Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  FRIENDS TO LOVERS

  About This Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Other Books

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt

  FRIENDS TO LOVERS

  by

  Christi Barth

  Book 3 of the Aisle Bound Series

  A Chicago florist struggles with revealing her longtime lust for a hotel manager lothario who's about to be shipped back to England.

  For years, wedding florist Daphne Lovell harbored a secret crush on one of her best friends. When the lights go out in a hotel ballroom, she seizes the opportunity to kiss him senseless. It works, but too well. He searches the room, trying to find the mystery pair of lips. Only... he never thinks to ask the woman standing by his side.

  Gibson Moore’s friends joke that he manages a hotel so he always has a fresh batch of women to hit on. The lothario Brit doesn’t discount that perk of his job. But he’s ready to halt the cavalcade of women if only he can find the one who kisses like a dream. Why is it his friend Daphne refuses to help him with the search?

  Life gets upended when Gib’s hotel is sold, and the new company refuses to let an Englishman manage their American hotel. Should he scramble to stay in Chicago? Or take the dream job offered to him back in London, a place he’d sworn never to return? Daphne gets chosen to compete in a reality television flower show that could lead to her exit from the Windy City. Will they go their separate ways, or let their burgeoning love bloom?

  Dedication

  For my husband, who started out as just a friend, and then transformed into so much more.

  Chapter One

  In the hope of reaching the moon men fail to see the flowers that blossom at their feet ~ Albert Schweitzer

  Daphne Lovell loathed working on New Year’s Eve. Other days certainly vied for a spot near the top of her craptastic workday list. The day after a bout of food poisoning. Birthdays (which everyone ought to get off as a personal, government-sanctioned holiday). Any day when the coffee maker malfunctioned. As a wedding florist, she worked most holidays. Just gritted her teeth and focused on the hefty surcharge they levied on all Aisle Bound clients who scheduled events on holidays.

  But New Year’s Eve trumped them all. Most of the time she could handle standing on the edges of a wedding, watching everyone party like crazy around her. Party jealousy never bit her in the ass, because she rarely knew any of the wedding guests. Far better to collect her vases, head home and stretch out on the couch with a pint of chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

  Except that the whole world—literally—partied on New Year’s Eve. Working this night felt like a punishment. Like Fate had grounded her for bad behavior. Daphne believed there was something magical about midnight on New Year’s Eve. Her father always said you should start the year the way you meant to continue. So most people did it right. Eating fabulous party food, drinking like crazy, spending the entire night with their favorite people and then kissing a loved one at the stroke of midnight.

  Tonight Daphne was managing two out of four and last time she checked, fifty percent wasn’t considered a passing grade. She looked around the crowded ballroom of the Cavendish Grand hotel at the drinking, laughing, thoroughly happy people and bit her lip to keep it from unfurling into a full-on pout. The DJ pounded a fun dance beat that had half the guests on their feet, and the delicious scent of spicy food hung in the air.

  Her best friend and business partner, Ivy Rhodes, swished up next to her in a silver taffeta dress with a cap-sleeved lace jacket. “I can’t thank you enough for working this wedding with me.”

  Daphne shrugged, making the ruffles on her gauzy white shirt flutter. “It didn’t feel right to ruin anyone else’s New Year’s Eve. We own Aisle Bound, so we should have to do the dirty work. And to be clear, this does qualify as dirty work. You owe me for this one. Big. You know how epically big the final battle scene was in Return of the King? Think twice as big.”

  “What if I promise you don’t have to dance with my handsy cousin Lewis at my wedding?”

  “Please—that’s a given. You love me too much to subject me to him. I’m going to have to mull the possibilities for a while.” Daphne drummed her fingers along her cheek. “There is a good chance it will involve you letting me choose all your songs the next time we do karaoke.” Ooh, that was good. Ivy loved to watch karaoke. She hated to sing, and did a side-splittingly bad job when shoved in front of a mic. Just worrying about the possibility would keep Ivy on edge for weeks.

  Ivy wrinkled her nose, then laughed. “I get it. Trust me, I knew before I begged you to help that there’d be a price to pay. But because this is a traditional Filipino wedding, there are just too many people for me to handle by myself.”

  No kidding. The elegant, gray, silk-covered walls of the ballroom were bursting at the seams with hundreds of guests. “I wanted to ask you about that. Why the heck are there forty-five people in the wedding party? That’s bigger than the last three royal weddings put together. I just about crippled myself wiring the boutonnieres for this one.” She flexed her hand, remembering the claw shape it had cramped into by day two of prep.

  “In addition to the usual bridesmaids and groomsmen, there are principal sponsors, coin sponsors, veil sponsors, candle—”

  Daphne cut her off with a flick of the wrist. “You’ve lost me already. I take it back. I don’t want to know. Esoteric details like that are why you’re the wedding planner and I’m not.”

  “True. But I am officially grateful you’re spending your New Year’s Eve here with me. And it isn’t so dire. Look at how sweet Gib was to throw us a party.”

