Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound) Read online

  She finished her third glass of champagne. Hadn’t even seen it get refilled. Then Daphne pushed up from her chair. “I thought we truly had a shot at growing from being friends to lovers. Maybe Doc Debra pushed you off the couch too soon. Taking that step toward commitment isn’t about sex. It isn’t about heat and stolen kisses. It’s about letting a relationship blossom. Unfurling not just attraction, but respect and intimacy, to a whole new level. And now you’ve nipped us in the bud.”

  He reached his hand out. Stopped just short of actually touching her. “Don’t leave.”

  “There’s no point in me staying. I’ll say mean things. You’ll say things you don’t mean. For the sake of our friendship, we should pretend tonight never happened.”

  The debonair mask slipped from his face. Blue eyes dulled to the color of faded denim drifted shut. After a deep breath, they popped open and he jammed a hand through his hair. “At least let me drive you home.”

  God, no. The thought of sinking into those heated leather seats while knowing it was the only warmth she’d feel from him tonight? “No. Stay and enjoy this—” she gestured to the roses, the champagne, the damn rolls, “—officially romantic meal.” As she stalked to the exit, Daphne put an extra swish in her step, sure his eyes would be riveted to her ass. Might as well let him see what he’d be missing out on. Forever.

  Chapter Eleven

  When men and women are able to respect and accept their differences then love has a chance to blossom

  ~ John Gray

  Gib hitched up his sweatpants. The scent of something mouthwatering had broken through his haze of bone-deep exhaustion. As much as he didn’t want to crawl out of bed, breakfast beckoned. The thick, dark roast of coffee in the air gave him the energy to get vertical. Overlaying that was caramelized sugar, seductive and beckoning. With an eye on the prize, he’d dragged on sweats and thick socks.

  He opened his bedroom door. The puffy nylon of his parka smacked against his face.

  “Put the coat on and grab your boots,” barked Milo. At least, the voice belonged to Milo. A hunter’s cap with fleece-lined ear flaps came down to his eyebrows, and a purple argyle scarf pulled up over his nose. The bulk of what had to be three pairs of sweats ballooned from beneath his snow-white parka.

  One arm in his coat, Gib stepped into his black Sorels. In those boots, he could stand in a snowdrift in the Arctic for three days and not feel it. “Is this a fire drill?”

  “Opposite. It’s a blizzard.”

  “Really?” Disbelieving, Gib clunked across the room. One shove at the curtain revealed a gray sky. Below it, everything looked like it had been dipped in marshmallow fluff. Snow buried the line of parked cars up to their windshields. Bare, skeletal branches dipped low under the heavy wetness of it.

  “Started about midnight. Looked bad right from the start, so I stayed up and threw together a strawberry-stuffed French toast. Should be ready by the time we finish our place.” Milo handed over a blue knit cap.

  “Did you call the guys? Are we starting here?” Gib, Milo and Sam usually pitched in to dig out the girls and the bakery. With Ben in the mix, it should go fast. Of course, now they had to shovel out Sam’s bakery, Daphne’s apartment, Ben and Ivy’s new digs, and here. If anyone else joined their little group, Gib might have to break down and buy a snowblower.

  “Ben and Sam swung by Daphne’s already. Figured you wouldn’t want to be seen over there this morning. Or more to the point,” Milo said archly, “she wouldn’t want to see you.”

  Here it comes, Gib thought. Although he’d spent several hours braced for a lecture, he hadn’t heard Milo come in last night. Probably because he’d been busy cutting a bloody swath through shoot ’em up car chase game. Gib had plugged into headphones as soon as he finished scarfing down a hamburger and cold fries. He cranked the volume way up. Every crash, every gunshot, every siren vibrated into his skull. It was fast and violent and the perfect match for his hideous mood. He’d hammered at the joystick and buttons until his thumb gave out.

  “You’ve got something to say? Spit it out, man,” Gib ordered. Might as well get the ass-kicking over with.

