Friends to Lovers (25 page)

“That’s your apology?”

“I apologized already. But I’ll do it again, if you need a repeat. I’m sorry about what happened today. I’m sorry this big bad news came out of nowhere and crashed into you. Doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. You’re Gibson Moore. You’ve got this town wired. You’ve got connections all across the country. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s you.” Daphne cocked her head to the side and beamed at him. “Forgive me now?”

Of course he did. But Gib didn’t want to let her know how easily he rolled over at one of her smiles. Daphne had his heart wrapped in a bow around her little finger. No reason to give her any more of an upper hand by letting her know that, though. “I’m not finished being angry. Not by a long shot.”

“I understand.” Dipped her head to the opposite side, with another smile that was like high beams on his heart. “Forgive me now?”

“How about we agree you acted without malice, and leave it at that?”

“Not good enough. Look, you’re going to forgive me. And in case you really do only have two weeks here, you might as well stop wasting time and do it now.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

“Then I suppose so.” Gib gave himself up to the distraction of her kisses. While trying not to think about being marooned a bloody ocean away from her.

Chapter Fourteen

A
flower cannot blossom without sunshine
,
and man cannot live without love

~
Max Muller

“Love the flowers, boss,” said Milo. “Filling the martini glasses with balls of those white flowers—”

“Chrysanthemums. The official flower of our great city.” Daphne didn’t bother to look up from the burgundy depths of her Shiraz. It was rare that she both worked an event and attended it as a guest. The novelty of pseudo-drinking on the job, even though she’d finished placing all the flowers an hour ago, made her savor every sip. “Geez, Milo, you signed the invoice for them. Don’t you pay attention?”

“They’re white and they smell spicy. What else do I need to know? Anyhoo, it plays up the martini bars at each end of the room. Or so I just heard the Style editor from the
Chicago Trib
say. Maybe we’ll get a mention in tomorrow’s paper. Well done.”

This was the perfect time of year for extra good publicity. All the brides who got engaged at Christmas and New Year’s were about to start planning. Having Aisle Bound uppermost in their minds couldn’t hurt. Frankly, it was the reason they’d taken this gig. Notorious cheapskates,
Windy City
magazine balked at paying their normal rates. They’d compromised by promising Daphne a mention in their multipage spread of the party in the February issue.

“Thanks. This was a tough one.” With such a low budget, she’d been tempted to use carnations, the cheapest flower known to man. And only used on homecoming floats. “A party to honor the city’s hottest bachelors doesn’t really scream out for flowers.”

“What did you want to use for centerpieces? Deodorant, and a stick of beef jerky in a beer mug?”

“We are so on the same wavelength. That was totally my first instinct,” she mocked. “Or the classic fishbowls full of condoms.”

“In the spirit of public safety, those should probably be handed out at the exit.” Milo came around the high-top table, hand outstretched. “How bad is the wine? Give me a taste.”

Daphne stared at him. Wondered if today was prank-your-boss day. Because there could be no rational excuse for the way Milo looked. “Holy Mother of God, what are you wearing?”

“You like?” He gave a spin. The green plaid kilt flew up, and Daphne quickly averted her eyes. Some things could never, ever be unseen. “It’s Scottish Highland Dress. A Prince Charlie jacket, black tie and a kilt.

She didn’t care what he called it. Every other man in the room had on pants. Daphne didn’t realize that particular dress code choice had apparently been open to interpretation. “You’re wearing a skirt.”

“Don’t you dare get judgy.” He waved his hand at the crowd in the packed brick Museum of Contemporary Art Warehouse. “Look at all these women strutting their stuff. Skintight dresses to show off their waists. Cleavage that’ll expose their nipples if somebody sneezes. Airing their attributes for all the hot bachelors to ogle. Well, my best feature happens to be my legs. Why shouldn’t I show them off?” He waggled a knee-sock-covered calf in the air.

Daphne smothered a giggle. “So you expect to pick up a guy tonight? Wearing that?”

He fig-leafed his hands and gave her a look of pitying condescension. “Sweetie, you don’t actually think they’re all straight, do you? Percentage wise, I’ve probably got a far better chance than you of scoring tonight. That is, if you were still single. If you weren’t already going home with the hands-down yummiest man in the room.”

Trust Milo to pick off the emotional scab, jab a fork in the wound and then squeeze lemon juice over it. “Gib’s not what I’d call a slam dunk.”

“Why not? I thought you said he’d forgiven you for wrecking his life.” He blinked at her, pretending—it could be nothing but sarcastic pretense—the question was wholly innocent.

Daphne glared at him. Milo might be
her
office manager, but evidently he was first and foremost Gib’s friend and roommate. “Shut up. I didn’t do anything. He assessed the situation and made a reasoned choice, in which I was merely tangentially involved.”

