Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound) Page 8

  “God, man, put that down.” Despite his foul, mixed-up mood, Gib had to laugh.

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Did you and Daphne have a fight?”

  If only. A fight would’ve cleared the air. A fight would’ve been easy. “Quite the opposite.”

  “I don’t understand.” Milo lowered the cleaver and hitched himself onto the stool.

  “I kissed her. No,” he caught himself. The order mattered. It made all the difference, in fact. “She bloody well kissed me first. On New Year’s Eve.” His fork fell from suddenly numb fingers, clattered against the china plate. “She’s the one.”

  “Our Daphne?” Milo hopped off the stool. He paced the length of the kitchen in quick, jerky steps. “Daphne Lovell? My boss? Co-owner of Aisle Bound and florist extraordinaire? Your best pal?”

  “Yes to all but the last thing. Since I don’t go around kissing my pals. Christ on a crumpet, now I don’t even know what to call her anymore.”

  Milo tugged with both hands at his spiky blond hair, arms akimbo. “I can’t believe she’s your Cinderella. You really had no idea?”

  “Of course not.” Never in a million years would he have guessed Daphne would plant one on him in the dark. Why? Did this mean she wanted to screw him? Why now, after all these years as friends? Why then, at the wedding? Anonymously, in the dark? If she wanted to change the status quo, why not own it? “The point is that she didn’t tell me. And then tonight, at the stupid aphrodisiac dinner, one thing led to another.”

  Milo froze, hands in hair, mouth working into surprised Os. “You mean the aphrodisiacs actually worked?”

  He hesitated, then went with the expected answer. “How could they?” Except, was there any other smoking gun? “I don’t know. I doubt it.” Was it the food, or the game he made out of it? Gib couldn’t entirely say what flicked the switch on his libido. It sure as hell hadn’t been a conscious decision. “I can’t explain it. All I can say is that I kissed her. Once we got into it, I knew.”

  “Got into it?” Trust Milo to latch on to the least important piece of information. He jumped back onto his stool with a lascivious grin. “More than a peck, then? A full-blown...what’s that word you tea-and-scone types like to use? Snog?”

  Americans. Fought for their independence, and yet more than two hundred years later, were still titillated by all things British. “Yes. We snogged.”

  “And then what?”

  Gib pushed his plate away. He’d been kidding himself to entertain the notion of eating. The knotted sea serpent of emotion lurching around his stomach left no room for food. “I left.”

  “No, before the leaving and after the snogging. What was her reaction?”

  Probably would’ve been a good idea to stick around and catalogue it. “You don’t understand. I just up and left. With almost no conversation. It was hideous.”

  “Makes sense. Must’ve been a lot to take in.” The empathy and warmth coloring Milo’s voice vanished with a naughty wink. “Realizing that Daphne has girl parts, I mean.”

  “She’s not an androgynous robot. I’m quite aware of her womanly aspects.” Now. Now, he was aware of her firm breasts and petal-soft lips and the way the flare of her hips gave him the perfect handhold to steady her on his lap. He’d spent years studiously ignoring all her curves. Some days it had been harder than others, but he’d made a go of it. Never again, though. Gib couldn’t un-see, un-feel her body squirming closer to his, setting off a chain reaction between his heart, his dick and all the nerve endings in between.

  “This isn’t a forgettable bad grope in a bar. What’s next?”

  “Well, you can have all the curry, for starters.” Gib got up to rummage in the refrigerator for a ginger ale. Wondered when Milo would stop channeling his feminine side and quit talking this thing to death.

  “Be serious. Because the situation certainly is.”

  Gib walked down the hallway lined with art deco prints, shedding his shirt along the way. Oh, and desperately resisting the urge to sniff the collar and see if any of Daphne’s scent still lingered. To his dismay, Milo didn’t take the hint. Instead, he followed Gib into his bedroom, badgering all the way.

  “You and Daphne talk to each other almost every day. You spend oodles of time together. What do you think will happen the next time you see each other? Which, if I remember right, will probably be tomorrow?”