  Milo opened his mouth. Closed it. Walked to the front closet and pulled out their shovels. Handing one to Gib, he said, “You look like crap. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Not really.” He’d finally shut down the game after two. But lying in bed repeating every instant of his epic fail with Daphne wasn’t the same as actual sleep. That didn’t come till probably close to dawn.

  “Do you feel as bad as you look?”

  Doubtful. He’d have to be turned into pulverized raw meat to look as wrung out as he felt. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.” Milo patted him on the back, then opened the front door. The good thing about snow was that it actually kept the temperature relatively warm. Well, above zero. But the shock of cold, especially so soon after crawling out of his warm bed, stole Gib’s breath away. The heavy silence peculiar to a blizzard muted the usual white noise of the city. Then a sharp crunch drew his attention to Ben and Sam digging their shovels into the snow.

  Behind them sat two snowmen. When nature dumped this much, they usually made snowmen that represented their friends. Always something pink on Ivy’s, and a Bears hat on Daphne’s. On today’s version in front of his house, one wore Milo’s favorite purple beret. The other had a licorice vine mouth turning down. In front of it, lying in the snow, were two meatballs and a sausage link. It looked...suggestive, to say the least.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” he asked.

  Ben leaned on the handle of his shovel. “Well, the way we hear it, Daphne pretty much castrated you last night. Figured we’d make your snowman true to life.”

  Gib couldn’t help but laugh. It was damn funny. “Well done.” He tugged on his gloves.

  “You okay?” Sam asked.

  “Not even close.” Gib started shoveling. Ideally, he’d shovel till he sweated through his many layers. He’d shovel a mile straight if it meant he’d be worn out enough to catch some sleep. Sam shoveled next to him. Milo started digging out the powdery lump of his Mini Cooper. Ben, however, still leaned on his shovel, just watching. And staring.

  “You know, Daphne didn’t rat you out,” said Ben. “She texted Ivy and Mira when she left the restaurant. Just said she’d walked out on you and was headed home. Then radio silence for the rest of the night.”

  Which explained why the girls hadn’t pounded down his door before midnight, intent on revenge. Nice to know she’d stuck by her promise to not let their relationship status affect the group as a whole. “Good.”

  “Remember, we did promise to tear you a new one if you hurt our girl,” Sam added, in a calm, conversational tone. “So what happened?”

  “I screwed up. I was a complete and utter pratt. A wanker.” Gib buried his shovel too deep and couldn’t lift it. In the process his feet slid out from under him. Ass first, he sank into the wet snow. Fuck. The rate he was going, soaked-through trousers would be the high point of his day. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Yup,” Sam agreed. He tossed a shovelful of snow over Gib’s head.

  “In so damn many ways.” Ben held up his hands and began to tick off points. “For not noticing the hotness of your best friend for how many years? For not asking her out the moment you kissed her. For whatever monumentally stupid thing you did that made her walk out on you at a restaurant that Ivy reminded me she’s wanted to try since before her mom died.”

  “Christ.” The memory zapped into his head with the stab of a red-hot barbecue fork. It shoveled a whole fresh layer of shit onto the already-steaming pile of mistakes he’d made with Daphne. “The promise her mom made about taking her there for graduation. I forgot.”

  That stopped Sam midthrow. “You forgot?” he growled.

  “I’ve known her for l
ess than a year, and even I knew the story.” Ben shook his head in disgust. Gib didn’t blame him. “So why did you take her there?”

  “It’s my go-to when I want to impress a woman. They all love it. The Signature Room pulls out all the stops for me. It’s a no-brainer.” Gib knew how bad that sounded. He’d known since Daphne hurled her spot-on accusations at him. Standing, he went back to shoveling without bothering to brush himself off. Frostbite would be his penance. It wouldn’t be enough, but it’d be a start.

  “Right place for the wrong reason.” Ben shook his head. “Man, if Daphne figured out what you did—”

  Gib cut him off. After the way she stormed out, it wasn’t even a question. “I’m quite sure she did.”

  “Five minutes into this story, and you’re already coming off as a royal douche bag. Is there more?”