“What a mouthful of crap. Did you find a rent-a-lawyer to write up that excuse for you?”

“Of course not.” Maybe Ivy’s marriage-counselor mother had stopped by to take them to lunch. Just maybe, the whole story had played out over chicken pot pie at the Walnut Room in Macy’s. And then, out of love and solidarity for Daphne, Mrs. Rhodes had used her quarter century of experience to squarely lob the guilt ball back into Gib’s court. No reason to explain it to Milo. “This has nothing to do with Gib’s possible—not at all guaranteed—relocation.”

“Then what gives? I’d expect him to be eager to squeeze in as much nooky as possible with you before he’s deported.” Another look of as much faux innocence as Charles Manson at his parole hearings. “I mean, before he leaves.”

There’d be plenty of time for Milo to snipe at her after that black day. For now, she needed his reassurance. “Like you said, look at all these women. You know Gib likes to play the field. Run the board.” She’d been watching him for at least half an hour. Since the moment he walked in the door, Gib had been surrounded by a bright bouquet of women. Sure, there were twenty-four of Chicago’s other hottest bachelors in the room. But he was the cover boy. The star attraction. The prize everyone wanted to claim.

He’d dressed to play the part, in white tie and tails complete with a silk-fringed scarf. Gib looked debonair. Rakish. Sexy. Doable. Daphne had boutonnieres for all the bachelors. Cute little clusters of white ranunculus with waving loops of beach grass. But her chances of getting within ten feet of Gib were about as good as her shot of tiptoeing through a rugby scrum. And she hated that he’d made her learn enough about rugby to even know that analogy.

“Look again at those women around him.” Milo nudged her shoulder when she rolled her eyes. “No, I mean really look.”

“At what? Their expensively streaked hair? The sexy dresses that cost more than my rent?”

“Gib’s not flirting with them.”

Daphne almost snorted her wine right out her nose. “Right. That’s about as likely as me sprouting fairy wings. Or you deciding you want to try out women for the night.”

“Bite your tongue.” Milo shuddered. “I’m serious. He’s chatting them up, because that’s who he is. But watch him for a minute. Gib isn’t touching any of the women.”

She hadn’t noticed. But now, looking over, Daphne saw him in what she jokingly called his princely stance: both hands tucked behind his back. “So?”

“He’s always been about the casual, sneak invasion of a woman’s body. A stroke down the arm. Arm around the waist in a teasing hug that stays there. Dancing his fingers across a hand until suddenly they’re intertwined. Going in for a cheek peck that ends up as an ear nip.”

“You planning to write a how-to manual? The Consummate Flirt, explained?”

“I could never begin to explain the surreal effect he’s got on women. Gib’s Kryptonite to women’s panties. He’s like the sexified Pied Piper of babes and bimbos. No offense.”

One more crack from him tonight and she’d definitely take offense. Or at least refill her wineglass. And by refill, Daphne meant upgrading to a couple shots of tequila. “As long as I fall into the first category of babes and not bimbos, we’re okay.”

Milo downed the rest of her Shiraz. “We’ve lived together for years. Gone out to bars, to parties. Can’t help but notice his M.O. You know, the way you notice and blather on about whatever it is that makes the Bears’ quarterback special. The touching is a major part of Gib’s action. It makes women feel attractive. Appreciated.”

Yes. Yes, it did. “Aren’t you the armchair shrink?”

“I dabble.” His tone was uncharacteristically serious. “I observe people, so I can understand them better. Every problem can be broken down to how two people did or didn’t relate. I try to equip myself so that I can relate to anybody.”

Every once in a while, the fluorescent-bright exterior candy coating Milo cloaked himself in slipped away. And the genuine, introspective, caring center was a marvel to behold. “I’ll take your word that he’s dialed back the flirt-o-meter for the night. But he’s still surrounded. I’ve made two trips to the cheese display, scored a handful of stuffed mushrooms from the waiter and demolished the fancy party mix.” She nudged the tiny, empty glass bowl in the center of the table. Right next to her carefully placed bud vase with a single tulip spearing out of it.

“Aside from your apparent allergy to good nutrition, what’s your point?”

“I’ve been waiting for him. Gib doesn’t seem to be interested in hanging out with me tonight.”

“Are you kidding? He’s glanced over here half a dozen times since we started talking. Trust me, he wants an out. Why don’t you give him an excuse?”

“How?”

Milo tapped the edge of her glass. “Head over to the bar. Slowly.” He pointed to the opposite side of the room. “Gib will have you on missile lock before you get halfway. Especially if you put an extra swish in your step. You know, the way I walk.”

