Friends to Lovers (2 page)

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.

“It’s time for the bouquet toss. I’ll be with Diwata. You two need to herd the single ladies toward the center of the dance floor.”

Gib rubbed his hands together with the untempered glee of Scrooge McDuck contemplating a pile of gold doubloons. “My pleasure. Nice of you to put all the available eye candy together for me. As a man, I appreciate one-stop shopping.”

Daphne reminded herself that the inner Gib was far different from the playboy exterior he so meticulously maintained. The real Gib rarely worked less than a sixty-hour week. Loyal beyond measure to his friends, he also bent over backward to help his staff with any personal crises. He did play fast and loose with women, but exercised great caution doing so at any Cavendish events. Daphne reminded herself of these things to keep from kneeing him in the ’nads when he made such idiotic comments.

“Go on. Take care of the bride. We’ll do the rest.” She shooed Ivy away. The DJ, a friend who’d worked with Aisle Bound enough to know Ivy’s predilection for timeliness, made the announcement at almost the same moment. Good. No time alone with Gib. Laughing, shrieking girls launched themselves onto the dance floor. Right on the edge, Daphne and Gib were caught up in it, unable to do more than be pushed into the center.

“God, it’s like a rugby scrum,” Gib shouted.

“Except that I imagine girls smell much better.”

“You forget, I went to a private boarding school deep in the English countryside. The only things we smelled of were old money and dry rot.” That broke the snarling tension between them, and they both laughed.

See? Gib was funny. So much fun to hang with, and tease. Why couldn’t they just be good friends? Why did she have this stupid crush, as impossible to remove as her own shadow? Life would be so much easier if she wasn’t always on guard, always braced against the onslaught of his charm and good looks. If only her hormones didn’t go into overdrive every time their thighs brushed when they sat on a couch. If she didn’t discard men faster than a losing hand at a poker table because none of them were Gibson Moore.

She reached for him, almost caught the crisp edge of his French cuff to pull him out of the throng. Then all the lights went off. Oddly enough, the noise stopped, too. As if everyone held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Having studied the schedule, Daphne knew the lights shouldn’t be off. No weather to speak of outside, unless you wanted to cuss a blue streak at the temperature hovering right above zero. Something had probably gone wrong at the breaker box. Any minute now a waiter would backtrack through the darkness into the bowels of the building to get a message to a custodian. Meanwhile, other waiters would break out emergency light sticks and pass them out to the guests. The glowing green-and-purple tubes would only add to the festive mood.

The professional part of Daphne knew all this. Aisle Bound planned for every eventuality, and had contingency upon contingency in place. She also knew she had at least two solid minutes of pure blackout. Two minutes, in the dark, with Gibson Moore. This could be her only shot. Who needed the magic of midnight? She’d steal her New Year’s kiss right now.

Daphne pushed her way closer as her hand moved up his arm. Light wasn’t necessary. She’d stared at Gib for endless hours, memorizing the contours of his face, the shape of his body. Once everything lined up, she framed his face in her palms. On tiptoe, she closed her eyes. And dove in.

The first brush of her lips against his was light, questioning. Oh so soft. Timid. As if with the mere touch, she’d open her eyes to discover it was all a dream. But why waste the moment with hesitancy? He feathered back a kiss, as delicate as the breath he’d blown on her neck earlier. It was all the green light she needed.

To brace herself, she slid her hands down, digging her fingers around his broad shoulders. Daphne slid her tongue along the crease of his lips. They opened, eagerly, she’d like to think. Gib’s hands came up, fingers thrusting into her hair, thumbs caressing her cheeks. She’d begun the kiss, but he owned it. He learned the shape of her mouth, tasting, then plundering the inside. Each sweep of his tongue pushed a sweep of warmth deeper into her body. Every nip, every deep, wet incursion that stood every nerve ending in her mouth up at attention led her to surge closer. To press against his rock-hard muscles, and something even harder which pressed back against her stomach in obvious appreciation.

Bodies still crowded around them. A buzz of worry spread through the room. Daphne focused solely on the sound of a low moan rumbling in Gib’s throat. At twenty-nine, she didn’t dispute she’d not only had sex before, but had her fair share of great sex before. But she’d never been turned inside out into a puddle of sensation with only a kiss. Lost herself to the intricate mating of two mouths, joining. Stirring and pulling sensations from all her senses to create a giant pool of hot, raw lust.

