Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Read online

  “I’m game if you are,” Daphne said, in a rush.

  “Then we’d better get a move on. Snow’s starting to fall. I’m sure you don’t want me snowed in with you once this dinner gets me all worked up.” With one quick shake, he released her. From the sharp clip of his Italian loafers against the hardwood, Daphne could tell he’d headed into the dining room. Good thing he hadn’t stuck around. The image of being snowbound with an aroused Gib melted her knees to the consistency of slush. Daphne grabbed the end table for support.

  Ivy constantly begged her to come along to yoga class, and Daphne caved about once a month. Felt like a whole lot of standing around instead of exercise. If she wanted to stretch for an hour, she’d rather do it in front of a game on her plasma tv. The one thing she did like, though, was the nifty breathing technique hammered into her in the first class. When clients were stressful, or her weekly flower order arrived with ranunculus instead of roses, she’d push aside the stress with deep breathing.

  Unless a space pod full of slimy green aliens carrying ray guns materialized in her living room, she couldn’t imagine a more stressful situation than ignoring her body’s response to Gib. So Daphne slumped even lower and began the cycle. First, a deep, four-second breath in, then hold for seven seconds. But before she could release it, a sharp, masculine bark of laughter echoed down the hall.

  God, was he laughing at her? Had he seen her wobble? Humiliation hardened her knees and back until she was as straight as the Sears Tower. Turning around, she hurried the few steps into the dining room to brave whatever ridicule Gib heaped upon her.

  “Holy crap.”

  Gib laughed once more. “I agree. Our Mira really pulled out all the stops.”

  A row of votive candles flickered down the center of the dining table. Two multiarmed candelabras on the buffet reflected twice their light off of the mirror framed in white, wrought-iron curlicues across the room. Each pair of petaled place mats held a different course, on gilt chargers and glass plates, and a different set of drinks. In the background, the mellow sound of a saxophone wailed a melody over the rest of a jazz quartet. The only things missing were a velvet-covered round bed and a box of condoms.

  “I didn’t expect this. I thought she’d set out a plate with a couple of appetizers and some chocolate. This…this is too much. I’m going to kill her. In fact, I’ll call her right now and make her come back.” Daphne knew she was babbling. That her words were bulleting out so fast and so high she probably sounded like a squealing mouse. How could Mira have gone to these lengths? Was this some kind of cruel joke?

  “Calm down.” Gib laid a hand on her arm, which produced exactly the opposite reaction he’d requested. “She just set the stage for us. We’re actors tonight, remember? Two people using food to romance each other.”

  “No. Not something I would’ve agreed to in a million years. I hate acting. In the third grade I was a toothbrush in our hygiene play. Not only did I forget all my lines, but I tripped over the floss and fell into the kiddie pool we used for saliva. The only thing I agreed to do was eat.”

  Gib gave her that look down his nose that said she’d flipped her lid. The one he’d given her when she claimed that Italy’s team would beat Spain in the Euro Cup. Or when she’d tried to convince him that he wouldn’t regret watching the fifth Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

  “Where’s your sense of fun?” Taking her hand, he bowed slightly as he brushed his lips across her knuckles.

  “What are you doing, Gib?” she asked warily.

  Instead of answering, he said, “Hit me with some soap-opera-type names.”

  Where was he going with this? And why was he still holding her hand? “I don’t watch soap operas.”

  “Right. You’re not the girly type to get sucked in to daytime drama.”

  Not the girly type? Why not just hit her over the head with a brick stamped I don’t find you at all attractive? Oh yes, Daphne had definitely made the right decision in not telling him they’d kissed. He’d probably laugh in her face.

  Unaware of her inner turmoil, Gib barreled on. “I don’t remember the convoluted rules Ben taught me about bowling names. So we’ll go with posh, silly names from my homeland.”

  “Why do we need fake names at all?”

  “Because we can’t be Gibson and Daphne. We’d laugh ourselves silly. And we’ve got to take this challenge seriously to help Mira. So for tonight, we’ll be Daisy and Graham.” He took her other hand as well, and stared deep into her eyes. God, he had beautiful eyes. The same icy turquoise as Iceland’s famous Blue Lagoon geothermal pool. Yeah, she had a slight addiction to the Globetrotting Network.