“You’d better be right,” she warned. And then concentrated on putting one foot directly in front of the other. Daphne had a fuzzy memory of Scarlett O’Hara explaining that was how to make a hoop skirt twitch. When Milo grilled her later, she wanted to be able to honestly say she’d given it the old college try.

She skirted around the edge of the runway. Low urns overflowing with white tulips lined both sides of it. Daphne hoped that when the bachelors strutted their stuff down it, none of the urns would end up being accidentally punted across the room.

A warm hand settled at her waist. Gib fell into step with her. “Why’s the most beautiful woman in the room walking away from me?”

Milo’s utter rightness filled her with relief. And peeved her to no end. “To get you to walk toward me, of course.”

“It worked. Gave me an excuse to break free. I must’ve tried twenty times to come see you, but the magazine’s publicist kept me on a tight leash. Frustrated the bloody hell out of me not to be able to talk to the one person I most wanted to.” He brushed a light kiss across her cheek. “Fancy a drink?”

“I was just about to get in line.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re with the main attraction.” Gib raised his hand in the air, crooked a finger at seemingly nothing more specific than the glass block windows. “I’ve got someone to do that.”

“To do what?”

“Attend to my needs. And my most pressing need is to make sure you’re properly taken care of, my sweet.” Sure enough, a waiter suddenly appeared at Gib’s elbow, carrying two flutes of champagne. “Thanks, Franco.”

Daphne smiled as she clinked glasses with him. “You’re outrageously spoiled, Viscount Moore.”

“You’re incredibly stunning, Ms. Lovell.”

“Thanks.” Self-conscious, Daphne ran her hand down the winter-white angora sweaterdress. Pearled beading created a collar on the high sweetheart neckline, then bordered each side of the deep plunge in the back. It clung to her like soft and fuzzy Saran wrap. “It was my mom’s.”

Gib paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “Pardon me?”

Hmm. Would he be weirded out? “When my mother died, Dad kept all her clothes in the cedar closet. He thought—hoped—I might want them someday.”

He stared at her for a moment, then ran the backs of his knuckles down her cheek in a soft caress. “That’s lovely.” Gib clinked his glass against hers in a toast. “And quite brave of you to finally take that step.”

“I figured it was time. If I’m going to be seen with you, I needed to step up my game.”

His gaze swept down the length of her body to her gold sandals. Then ogled slowly back up to the loose twists of hair gathered over one shoulder. “Trust me when I say it’s both not necessary, and very, very much appreciated.”

“Are you having a good time tonight?”

“Of course. Great party. Mediocre but limitless wine. Lovely flowers. Interesting people.” But his overly bright words didn’t ring true.

“How are you really doing?”

“I’d be doing a lot better if I hadn’t jammed half my closet into shipping boxes today.”

Panic scrabbled through her brain, as insidious as the terrifying Ceti Eel in
Star Trek II:
The Wrath of Khan.
She’d just watched the movie with Gib last week, and had nightmares about the stupid creature for three nights running. The thought of him leaving, however, had woken her up in a cold sweat last night. He couldn’t go. No way would he let a little thing like corporate guidelines determine his future. They’d find a way around it. They had to. “You can’t pack already. There’s still time for this situation to work itself out.”

“You’re right. Frankly, I should’ve come to you straight off, seeing as how you set this nightmare train on the rails. The solution’s right in front of me. Daphne, give me a reason to stay.” Gib dropped to one knee. Then he grabbed her hand. “Will you marry me?”

Somehow, in the last few seconds, a giant vacuum must’ve been installed at the museum doors. Because something sure as heck sucked all the room out of the air. She looked down at her best friend. Her gorgeous, sexalicious, dreamboat of a best friend. And felt all the cheese and wine she’d ingested clawing their way back up her throat in disgust at his words. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He rose to his feet. “Unless, of course, you’re willing to entertain the notion.”

“That’s not funny.” Daphne wasn’t as bad as Ivy when it came to dreaming about striding down the aisle under a veil. Especially not since her mom died. She hadn’t spent years imagining the color of her wedding dress or picked out her colors. Maybe she’d spared a few thoughts as to what flowers would be nice at her own wedding, but that was purely professional mental meandering. But she had held out a hope—no, a not unreasonable expectation—that her first proposal would be magical. Romantic. Or at least fucking sincere.

Gib brushed off his knee. “I disagree. It’s a win-win situation. I become a citizen...or enough of one to satisfy the Cavendish HR department. You become a viscountess. A title for a green card. Fair trade.”

He was serious. Mind-bogglingly incredible. Could Gib really not see what an insult he’d just offered? Or did he just not care? They surged forward in line as a sextet of bimbettes lurched away from the bar clutching the signature drink. In honor of the men of the hour, it was blue. Daphne was sure it tasted sweet and nauseating. Worse yet, it probably stained everything it touched bright blue, too.