Without conscious thought, Daphne lifted her right leg to wrap around his calf, twining them closer. God, she wanted to cover him like a vine, leaving no inch untouched. And then, she knew without a doubt, Gib would make her unfurl like a blossom opening to the brilliance of the sun. She would open to his heat and—

“Ladies and gentlemen, please stay where you are. Cavendish staff members will bring out emergency lights momentarily while they work to resolve the problem.” The DJ’s calm announcement quieted the crowd. His microphone and sound system were working. Hotel power must be on, which meant some idiot had managed to hit the kill switch for the entire light panel. They’d come back on any second. With a last, lingering pull on his lower lip, Daphne disentangled herself from Gib. And nearly keeled right over. Thank goodness for the crush of women around her, jostling forward and holding her up.

Being on the receiving end of a kiss by Gibson Moore was a powerful thing, indeed. The end result? Not much different from running a marathon (or so she imagined, because really, she saw no reason to run that many miles. Unless she was being chased by pitchfork-wielding villagers, or to nab the last doughnut in a fifty-mile radius.). Knees buckled, heart both racing and palpitating, breathing heavily, Daphne could barely think for the sheer joy of it.

In a harsh barrage, every bank of lights came back on at once. Blinking, Daphne locked her gaze on to Gib. Mouth open, eyes glazed, he looked as dazed as she felt. Not bad. She’d happily take credit for rocking his world. Gib spun in a circle, arms outstretched. Then, in a move completely out of his fastidious character, he spiked his fingers through his hair. He tugged at it manically while he spun around again the other way, head swiveling back and forth. Finally, he spotted Daphne. A smile burst across his face. Brusquely, with the barest minimum of civility, he pushed aside the two women between them.

“Daphne, oh my God. It was wonderful. No, she was wonderful. Simply enchanting. The best kiss I’ve ever had.” His blue eyes burned, slightly unfocused and wild. “You’ve got to help me find her.”

The compliments were nice. A huge relief, actually. Thank goodness the earth had moved for him, too. Finally, after all these years, now he’d see her as more than a pal. Now Daphne could safely admit her true feelings, how much she adored him. As soon as Gib stopped swiveling his head like an owl, frantically sweeping the room with that blue-flame stare of his. “Who are you looking for?”

“The woman who just kissed me. I swear, if it takes kissing every woman in this room, including the bride’s ninety-year-old grandmother, I will. I’ve got to find her.” Gib dug his fingers into her arm. “You were next to me, right? Did you see who it was? Will you help me find her?”

Her heart dropped, shattering into a million pieces. Crap. In Gib’s mind, it was more likely that a ninety-year-old seated clear across the room kissed him into oblivion, than one of his closest friends standing right next to him? She’d just kissed him inside freaking out, and he still couldn’t imagine for a single instant that
she
might’ve been the one to do it? Couldn’t think of her as anything more than a sister? Forget making the short list. He hadn’t even bothered to put her on the list of possible kissers?

Daphne wanted to scream. Well, she really wanted to grab him by the collar and kiss him again. This time with his eyes open, so there’d be no doubt who had stirred him up. Then pour a pitcher of ice cubes down his pants for insulting her. For not including her. For not thinking she was woman enough.

Yup, working on New Year’s Eve sucked. And that naked, fat-ass Cupid would probably still be laughing at the epic backfire of her stupid, reckless stunt in six weeks on Valentine’s Day. Daphne glanced at her watch. In half an hour, she’d face down midnight alone, not kissing anyone, and feeling less desirable, twice as foolish and more alone than when the night started. Happy New Year? Not even close.

Chapter Two

All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today

~
Indian proverb

Nose buried deep in the bag of cinnamon hazelnut coffee beans, Daphne inhaled. Usually the sweet, rich scent perked her up with a single whiff. Or at least enough to fill the carafe with water and jab at the on button. Not today, though. Not on freaking New Year’s Day—the day when you were supposed to do everything the way you wanted it to go the rest of the year. The trouble with working until the ass crack of night was that morning still came, just as early as ever. Lack of sleep, even a desperate need for sleep, never postponed the unrelenting dawn. Guess this meant three hundred and sixty-five days of unrelenting exhaustion lay ahead of her. Or that coffee’s magical rejuvenating powers wouldn’t have an effect on her this year. Woo hoo.