  “Daisy and Graham,” she echoed, nodding. Why not? Let herself spend one perfect night as Gib’s dream date? Nothing more than a fantasy, so nobody would get hurt. She’d get to keep holding his hand, drinking in the melodious accent that made flutters deep in her belly with every word. One night for her mental scrapbook, to go with the one kiss they’d shared.

  “We’re two lovers on the brink, wooing each other. Waiting for the perfect moment, the right excuse to take that next step toward bliss.”

  “Is this really the kind of nonsense you spew at the legions of women you bed?”

  “Yes. With a very high success rate, I might add.” He scowled. “Now stop being Daphne, the constant mocker of my sexual conquests. You’re mucking up the mood.”

  “Sorry.”

  A heart-melting smile was her reward for compliance. “Be Daisy, the lovely and willing, who wants nothing more than to fall into my arms by the end of the evening.”

  She might have sucked at playing a toothbrush, but Daphne would have no trouble finding the motivation for this role. “Okay.”

  Gib pulled out a chair for her. “Your seat awaits, milady. Prepare to be undone by this feast for the senses.”

  Oh. Oh God. Oh my.

  This was going to be fun. Looked like Mira hadn’t skimped on the snacks. Gib was fairly certain that he recognized the magical combination of John Coltrane and Miles Davis on the stereo. Not to mention that, given a choice of anyone to relax with, he’d always choose Daphne’s easy company.

  “Dessert’s at the opposite end of the table, so this must be where we start.” He sat down next to Daphne, close enough to brush her shoulder with his arm. Bubbles the color of cherry blossoms flitted in sparkling rows to the top of the champagne flutes. “I’d say going with pink champagne is overkill. But if we’re stuck drinking any rose, then Veuve Clicquot is the way to go.”

  “You’re such a snob.”

  “Discriminating,” he corrected. His favorite comfort food was the ubiquitous fish and chips, with a couple of pints of Boddingtons to wash it down. Obviously not the profile of a snob. But bad wine could be like drinking turpentine. Life was too short to torture his taste buds.

  “I’ll drink anything with bubbles in it. Pour club soda into fruit punch and I’d be happy.” Daphne lifted her glass to take a sip. Gib barely snatched her wrist in time to stop her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Letting the bubbles tickle my nose while they’ve still got some oomph.”

  “We need to toast. A romantic dinner always begins with a toast.” He raised his glass. “To my beautiful companion, whose laugh is as effervescent as our drinks.” Cheesily romantic to play to the night’s theme, but also true. Once they clinked, he took a sip, noticing that Daphne’s cheeks had flushed to match the champagne. “Are you too warm? Should I go adjust the radiator?”

  She jerked her head to the side, staring down at the heart-shaped printed card next to the plate. “I’m fine.”

  “Then here we go.” Gib picked up the card and read aloud. “‘Figs stuffed with blue cheese. An open fig emulates the female sex organs and is a sexual stimulant.’ Well, she’s not pulling any punches, is she?”

  “Why be subtle? I mean, if two people truly want each other, and hope that sharing a meal will bring them closer, why not just g
o for it?”

  A viewpoint he’d never, in all his experience, heard uttered from a female’s lips. If it was anyone but Daphne, he’d call it the verbal equivalent of a land mine. “Hmm. I thought women didn’t like the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, approach.”

  “Don’t get me wrong.” Daphne guzzled half her glass in a single swallow. “Foreplay’s great. Love it.” Her gaze skittered around the room, looking everywhere but at him. Had she drank too much coffee this afternoon? She seemed all hopped up. “What I don’t like is all the gamesmanship leading up to a lip-lock.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a dance.” He picked up the deep-purple fruit, feeling the contrast between the slightly sticky skin and its moist flesh. Slowly he lifted it, waiting until Daphne’s eyes latched on before bringing it to hover even with her lips. She’d swiped red gloss across them, and they looked as full and plump as the fig.