  So much more. Too much. “I did everything possible wrong last night, except call her by the wrong name. I made Daphne feel like any woman, instead of the woman. The worst part is that she had to point it out to me.”

  “You’ve been very, very bad, Gibson.” Milo panted as he dug around the back wheels. “It goes without saying that you’re on dish-washing duty in the apartment for at least a month. I think the moldings need to be dusted, too.”

  “Our housecleaners do that once a month.”

  “Not this month. Not once I tell them you’ve volunteered to get on your hands and knees and take care of it.”

  Gib preferred the idea of shoveling away his frustration and disappointment. But dusting still sounded better than Sam and Ben taking turns using him as a punching bag. “Fine. I’ll take whatever punishment you all think I deserve. On one condition.”

  Sam pulled off his scarf and threw it toward the front door. Unzipped his coat. Resumed his steady shoveling. “What’s that?”

  This was what had kept him tossing and turning all night. “Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to get a second chance with Daphne.”

  “Easy.” Milo bounded forward. “You get on your flying carpet, swing past King Solomon’s mine, pick up the magic brass lantern and rub it until a genie pops out.”

  Smart-ass. “I’m serious.”

  “You took a shot.” Sam pretended to lob a basketball into the air. “You missed. End of story. Suck it up.”

  Gib got the impression that Sam’s anger at him for hurting Daphne was about a millimeter away from breaking through. Still, he’d keep grasping at straws until they helped him. “America’s the land of second chances. Of fresh starts.”

  “You’re really going to play the immigrant card?” Ben laughed. And finally put his back into moving some snow. “Didn’t Daphne talk you out of taking our citizenship test not too long ago?”

  That memory stung. He’d stayed up way too late cramming. All about the Constitution, representatives, cabinet positions and an entirely different version of the American War of Independence (which he had to now remind himself to call the Revolutionary War) than he’d learned as a child. Then he wasted four hours waiting in line. When only two people were up before him, Daphne burst into the room. Wild-eyed and talking a mile a minute.

  “Yes. She droned on forever about my responsibility to Queen and country. And something about the hotness of Prince William. I agreed not to become an American mostly to make her stop.”

  “An interesting basis for making your personal geo-political decisions,” smirked Milo.

  “I fucked up.” Gib tossed his shovel aside. Spread his arms wide in a mea culpa pose. “I know it, Daphne knows it and you all know it. I want a chance to clear the air.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “He’s got a point. I scorched some chocolate yesterday. Stunk up the bakery. Melted down a fresh batch, and it covered up the stench.”

  “Hang on,” said Milo. “Aren’t you going to the Fancy Food Show this month? To hawk your amazing truffles to anyone who’ll pay an arm and a leg for them?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He stabbed with his shovel in Sam’s direction. “Then shouldn’t your days of burning chocolate be waaay behind you? Sounds like amateur hour to me.”

  “Tempering chocolate is an alchemical reaction. It can hinge on the slightest variable.” Sam paused, pressing his fists into his lower back as he stretched. “Plus, Mira distracted me. There’s nothing in the recipe books about taking a five-minute break to watch your fiancée show off her new bra.”

  “Niiiice,” Ben drawled. “What flavor truffles did you end up making that day? And when can I try them?”

  “White-chocolate passion fruit papaya with a lime glaze.” Sam winked. “To match her new orange lace bra.”

  “Even nicer. Are you nervous about the show? Like a JV football team before their first big game? Or ready and steady—like LeBron at the free throw line?”

  “I’ve got a plan. I’ve got an entire walk-in full of chocolate samples. Extra help lined up for that week. Mira helped me with some fancy cards. All I have to do is show up and wait for the seventeen thousand buyers to walk by.” Sam tossed some snow from hand to hand, forming a perfect ball. “I’m more worried for Daphne. Her big competition is the weekend before. At least I know what I’m walking into—she’s going into that blind.”

