting him. Her arms cinched tight around his back, pulling him impossibly closer. This wasn’t a hi, how’s your day kiss. This was a launch sequence countdown begun kiss. Neither of them held back anything.

  If Gib didn’t stop right now, he’d push her through that bathroom door. Hitch up that oh-so-handy skirt. Hike her legs around his waist. Take her in a stall until she screamed so loud the front desk would have to come investigate. And Gib was fairly certain that didn’t fall under the parameters Milo had laid out for treating Daphne to a real date.

  So he backed off. Reluctantly. With a final, bruising brush of lips. Enough to swell her mouth so she’d run her finger over it in an hour, and think of him. Gib planted one hand on the wall, boxing her in to keep Daphne right where he wanted her. With his other, he stroked the edge of her cheekbone, following the path of summer freckles that refused to fade. “Is that what you wanted?”

  She blinked a couple of times. Fast. “No.”

  The woman was insatiable! Just the way he liked it. “I can’t give you any more, pet, unless we blow off this meeting. There are about five hundred hotel rooms on top of us. Not as good as mine, naturally. But they’ve all got locks on the doors, which is all we’ll need.” Gib regretted the offer immediately. Now it hung out there, like an X-rated thought balloon over a cartoon character.

  The agenda for tonight, for once in his life, did not contain sex. He and Milo had laid out a painstaking plan. A decent amount of flattery as a base. A tip of the hat to their close friendship. Cap it off with the dazzling offer to wine and dine her. No mention of the kiss they’d shared. Milo predicted his roommate to be incapable of physical restraint if it came up. After all, an old dog can’t learn new tricks in a day. Gib had tried to resist. But when a woman rubbed herself on him, why wouldn’t he kiss her?

  “Whoa. Did you just offer to do me? And in a rival hotel, of all places?” She cocked her head to the side. Wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure which I find more insulting.”

  Maybe they were on opposite sides of a time vortex. Or an alternate reality. Everything Daphne said now directly contradicted her words, and the blatant come-on, prior to this kiss. Or maybe he’d watched too many hours of the New Year’s Day marathon of Dr. Who. “Isn’t that what you wanted from me?”

  “No.” She shook her head so hard that her hair whipped his cheek. “No. I wanted the candy.”

  “Well, I haven’t got any.” Why were they arguing about candy when he’d bet half his paycheck that her nipples were currently every bit as hard as his cock?

  This time, her hands on his chest pushed him backward. Hard. Enough so that he stumbled to catch his footing. “You always bring candy to the NACE meetings for me. Since I got slammed at work, I came straight here without grabbing dinner. I’m so hungry right now, I could eat your tie. I just wanted to know where you were hiding the candy bars.”

  Fuck. How had he managed to ruin the plan before he’d even gotten to step one? If he still had weekly appointments with Doc Debra, she’d give him one of her squelching looks. The ones that said he could be such a better man if he bothered to try. Even once. Those looks always sent his balls scrabbling to climb back up inside his body. And Milo would kill him. Would probably open the apartment door to deliver a scathing lecture, and then slam it in his face. Gib let his chin fall to his chest. “I thought—”

  “Trust me. It’s crystal clear what you thought, you horn dog.” Shoulders squared, chest heaving, Daphne looked ready to slap him.

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong.” Ready to launch into a florid apology, Gib opened his mouth. And then promptly shut it. She’d raised a single finger to trace her pink, puffy lips. Oh, she might talk a good game about how he’d so wrongly jumped to conclusions. Throw a bit of a tantr
um. But no matter how much Daphne protested that she’d only wanted chocolate, he was staring at the face of a woman who thoroughly enjoyed the sweetness he’d lavished on her instead.

  So he’d be damned if he’d apologize. Committed dating might not be his thing, but Gibson Moore was bloody well an expert on kissing. “You needed a good snog more than you needed a Mallow Melt. And I’d wager you’re ready for another go-round.” His statement colored up her cheeks to the same bright shade as her lips. Gib walked her back until she was against the wall again, and caged her in with his arms.

  “Daphne, there you are. I knew I saw you earlier.” Maria Ortiz, their Chapter president, appeared at their sides from out of nowhere. With an attempt at casual swiftness, Gib dropped his arms. He knew she must’ve come down the hall from the meeting room. But his focus on Daphne obviated everything else. Two seconds later and Maria would’ve gotten a real eyeful.

  Luckily, she didn’t appear to notice the waves of sexual tension rippling through the air. She grabbed Daphne by the elbow. “Everyone’s waiting.” They hustled along the burgundy-and-gold carpet toward the double doors into the meeting room.

  Gib trailed behind. No reason not to enjoy the view. “The whole membership is waiting on us? Since when do we have to punch a clock?”

  “Not you, Gibson. Your soon-to-be-famous friend.”

  This might be an interesting meeting after all. “Who?” he asked, with the eagerness of...well, Daphne looking for chocolate in his jacket.

  “Daphne, of course. I want to kick off the meeting with her big announcement.”

  Weird. Had Daphne scored a celebrity client? Even so, she wouldn’t brag about it. Aisle Bound took great store in their client confidentiality. Moreover, his best friend would’ve told him any big news. Maria had to be confused.

  The Red Lacquer Room of the Palmer House Hilton was a jewel box of a room. Ornate gilt molding topped walls of shiny red lacquer. Gold velvet curtains swagged tall, paneled windows. Ornate crystalline and ruby chandeliers swung from wide, gold starbursts on the white ceiling. It made Gib think of a room in Versailles, or Russia. His own hotel radiated modern, sleek elegance. But he loved the over-the-top abundance of the historic Palmer House.