Going back to bed wasn’t an option. Her guests could knock at her apartment door any second. Using the microwave as a makeshift mirror, Daphne contemplated her reflection. She’d twirled her hair into a messy topknot to keep it out of the way. Two layers of concealer didn’t begin to disguise the dark circles under her eyes, big enough to deserve their own zip code. On the plus side, hitting the after-Christmas sales had netted her the snazzy, deep apricot warm-up suit. Paired with a push-up bra with the jacket zipped to just below her breasts, it showed off her assets in a way guaranteed to jump-start a man faster than a triple shot of espresso. The fuzzy Tigger slippers that completed her ensemble? Well, they
were
orange. Not sexy, but they matched, and more importantly, put a smile on her face with every step.

To heck with Gibson Moore. If he couldn’t see her as a viable possibility for last night’s kiss of the century, well...the lips reflected in the microwave door pushed down and out into a pout. Who was she kidding? Putting herself on display for Ben and Sam to politely ogle this morning wouldn’t change anything. Their friendly, respectful appreciation wouldn’t take the blinders off his eyes.

Sure, it’d put a bandage on her bruised ego. But when she finally ripped off that bandage, Daphne would still be the woman who’d tossed and turned all night. Who couldn’t sleep a wink after participating in the best kiss of her life. Okay, maybe the element of reckless naughtiness amped it up a little, but Daphne knew most of the credit belonged to Gib. For years, she’d secretly imagined how epically wonderful a kisser Gib would be. This was one case of ignorance truly being bliss. Because now that she’d experienced firsthand the leading edge of his bedroom talent—well—he’d laid on her the kind of kiss that ruined a girl for anyone else. Ever. When your dreams simultaneously came true and went horribly askew, what could be next?

Ben burst through the front door without bothering to knock. “Is there coffee?” He brushed back his sexily-too-long blond hair. In jeans and a Cubs sweatshirt Sam had given him for Christmas, he looked as grouchy as a bear awakened halfway through hibernating season. “Because Ivy only dragged me out of bed with the understanding there would be vats of coffee here. And something to hop me up on sugar, too.”

Ivy bit her lip. “Sorry. Lack of sleep apparently wipes out all of Ben’s memory where manners are stored.” Still, she ran a loving hand over his back. “I don’t live here anymore, remember? You can’t still barge in without knocking. What if Daphne was in here, strutting around half-naked with a guy?”

“You really think mentioning the possibility of seeing a gorgeous girl half-naked is an incentive to
start
knocking?” Ben lurched forward to swing Daphne in a circle, ending with a dip that had her bent backward over his leg. “What man wouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of this knockout pulling a Lady Godiva impersonation? After all, what’s a little nudity between friends?”

Daphne clutched tightly at his neck. Ben sported impressive biceps from his years spent hauling around video cameras. Still, she did have an unholy addiction to sweets that might push him past his limit. Flattening her ass by landing on it didn’t sound like any fun. “Please. You’re so besotted with Ivy, you wouldn’t notice if I stripped naked and did a hula dance with flaming batons in both hands.”

On the heels of her teasing words, the rest of her friends tumbled through the open door. They promptly stopped at the sight of Daphne in Ben’s arms. To cap it off, his movement was enough to loose her hair from its topknot. It swung down to brush the floor. Daphne’s eyes skittered to Gib. He wore, what was for him, supremely casual attire of a cashmere sweater over an oxford shirt, slacks and a thoroughly bemused expression.

“Maybe I misunderstood the American take on this holiday. I thought that last night was supposed to be the debauched party. Free rein to drink to excess, grope at will and kiss anyone at the stroke of midnight? But then New Year’s Day was merely about recovery and football. Did I get the order wrong?”