  The monthly National Association of Catering Executives meeting. The gathering place for everyone in the wedding industry. With a vicious wrench of each ankle, Gib sent his loafers flying into the corner. He and Daphne always went to the NACE meetings together. They liked to sit in the back and whisper to each other. This month’s speaker was on events. He couldn’t miss it. More to the point, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—hide like a scared schoolboy. “Tomorrow night, yes,” he muttered.

  “It’ll be weird.” Milo sat on the black down comforter.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “You need a plan.”

  “I don’t have one.” How could he come up with a plan when he could barely think? When he did think about the kiss, his dick surged in his shorts. That sort of reaction usually short-circuited thinking. Gib dropped his shirt on the bed. “How about giving me some space?” He glared at Milo, then jerked his head toward the door. It didn’t budge his roommate.

  “What would Doc Debra tell you to do?”

  Really? Like he didn’t have enough to worry about tonight? Milo might as well ask him to come up with a solution to fossil fuel dependence while he was at it. “Why would you bring her up?”

  “She was your shrink for almost six months. Didn’t you go to her to figure out how to deal with your commitment issues?”

  If he’d been a vampire, Gib would’ve hissed and bared his fangs. Or as a werewolf he could’ve growled. Hell, even kittens could make their fur stand on end as warning. But the most Gib could do was slam the closet door once he retrieved his slippers shaped like soccer balls. Daphne had given them to him as a joke last Christmas. However, Chicago winters were no joke, and as ridiculous as they looked, he appreciated the warmth.

  He spat out the psychobabble line Doc Debra had drummed into him at every appointment. “I don’t have commitment issues. I incurred an emotional trauma in my formative years and am still dealing with the fallout.”

  “Potato, potahtoh,” Milo said in a singsong voice. “My way is shorter than saying ‘my family treated me like crap but nobody else can hurt me if I don’t let them get close to me.’ Didn’t the good doctor tell you to start engaging in deeper relationships?”

  “Yes.” Over and over and over again. “But I already have a deep relationship with Daphne.”

  “That gives you a leg up, doesn’t it?” Milo bounced on the bed with the energy of a toddler. Gib wished he’d bounce right down the hall to his own room. “You need to ask her out on a date.”

  “What would we do on a date?”

  That stilled his bouncing. “You’re kidding, right? How often do you two go to the movies, or watch sports together, or grab dinner? Aside from missing out on the nervousness, perfume and enough hickeys to turn into a connect-the-dots anatomy lesson, you guys have essentially gone on hundreds of dates already.”

  “I’m not sure dating one of my best friends is a good idea.” In fact, it sounded just about as dangerous as juggling running chain saws, or flaming swords. Or both, at the same time.

  “You promised Doc Debra you’d try. Before she agreed to cut you loose, you promised to make a stab at a healthy, normal relationship.”

  “I obviously tell you too much. Either that, or I talk in my sleep and you listen at the door.” Gib pulled out his pajamas, and then slammed the drawer. And yet again, Milo didn’t take it as an invitation to drop the subject and walk away. The problem with having a really close circle of friends was
that as the years slipped by, it became harder to hide any deep, dark secrets. Which meant truths that hit uncomfortably close to home could be lobbed when they were least expected—or wanted.

  “Do you ever wonder why I don’t have a serious boyfriend?”

  Now that was an easy one. “Because you flit through the clubs like a bee with ADD in a rose garden?”

  An uncharacteristically still, expressionless Milo stared back at him. “Don’t be glib. We’re having a sharing moment.”

  To his great dismay. “Must we?”

  “I’m not like Ivy. I don’t think every man I meet could be ‘The One.’” Milo made air quotes with his fingers. “But I’m constantly looking. I want to find my soul mate. The person who makes me happy, day or night, just by being in my life. The olive in my martini. The guacamole to my tortilla chip. The bun to my—”

  Gib held up his hand. “Stop. I get it. You want to find true love. Good for you. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way.”