  Gibson Moore was far from sweet. Polished, elegant, refined and swoon-worthily sexy, yes. A wicked lust-’em-and-leave-’em ladies’ man. He snared them without even trying. The combination of his upper-crust British accent, wavy brown hair and eyes the color of a tropical sea pulled women to him with the strength of a tractor beam. Gib lived in the moment, and when that moment was gone, so was whatever woman had been lucky enough to share a few hours, or at most, a few days with him.

  Because he happened to be one of her closest friends, Daphne saw past the womanizing exterior. She saw a man who embraced life. Unfortunately, no matter how many times she fantasized about him, that carpe diem spirit of his never led Gib to embrace her. Not as anything more than a fellow soccer fan, someone to drink beer with and laugh at cheesy action movies. Certainly not as a woman. Which frustrated her to no end.

  “Gib didn’t throw us a party,” Daphne clarified. “Don’t make him out to be all selfless. As hotel manager, he’s stuck overseeing this shindig well into the new year. I wouldn’t call opening up a conference room for us to hang out in as throwing a party.”

  More likely he recognized he wouldn’t be able to go to a party, so he brought the party to him. With Ivy and Daphne here already, it was easy for him to lure Ivy’s fiancé, Ben, into kicking back in front of a plasma screen with an unlimited supply of beer. As producer for a reality television series, Ben traveled so much that he jumped at any opportunity to spend time with Ivy. Even if
that time turned out to be in ten-minute increments once every hour.

  “He did stock it with appetizers. You know how much you love those brie puffs.”

  True. Daphne couldn’t cram the oozy, creamy nuggets of deliciousness into her mouth fast enough. The chef at the Cavendish used to work at the White House. Daphne could hardly wait for her next chance to nip into their room and try whatever fresh delicacies he’d made for them. So far she’d also sampled crab claws, caviar-topped deviled eggs, two kinds of pâté and cherry peppers stuffed with prosciutto and provolone. “I appreciate the snacks. I definitely appreciate them being there for me a mere ten steps away from this wedding.”

  Ivy waggled her finger. Light from the multitiered crystal chandeliers ricocheted off the two-carat sparkler Ben had placed there to warn off all other men. “Plus, Gib has champagne for us to toast with at midnight.”

  Great. Ivy and Ben would be wrapped around each other tighter than moss on stone. Their friend Sam had promised to stop by for the big toast. He’d spent all day moving his fiancée, Mira, out of Daphne’s apartment and into his. So the two of them would be all lovey-dovey and in a lip-lock that lasted longer than it would take Daphne to drain her glass, refill it and guzzle another. All the while wondering why she didn’t have anyone to kiss at midnight. Gib would undoubtedly have a lineup of at least five beautiful and eager contenders from tonight’s wedding. Heck, he’d probably find a way to kiss all five of them in the time it took the twinkly ball to drop in Times Square.

  With a swift inhale, Daphne pulled herself out of her pity party. Forced herself to look around the room a second time. Smiling, happy people in snazzy suits and colorful dresses surrounded them on all sides. The DJ spun toe-tapping music. Her centerpieces of lemon and peach roses mixed with two-toned orange-and-red lilies perfumed the air. Someone got hugged about every eight seconds under the glittering crystal chandeliers. How many people could say that about their working conditions?

  “You’re right. I’m glad the six of us found a way to start the new year together. That’s what counts, right? We all work with people we adore and respect. I get to spend my days playing with flowers, and even manage to get paid for it. We’re in pretty good shape, overall.”

  The bride and groom swirled by in an impromptu waltz. They both grinned from ear to ear and waved at the women. “Benjie and Diwata look so happy.”

  “They’d better. We’re throwing them one hell of a party.” Ivy checked her watch, then checked the official itinerary for the night. When Aisle Bound planned a wedding, everything ran like clockwork. No matter what, thanks to the perfectionist/slightly anal retentive streak deeply ingrained in her friend. To forestall any raised eyebrows (like the time a few years ago when she’d lingered in the bathroom a whopping thirty seconds past the scheduled first toast), Daphne had made a point of synchronizing her watch with Ivy’s. And remembered the shrieking chaos of the bouquet toss was scheduled to happen in ten minutes.

  “I noticed. It’s crazy loud in here.”

  “There are a ton of Filipino superstitions about New Year’s Eve. We incorporated most of them. For example, they make as much noise as possible to scare away evil spirits. That’s why they keep banging on the gong.” Ivy pointed to the bowls of shiny purple grapes on every table. “You’re supposed to have a grape in your mouth at the stroke of midnight.”

  “Doesn’t that make it hard to kiss?”

  “Smart-aleck.” A vertical worry line creased Ivy’s brows and she stared into the distance as she pondered. “You’ve got a point. I didn’t check to see if a kiss at midnight is part of Filipino custom.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. Nobody expects you to orchestrate or skip a kiss. Kissing is organic. It either happens or doesn’t.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel worse? You know nothing at one of my weddings is organic. Every moment, every eventuality is ruthlessly planned in order to appear natural and fun.”

  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.