  More often than he liked, Gib caught himself thinking wholly inappropriate thoughts about Daphne’s lips. As a friend, he respected her too much to consciously crave a taste of her luscious mouth. Sexy, smart-aleck Daphne. The only woman he’d ever encountered seemingly immune to his quick charm and quicker smile. But the lust snuck up on him unannounced, like fog stealing through the night. He’d have to be three days in his grave not to notice her earthy, sensuous beauty. So tonight he could partially give in to the simmering curiosity he’d ignored over the years, and have a little otherwise-forbidden fun with her.

  Her lips parted, and he rubbed the fig along the bee-stung bottom lip until she opened enough for him to pop it in. “Well? Does it work for you? Are you ready to straddle me and go at it like a pair of minx?”

  She finished chewing, eyes hooded. “Not quite yet.”

  “Ah, well. My turn, then.” Gib nudged the plate toward her.

  “What?” With the precision of a laser sight on a rifle, her gaze whipped back up to his face.

  “You have to feed me. This is finger food. Be Daisy, a woman on the cusp of possessing the man she so greatly desires. Touch the food, all the while pretending that you’re touching me. Use the food to seduce me.” Knowing she’d never back down from a challenge, Gib leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “If you can, that is.”

  The determined jut of Daphne’s chin told him she’d rise to his teasing bait. “Not a problem, Graham.” She lingered over his fake name, dropping to almost a whisper. Then she reached across him for the next card by two wine goblets. “‘Red Burgundy mixed with ginger, cloves, vanilla and sugar is known as the potent Hippocras aphrodisiac. Vanilla in particular is believed to increase lust.’”

  “I am partial to vanilla pudding.” Gib swallowed a laugh. He could practically see the cogs turning in her head, trying to figure out how to make him crack. This felt more like a strategic chess match than a seduction. Either way, he was having scads of fun.

  Daphne shifted until she knelt on her chair. She squinted for a second, as though trying to get a read on a wary target. After hitching in a quick breath, she picked up the goblet. “Tip your head back and close your eyes.”

  “Why?” Last summer, after working nine days straight during the political convention, he’d fallen asleep on her couch during an Iron Man marathon. Her soft heart allowed him to nap there for four hours, undisturbed. Her wicked streak, however, woke him up by pouring a tumbler of ice water over his head. Gib was no fool, about to fall for the same trick twice. “Play nice, Daph.”

  “It’s Daisy,” she corrected. Her shirt slid off one shoulder as she raised her arm to bring the goblet nearer. Suddenly there was a whole lot of creamy skin a breath away from his face. The long, perfect line of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone—on any other woman, he’d be unable to resist the urge to map a trail of kisses along it. Gib gripped the edges of his chair. Hard. And thanked God he’d spread a napkin over his lap. Otherwise she’d see about eight rock-solid inches of wholly unsuitable reaction to her proximity tenting his trousers. Now that he’d acknowledged—just for tonight—his attraction to her, the intensity of it overwhelmed him.

  “Now close your eyes, or the dance is over.”

  What did she have planned? Closing his eyes, he tipped his head against the high, tufted chair back and waited. A droplet of liquid hit the seam of his lips, and Gib flicked out his tongue to catch it. The rich darkness of wine swirled with spices warmed his taste buds. The feel of her finger grazing the tip of his tongue shot heat straight to his cock. Gib’s eyes flew open.

  “Tastes good,” he said.

  Daphne smiled, a Mona Lisa smile, both innocent and mysterious. Then she dipped her finger back in the wineglass and rubbed it against his lips once more. “Does it taste like lust?”

  It tasted like eight kinds of trouble. Like there should be sirens blaring and red lights flashing. “Tastes more like Christmas, I’d say.” He sat up straight again, and she slid back onto her chair. Now he had space to breathe without inhaling the citrus scent of her. The scent as bright as her hair, and as cheerful as her smile. She so rarely wore perfume, not wanting to conflict with the aromas of all her flowers at work. Gib always noticed when she spritzed herself with the sunny scent. “But I wouldn’t want to pass judgment without its proper food pairing.”