  Finally. A way to steer the conversation back to his problem. Getting back into Daphne’s good graces had to happen immediately. Before her anger cured, like wet cement. Sam’s show wasn’t for a few weeks. Gib cleared his throat. “Or she’ll walk in on the arm of a supportive boyfriend. If you help me.”

  A triangulation of looks passed between his friends. Raised eyebrows. Waggled eyebrows. Shrugs. Sam stepped forward. “You gotta be sure. One hundred percent in it to win it. No more half-assing it.”

  “Right. Totally committed.” In theory, at any rate. No guarantee he wouldn’t muck it up. This being his first real go at it.

  “You could be romancing three other woman with no more than a smile.” Milo wagged a finger. “Daphne’s going to take effort. Are you sure you want to work that hard?”

  “Is there any chance you’ll break her heart?” Ben asked.

  “There’s a much stronger chance she’ll break mine.” Gib figured his metaphorical cock and balls were already on display in the snow. Why not throw his raw, bleeding heart out there for them to stare at, too? “I didn’t like watching Daphne walk out on me last night. The last time I felt that poleaxed was when I took a full-on kick to the solar plexus in soccer. Sidelined me for the rest of the game. Without Daphne, I’ll be sidelined a lot longer. She’s the first—and only—woman I’ve ever wanted to have stick. What if she’s my only shot at true happiness?”

  They were perfect together. All the time they’d spent as best friends proved it. Toss in their red-hot attraction for each other, and it was the perfect match. Well, as long as you disregarded the epic shit storm he’d created last night through his laziness. Stupidity. Blundering.

  Ben gaped at him. “Did Ivy write you that speech? ’Cause I swear, pink cotton candy coated each word. Polka-dotted birds flew out your ass.”

  Milo squinched his face into the same death mask of pain he wore with a hangover. “Another sentence and you would’ve started growing breasts.”

  “Now I know why you Brits always bury your feelings. It’s damn embarrassing when you air them out.”

  Gib could take the insults. Didn’t disagree with any of them. “But will you help?”

  “Of course. Or we wouldn’t bother putting you through the wringer.” Ben broke the twig arm off of Gib’s snowman and started writing in the snow. “Here’s where you start. Tell her something about yourself. Something scary real. Something deep. Something you’d never share with that endless string of perfect boobs and surgically perfect faces that parade through your bedroom.”

  This was going to be as bad as the Grail quest. Impossible from the
first step. “Daphne’s my best friend. She already knows everything about me.”

  “Does she?”

  * * *

  “I’m glad you came tonight.” Mira reached to give Daphne a hug across a desk so clean it could be classified as surgically sterile.

  Shelves filled with possible merchandise for A Fine Romance lined each brick wall in multiple rows. They made the closet-size space feel claustrophobic. Daphne wanted out. More specifically, she wanted to get upstairs and get her hands on a glass of wine. “Are you kidding? This is your first official Match-n-Mingle. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I thought you might be too sad to do—you know—the whole thing.”

  “What? Shower and dress like a grown-up?” Daphne looked down at her outfit. Skinny jeans, knee-high black boots and a sweater she swore made her feel like Marilyn Monroe. Casual sexy. Exactly the right look for her cannonball into the dating pool.

  “Well, yeah. Didn’t you say you cried so much your eyelashes froze together on your walk yesterday?”

  The problem with texting? Waaay too easy to overshare. Besides, the crying had stopped right about the time the snow tapered off. A little heavy breathing with her hands cupped over her face fixed the eyelash problem. The date was a blip. The worst error in judgment she’d ever made, but in the grand scheme of life, a mere blip. Time to shut the door on her foolish crush and move on.

  “We had a blizzard yesterday. Conditions—all conditions—were extreme. Blizzard’s over, and its back to business. I already spent an hour practicing for Flower Power. Now I’m ready to go out there and snag a man.”

  “Whoa.” Mira stood, smoothing a dress the same deep red as her store’s logo. “Men can smell desperation. Let’s scale back that attitude a bit.” She circled the desk, tablet in hand. “What if you go out there and just find someone to talk with? And remember the house rule.”