  “I think you do, deep down. You’re just scared. Otherwise you wouldn’t be fighting it so hard. Don’t treat Daphne like a disposable toy. You both deserve better. Ask the girl on a date. If it all goes south and you laugh your way through it, no harm done. But don’t squander this chance. Not everybody gets one.”

  Too bad he hadn’t known Milo could be so insightful. Gib wouldn’t have wasted two hours a week for six months with a shrink.

  * * *

  The dining room at Gulliver’s Pizza and Pub wasn’t very crowded. The ceiling, on the other hand, didn’t have an inch of spare room. Ornate chandeliers, Tiffany style lamps and gilt sconces vied for space. Marble busts sat atop the end cap of each booth. Daphne had no trouble finding her father at a table in the center of the restaurant, holding court.

  Decades ago, Stuart Lovell began the weekly tradition of a night of beer and pizza at Gulliver’s with his buddies. Once his wife died, it morphed into a safe haven. Someplace he could go to escape the drama of four teenagers. As his children left the nest, Gulliver’s became a haven from his empty, lonely house. Daphne knew he came here often. The staff treated him as a regular. The owner, Marge, treated him like a potential third husband. All in all, Gulliver’s was a good stand-in for when his children weren’t around. Which was most of the time. Daphne tried to meet him for dinner a couple of times a month.

  “There’s my favorite daughter.”

  “Bar’s pretty low, Dad, seeing as how I’m your only child that wears a bra.” She kissed his cheek and took a seat.

  “Don’t sass me. After spending a week with your brother and his brood, I’ve earned a healthy share of peace and quiet.”

  “Oh.” Maybe she should go. Save the soul-baring for another night. Or maybe order a couple of boilermakers to loosen him up?

  “I missed you. Did you have a good New Year’s Eve?”

  Whoa. Dad had no way of knowing he’d just picked the scab off her still-raw heart. But she wasn’t ready to spill it all yet. Maybe she was the one who needed liquid courage. Daphne knew she should’ve tried that last pink cocktail Mira had set out. “I was working, remember?”

  “Doesn’t mean a handsome groomsman didn’t charm you out of a kiss or two at midnight.” A bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow dipped in the middle as he winked at her. “No man in his right mind could resist those bluebells you’ve got for eyes.”

  They might not be at all objective, but her father’s compliments always felt good. Warm and comforting, like a towel straight from the dryer. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “What brings you out in the middle of a snowstorm? I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  As a Chicago native, it was easy for Daphne to ignore anything less than a full-blown blizzard. “It’s just a few flurries. And I wanted to talk to you. I made Mom’s cinnamon rolls yesterday. Everybody came over to watch the Rose Parade. I guess it made me want to reminisce.”

  His big, meaty paw, the one that could still throw a tight spiral when they played flag football on Thanksgiving, came to rest on top of her arm. “Let me ask you an important question.”

  “Okay.” Geez, what could it be? They’d just seen each other a week ago. Why’d he look so serious?

  “Did you save a few of those rolls for your dear old dad?”

  “Of course.” Daphne dug into her bag for the foil packet she’d prepared before leaving home.

  He lurched out of his seat to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek. “Then you really are my favorite child.”

  “They’re a day old now, so they might need a little extra butter.” The waitress dropped off a foam-topped, frosty mug. Eagle-eyed Marge must’ve seen Daphne come in. She lifted the beer in a salute of thanks toward the bar. “Is Marge taking good care of you?”

  “She always does. But don’t think you can change topics on me. You’ve got something on your mind. And it’s not a certain restaurant owner who brings your dad lasagna when he’s sick.”

  Interesting. Dad had turned a polite but blind eye to Marge’s blatant advances for years. As far as Daphne knew, he hadn’t seriously dated anyone since her mother died. There’d been several four-day weekends away. He usually came home from those rumpled and smelling of perfume. Never once, though, had he brought a woman home to dinner with his kids. She wondered what finally tipped the scales. Daphne also vowed to order this magical lasagna next time around.

  “Does she really?”

  He pinked up to the color of the baby carnations she used on pomander balls for flower girls. “Promise me you won’t mention it to your brothers.”