  “Good point. Let’s try everything once, make our notes for Mira and then we can go back to our favorites.”

  “Did you pre-snack or something? This is dinner. I’m eating everything in sight, favorite or not.” He grabbed the nearest plate. Pushing Daphne to pretend-seduce him might have been a bit wrongheaded. This evening was supposed to be nothing more than a bit of playacting. There’d been no way to anticipate Daphne actually turning him on. Whatever she set her mind to, she accomplished. He’d always admired that mix of bullheadedness and perseverance in her.

  “Here we’ve got goat cheese drizzled with honey on a baguette. ‘Honey was used by the Egyptians as a cure for impotence. Medieval honeymooners drank honeyed wine to sweeten their marriage.’”

  “I don’t care how good it tastes. Mira can’t use this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Being forced to think about impotence and marriage in the middle of foreplay demolishes a man’s amorous intentions. You might as well stick his dick into a bucket of ice.” He jammed a piece of bread into his mouth. Once you overlooked the description, the flavors melted together into an amalgam of sweet, creamy tanginess.

  “Why are men so allergic to the slightest mention of marriage?”

  “Why are women so single-minded about the topic?”

  Daphne popped a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed slowly. “Mmm, that’s good.” It almost came out a purr. Did she do that on purpose? Make sexy noises over a simple, three-bloody-ingredient hors d’oeuvre? Was her end goal now to drive him stark-raving mad with desire? Damned if he’d let her take the upper hand.

  Picking up the goblet, Gib drank deeply, taking a moment to switch gears. He’d ease off the sexual throttle for now, let her get comfortable with him again, and then he’d go in for the kill. What topic could clear the tension from the room? Ah, nothing would relax her more than talking about her great passion in life.

  “I see you’ve got a new arrangement on the table.” Gib took another sip, then waved his hand at the low centerpiece. “Tell me about these flowers. Do they have a hidden meaning?”

  “Yes. Not that all my arrangements do. The language of flowers isn’t that vast.”

  “There’s no flower that says I had a crappy day and really need a glass of wine?”

  “Much like Latin, I’m afraid it’s a dead language.”

  “You should think about changing that. Imagine how much extra you could charge for carnations if you convinced people they were the official sorry you lost your cell phone for the fifth time flower.”

  Daphne chortled and popped another fig. “Gibson Moore, you are a marketing genius. I swear, your talents are wasted at that hotel.”

  “As long as they pay me well enough, I’m good with
the status quo. So, these flowers?” he prompted.

  “I had some orange lilies in the shop left over from the wedding at the Cavendish. And orange lilies just happen to signify desire and passion. With our plans to attack romance head-on tonight, I was compelled to bring them home. But lilies stuffed all alone in a vase either look like a funeral or Easter. So I made a nest for them out of balsam pine boughs, signifying ardent love. The frilly green stuffed in between the blossoms is coriander, for lust. I know it’s silly. But I have fun with it.”

  “How’d you even find out about such a dead language?”

  “My mother.”

  “Was she a florist, too?”

  “No, just desperate to find a way to cheer me up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “School didn’t go so well for me at first. My teachers, and my parents, swore I was smart, but I couldn’t do the simplest things. Luckily, it didn’t take too many years for them to figure out I had dyslexia.”

  He couldn’t believe she hadn’t revealed that in all the years they’d known each other. Gib never would’ve guessed. His respect for her as a businesswoman, already sky-high, shot up into the stratosphere. “Wow, I had no idea.”

  “Good. That means that years of practice and frustration paid off. There’s no cure, but if you work hard enough, you can figure out ways around it. Tough going at the start, though. Just because you’re diagnosed doesn’t mean there’s a magic pill to fix it. I still felt like the stupidest person in the room most of the time. I was angry, and I was a handful. My mom talked to my tutor, my teacher, my therapist, but they all just said everything would work out in time. That’s when Mom remembered hearing about a flower language. We learned it together. I was so thrilled there was an entire vocabulary without words. Within days I memorized it by rote. And got the self-confidence boost I needed to start to make real progress.”