Five seconds in the door and he’d mentioned kissing already. How was she supposed to not think about those sensational seconds of lip-lock if he kept bringing it up? And it would’ve been nice for an iota of jealousy to darken his eyes at seeing her in Ben’s arms. So what if that would’ve only happened on the unlikely chance he’d had a revelation that Daphne was his mystery kisser? It was unlikely, not impossible. A girl could dream, right? Or was she just steeping herself deeper in misery by continuing to hope?

Ben popped her back to vertical. “Nah, you can still keep your green card. You got it right. But it does sort of make me wonder how you Brits celebrate.”

“Mostly the same, although we do open the door at the stroke of midnight to let the old year out. And don’t think you can distract me from the burning question of why you and Daphne were embracing. I think this is a story we’d all like to hear.”

“Question for the men.” He beckoned Sam and Gib forward with a crook of his finger. “All things being equal, if you knew you had a shot at catching Daphne without any clothes on, would that make you more or less inclined to knock before entering?”

Sam ran a hand through his thick, dark hair with a sheepish look back at his fiancée. Mira laughed. Uncrossing her arms from the front of her blue cashmere sweater, she gestured for him to go ahead. “I can’t wait to hear your answer.”

“As a card-carrying, red-blooded man, I appreciate any chance to observe a beautiful woman. Especially when naked. And every woman in this apartment is beautiful.”

Gib clapped slowly, with overly big waves of his arms. “Oh, well done. You skirted the minefield and dropped a compliment. Have you been going to charm school in your spare time, Sam?”

“Just inspired, I guess.” He shot Mira a look so drenched in love that it took Daphne’s breath away. The hollow feeling left behind in her diaphragm reminded her of the brunch items cooling by the minute on the counter.

“Grab a seat anywhere,” she ordered. Was it silly and schoolgirlish to hope that there’d be room for her to sit down next to Gib? Stupid. Their kiss hadn’t changed anything. He’d made that very clear. She’d grab a pillow and sit on the floor. And be happy about it, damn it. “There’s coffee and hot cocoa, both spiked and non, since most of us were too busy working last night to get our drink on.”

Ben licked his lips. “I’m a big fan of cocoa, and the peppermint schnapps is inspired. But Ivy mentioned there was more to this than just a recovery breakfast?”

Oh, yes. The memory was like a cloud darkening her normally sunny heart. Daphne shifted from one foot to the other. She hated being the focus of attention, even amid friends. Caught an encouraging smile from Ivy and launched forward with the recitation that never grew less painful, no matter how many times she gave it.

“Let me catch the new people up to speed. In exactly fifteen minutes, the Rose Parade will start.”

Mira wrinkled her brow, thought for a moment. “Floats, flowers and marching bands, right?”

Plucking the drawstring at her waist, Daphne nodded. No matter how many years passed, this story would never be an easy one to tell. “That’s the one. My mother adored flowers, and helped decorate the floats when she was in high school. It was always a crazy week, sticking petals and seeds on for twelve hours a day or more. But she said it was a week spent in heaven, because she ate, breathed and slept flowers. So once she moved out here to go to Northwestern, she still watched the parade every year.”

“You can take the girl out of California, but not the California out of the girl,” mused Gib. He tossed his parka onto the growing pile on the coat tree.

“Exactly.” She smiled, remembering her mother diligently squirting lemon juice over her blond hair on May 1, no matter how cold, and sitting in the sun to “rinse out winter.” “But not everyone in the Midwest thought it was as big a deal. So to talk my dad into three hours of watching flowers roll by at five miles an hour, she always bribed him with a big brunch.”

“With the legendary cranberry cinnamon rolls.” Gib patted his stomach and sighed. Daphne tried not to wonder if he made that same sigh when being licked like a man-sicle. “I swear, no disrespect, mate, but they’re better than the ones at Lyons.”

Sam feinted a right hook. “I’d punch you in the arm for that insult, if it wasn’t so true. Ben, I know you’ve got a dedicated sweet tooth. These cinnamon rolls will make your eyes roll back in your head.”

“It grew into a big family tradition. All four of my brothers would sit, trying to pretend they weren’t spellbound, as long as they could shovel more rolls in their mouths. And when she died—” Her voice caught, just for a second. Years had passed, but the pain somehow could still spike as fresh as the day it happened.

Ivy put an arm around her waist, then leaned her head over to rest on Daphne’s. “Do you need a tissue?”