  She pantomimed zipping her lips and throwing away the key. Not ratting him out wasn’t a big deal. Not when she could still razz him about it. And maybe invite Marge out to drinks and pump her for details soon, too. “So here’s the thing, Dad.” Daphne placed her palms flat on the table. “I kissed a boy.”

  “Not for the first time. I know that for certain.” He returned to his plate of cannoli as though they were still discussing the weather.

  “Do you?”

  “God help me, I’ll never forget it. You kissed Rory St. Cloud on the couch when you were fourteen. You two were supposed to be watching the Cubs on TV. I’d gone down to the basement to start a load of laundry. Never occurred to me you were old enough yet to be having shenanigans with a boy during a ball game.”

  Good thing she was sitting down, or Daphne would’ve hit the floor. Guess Dad still had a few surprises tucked up his sleeve. “I didn’t realize you knew about that. How come you didn’t barge in and break us up?”

  “Fathers—especially single fathers—know how important it is to maintain boundaries. If you recall, your brothers ended up watching the rest of that game with you. Let’s just say it wasn’t entirely their idea.”

  Stunned yet again, she sat for a minute. Only the clink of glassware and the comfortable hum of satisfied customers broke the silence. Finally she took a pull of her beer. “Sneaky. Brilliant, but sneaky.”

  “Grasping at straws is a better description. I was not ready to deal with my daughter turning boy-crazy.” He ground the heels of his hands over his eyes, as though trying to rub out the memory. “Caveman instincts kicked in as soon as I saw that little slug mashing his face into yours.”

  “What sort of instinct? Because I think I’d remember you dragging me by my ponytail up to my room and throwing away the key.”

  “I wanted to let your brothers beat up any guy who looked at you twice. About the only thing I knew for certain, though, was that I’d have to ignore my instincts. I drove out to the cemetery that afternoon and railed at your mother. Not one of my finer moments. Sat on her grave and asked her how I was supposed to raise a daughter all by myself.”

  Daphne shrugged, with a cocky grin. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Guess you didn’t screw it up too badly.” It shook her, though. That her dad
had struggled to finish raising five kids by himself was obvious. What she’d never taken into account, though, was that handling a female in the midst of very testosterone-scented territory must’ve been a whole different kind of torture.

  “What I’m guessing is that I’m not finished yet. Otherwise why would you hike out here to tell me you kissed someone?” His blue eyes narrowed. “What’s really eating at my girl?”

  “I think I should’ve kept my lips to myself. Now everything’s messy and complicated. I don’t see how to go back to the way things were.”

  “Why bother? Don’t waste your time pining for the past. The only way to deal with whatever life throws at you is to move forward.”

  Her father was supposed to be a master plumber, not a philosopher. “Did you steal that from the back of a self-help book?”

  “I’m serious. Maybe it was time for things to change.”

  “No. Gib and I were fine.”

  “Gibson, eh? He’s got quite the roving eye for the ladies. Why don’t you want it turning on you for once?”

  “He’s the one with the problem. He’s the one who’s not interested. Who never bothered to notice that I was right under his nose the whole time.”

  “Ah, so you threw a Hail Mary. Took your one shot at scoring.”

  “Dad!”

  “Did he not, uh, catch the ball? If so, the man’s blind as a bat and dumb as a box of hammers. You’re everything a man could want, sweetheart.”

  “He wanted to make a first down—geez, can we stop the sports metaphors? Gib didn’t know it was me.” She squirmed. Her regrettable cannonball into spontaneity didn’t hold up well under scrutiny. Best to gloss over the details. “Long story. But then, tonight, he kissed me.”

  “Did he now? Then why aren’t you spending this snowy night cuddled up with him, instead of keeping me company?”

  God. Talking to her father about boys was just as uncomfortable now as when he first attempted it after her mom died. And yet no matter how Daphne protested, he continued to insist on trying to be both parents to her, no matter what the subject. Although always awkward as hell, she did have to admit he was really good at it. “Gib left. Once he realized that I was the one who kissed him on New Year’s Eve, he just got up and left.”