Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 4

  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 s
qualling 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 have 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?”

  Ben snickered. “Sheep, huh?” He rolled into a belly laugh.

  If Gib wasn’t the one stuck managing hundreds of acres from afar, responsible for the livelihood of all the people who worked his farm, he’d probably laugh, too. “It is every bit as uninteresting as it sounds, I promise.”

  “Sorry—I’m picturing you in overalls with a pitchfork over one shoulder. Does Armani make overalls? I can’t wait to tell Sam that you’re a farmer.”

  Gib jerked a thumb at the door to shoo him away. “Go now, why don’t you? I’m very busy.”

  Ben slapped the edge of the flat-screen monitor to skew it toward him. “You’re on Twitter. You’re not busy. Twitter’s no excuse for skipping a workout.”

  “It is today.”

  “Didn’t even know you had an account.” He peered intently at the screen. “What’s your handle?”

  “I don’t have one. I’m on the hotel’s account.” Gib returned the monitor to its proper position. He didn’t need Ben sticking his nose into this particular project.

  “Checking for gripes from your staff?”

  “No. What? My staff are still reveling in the glory of the Christmas bonuses signed by yours truly.” Now that Gib thought more about it, Ben might be able to help. As long as he could put up with the unavoidable mocking. “I needed a way to contact the public, and this seemed easy. That is, until I realized I’d have to constrain my considerable thoughts into such a tiny space.”

  “What the hell are you tweeting about?”

  Gib leaned back in his ergonomic miracle of a chair and steepled his fingers. “I’m trying to find Cinderella. Your stubborn fiancée refuses to give me access to the guest lists from the New Year’s Eve wedding.”

  “Her answer’s not going to change. So stop asking her to abandon all professional integrity.”

  “It’s just so damned frustrating. The identity to my mystery kisser is locked up in one of Ivy’s spreadsheets.”

  Ben crossed his arms over the black and gold logo on his hoodie. “Would you hand out info on one of the Cavendish’s guests?”

  Not unless he wanted the two-fer of getting a pink slip and a lawsuit. “No. Of course not. I just hoped that Ivy had more elastic morals than I do. But I understand her reticence. So I’m coming at this from another angle.”

  “What are you going to do? Stake out the bride’s house when she gets back from her honeymoon and ask for the names and numbers of all her friends?”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  A low whistle split the air, as sharp as the crease on a really good paper airplane. “You’ve got it bad for Cinderella.”

  Pushing off the edge of his desk, Gib stood. Paced from one file cabinet, past the broad width of his desk to a display case filled with a smattering of the hotel’s awards and trophies, then back again. It bothered him that the pale gray carpet muffled his footsteps. He wanted to hear each deliberate stomp of frustration. “I must find her.”

  “Gibson Moore. Man about town. Lusty Lothario.”

  Those words red-lighted his pacing. He’d narrowly avoided a spit take the first time he read them. “The intro from the piece about me in Windy City magazine. I’m touched that you took the time to memorize it.”

  “Can’t make fun of you at our next poker night unless I get all the labels right.” Ben twisted around to face him, making the black leather cushion squeak. “The point is, you’ve made a name for yourself sliding out of beds as fast as you slide into them. To you, the city of Chicago is a giant smorgasbord of available females.”

  “Well, it is a city of eight million people. Seems pointless to ignore that sort of babe buffet.”

  “Exactly. And women line up six-deep to spend a night with you. Miraculously, whether you’re with them for an hour, a day or a month, they all walk away with a smile on their face and nothing but praise for you on their lips.”

  Dealing with female tears and temper ranked right up there with root canals and missing the annual suit sale at Armani. He’d wasted enough emotional currency with that on his mother through the years. Keep it light, keep it sexy, keep it drama-free. If Gib were to redesign his family’s coat of arms, that would be the new motto scrolling across the bottom. And not in Latin. In plain English, so nobody missed the importance of it.

  “If I do something, I like to do it right. And I like to satisfy women.”

  Ben scratched his head. “With none of that breakup awkwardness, though? If you could bottle and sell that trick, y
ou’d be a millionaire. I mean, on top of whatever you rake in off of your alfalfa fields.” He snickered at his own weak pun.

  “Trust me, having a wide network of happy women at my disposal is a useful thing.”

  “Exactly!” Thoroughly at home in Gib’s office, Ben opened the tiny closet and pulled out a gym bag. To hammer home his readiness to leave, he then stood with one hand on the chrome door pull. “You’re not a one-woman guy. You like your women like your satellite television—hundreds of options on any given day.”

  Giving in to the inevitable, Gib turned off his monitor. Maybe they could brainstorm a compelling tweet in the gym. Pounding one foot in front of the other on the treadmill always cleared the debris from his mind. “Variety is the spice of life.”

  “My point is that you don’t just have notches on your bedpost. You’ve probably got enough notches to crimp the frame of every bed on the fourth floor of this hotel. So why are you so focused on this one woman? You didn’t see her, you didn’t talk to her, and I’ve seen you literally crook your finger at women and have them fall into your arms. What makes Cinderella so special?”

  Good question. One that had kept him nearly sleepless for two nights straight. “I don’t know.”

  “You might want to figure that out before you find her.”

  Gib waved at the middle-aged woman with a teased crown of brown hair at her command post just outside his office. “Agatha, I’ll be at the gym for a couple of hours.”

  “Too many Christmas cookies?” She gave a pointed glare at his midsection over the top of her cat’s-eye glasses. He’d inherited her awesome traffic-controller-like skill set wrapped in rayon from the previous Cavendish manager. Running the hotel without Agatha would be as scary a prospect as—hell, being forced to return to his homeland. Their first two weeks together had been dicey. Learning to listen past her thick Polish accent was a full-time job in and of itself. Determined to hate him on sight for having the gall to replace her retiring boss, she hadn’t cut him an inch of slack. And at the end of those two weeks, as a reward for surviving without burning the place down (and remembering to keep the Frango mint jar on her desk filled), she all but adopted him. Sunday dinner at her house once a month was nonnegotiable. She only excused with serious proof of bodily harm, like a cast, or a minimum of ten stitches. Still didn’t cut him much slack, though.