“Tissues only treat the symptom. A shot of vodka, now that would cure the problem,” Ben suggested with a nod of sage wisdom.

Daphne sniffed. No crying allowed. This was supposed to be a happy morning. Bad enough she’d moistened her pillow over Gib already today. “It wasn’t my idea, that first year. Dad disappeared into the kitchen on New Year’s Eve. After about an hour he came out and begged me to help. Tears in his eyes, covered in flour from head to toe. He’d wanted to surprise all of us with the rolls, as a way to keep the memory of Mom with us. Cooking wasn’t really his strong suit, though. We’d been living on takeout and spaghetti in the four months since she’d died.”

She and her brothers had ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. None of them had believed they’d miss having Mom insist on a salad with their meat loaf, or get tired of eating burgers and fries. But even teenagers had limits. The older boys started eating at their girlfriends’ houses most nights, and the family van slowly grew a carpet of wrappers and unused ketchup packets.

“Dad remembered that I’d always helped Mom roll them out the night before, and hoped I could figure out where he’d gone wrong. I’ve made them every year since. And it did help. We cried a bit that first year—all of us—but as the years went by, even after my brothers went off to college, they made sure to be home to watch the parade. It’s harder now that they have families. Dad started spending New Year’s in Minneapolis with Nick and his first set of grandbabies. So I keep the tradition going, with my extended family—all of you.”

Dampness sparkled in Mira’s eyes. “Well, that’s a thoroughly beautiful story. I think I’m too choked up to be able to swallow.”

“Then you’re missing out. Dry up the waterworks by the time the parade starts, or I’m eating your share,” Gib threatened.

His lighthearted tone erased Daphne’s own melancholy. “Don’t worry. I expanded the menu a bit this year. Nobody’s going hungry.” She carried the last tray over from the kitchen counter to the oval coffee table.

“There’s an egg and ham casserole, brown-sugar bacon, sausages, fruit salad with a lime and yogurt sauce, ginger-carrot muffins, and, of course, the famous cranberry cinnamon rolls. Oh, and a pitcher of Bloody Marys, along with the coffee and hot chocolate.”

After gaping at her for a second, Gib bowed with a dramatic flourish. “You are a kitchen goddess.”

Daphne wanted to stomp her foot at the nice compliment. She’d far prefer to hold out for a compliment on her bedroom skills. Would rather make him drool with lust than with actual hunger.

Ben hustled into the living room to peruse the heaping platters. Sam followed him like a hound dog flushing prey. “Yeah, this is a fantastic spread. You really hit it out of the park this time, Daph.”

Ivy, on the other hand, didn’t budge. Instead, she fisted her hands on her hips and scowled. Her stern demeanor was at odds with the festive look of her pink-and-white polka-dot sweater topping fuchsia skinny jeans. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Most of the time you subsist on pizza and pb&js. Trust me, I paid close attention while I was your roommate. Your indomitable metabolism freaks me out and infuriates me.”

Mira nodded. “Every time you eat cookies all day long and not gain a pound? It’s like you’re giving women everywhere the middle finger. So not fair.”

Ivy held her ground. “You only cook this much when you’re stressed out. There’s enough food here for at least a dozen people. Come on, you know I’m just going to pester you until you tell me.”

Nope. No reason to share last night’s humiliation with her friends. Their sympathy would only get her all churned up again. Daphne needed to
not
think about Gib and his lips. They were friends. Best friends. As close as siblings. And it was eight kinds of ooky to think about craving the lips of an almost-brother. Or so she kept telling herself. “Pester away. But you’ll waste your breath. I’m fine. We’re a bigger crowd this year now that Ben and Mira are part of our circle. Just thought I’d throw a real brunch like a grown-up. You know, start the year off right.”

“Uh-huh.” Clearly unconvinced, Ivy gave her the stink eye for another moment, then moved into the living room.

Interrogation averted, Daphne grabbed her mug of minty cocoa. She posed in front of the holly-and-pine-framed fireplace, arm raised. “I’d like to make a toast. To my mother, Shelly Lovell, who I miss every day. And to all of you, for making the supreme sacrifice of crawling out of bed before noon to share my little tradition. Happy New Year.”