Friends to Lovers (7 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” Her eyes slowly fluttered open.

“You’re her. You’re my mystery New Year’s Eve kiss. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Daphne slid backward off his thighs onto the floor. “Yes. I am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her expression turned defiant, with pursed lips and glowering eyes. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“Are you insane? I spent the entire Rose Parade going on about how much I wanted to find that woman.” He thought of how close he’d come to embarrassing himself all over the internet looking for the woman right in front of him.

“I mean, I didn’t think you’d want to know it was me.” She turned her head, dropped her gaze to the floor.

Gib stood, held out a hand and pulled Daphne to her feet as well. Then he surveyed the room; the chair he’d pushed onto the floor in his haste, the untouched lobster and a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert. And then he looked back at Daphne’s face, now as white as the snow falling in clumps and sticking to the dark windows.

“I have to leave,” said Gib.

Chapter Five

He who wants a rose must respect the thorn

~
Persian proverb

Gib slammed the door of his town house and shook himself like a dog. A thick coating of snowflakes flew onto the floor, the end table, the drapes and the damn white armchair that Milo adored and Gib detested. What good was furniture that you couldn’t sit in to eat? He dropped his briefcase and a white paper sack onto the floor to shrug out of his overcoat.

“You’re home early.” Milo took in the dusting of snow on the green velvet drapes covering the bay window and rushed into action. With the speed of a fireman wielding a hose, Milo whipped the satin sash off of his kimono and used it to brush off each flake. Gib averted his eyes. He didn’t know what his flamboyant roommate wore under the ankle-length blue robe, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Gib let his coat puddle onto the arm of the tufted, burgundy leather sofa. “Taking sex out of the equation makes for a shorter night.”

With a disapproving tsk, Milo picked up the heavy coat and hung it in the closet. “That would be true, if you were with any woman but Daphne. I’ve seen you wander home from her place, bleary-eyed, in the middle of the night after watching a string of horror movies.”

“Movies weren’t on the agenda tonight.” Of course, kissing hadn’t been either. Still shell-shocked, Gib picked up his takeaway bag and walked down the hall to the kitchen.

“I thought dinner was, though. Why do I smell Indian food?”

What would it take to shake his bloodhound of a roommate with a nose for gossip? If he wanted to talk about the implosion of his night, Gib would’ve stayed with Daphne. “I fancied a curry.” He kicked out a white, wooden stool at the breakfast counter to make room. After rolling up his sleeves, Gib pulled out the carton of curry. Then the bag of garlic naan, and cartons of samosas, rice and dal.

“Is Daphne coming over here now?” Milo asked. “There’s certainly enough food for two of you. Probably for all three of us, if you were willing to let me stick my spoon in, too.”

“Get your own damn dinner,” Gib growled.

“Crankypants. You’ve had a burr under your saddle since you walked in the door.” Milo perched on the stool and gasped. “What is that?” He pointed at Gib’s trouser pocket with a shaky finger and a look of terror widening his brown eyes. Saying that Milo had a tendency to overdramatize situations was akin to saying the Pope liked to pray. Or that lingerie models looked good in their underwear.

“Just my tie.”

“But it’s crumpled up, hanging out of your pocket.”

“I shoved it in there earlier.” The moment he’d fled Daphne’s apartment, it got hard to breathe. And his head began to pound so hard he swore he could hear his own blood pressure rising. “Christ, what do you care?”

Milo started to answer. His mouth opened, but then he shut it again. Then he got up and retrieved plates and silverware. Silently, he opened each carton, set two places on the counter and ripped off two paper towels for napkins.

“Thanks.” Gib dug a spoon into the curry. He’d ordered it extra hot, hoping the spices would sear away the lingering sweet flavor of Daphne from his mouth.

“My wonderful roommate, Viscount Gibson Moore, loves clothes almost as much as he loves romancing the ladies. We first bonded over a Ralph Lauren gray cashmere sport coat. Of course, he wanted to wear it over a dress shirt, and I wanted to pair it with a Douglas tartan kilt. Made more of a statement.”

Gib remembered that day. He remembered wondering how crazy you’d have to be to wear a kilt on the streets of Chicago. The two of them had gone out drinking that night, trading the jacket back and forth every time they changed bars. Milo might be a fashion lunatic, but he was also a hell of a lot of fun. Except for when he got on a soapbox, like this.

Working up a good head of steam, Milo came back around and braced one hand on the stool, and the other on the counter. “My roommate has more ties than most women have earrings. He treats his suits with the amount of devotion other men show their dogs.”

Gib heaped rice and dal onto his plate, then mixed everything together. He shoveled in a few bites. At least he didn’t have to worry about being called upon to speak with his mouth full. Though Milo seemed disinclined to let him get a word in edgewise. Not that Gib wanted to talk. The big plan for the rest of the evening was to achieve a food coma as fast as humanly possible, then go to bed.

Milo leaned forward, a hard glint in his flat, brown gaze. “I care when my roommate appears to have undergone a psychotic break. This erratic behavior indicates one of two things. Either the Gib I know has been bodysnatched by an invisible alien, or something is very wrong.” Whipping a cleaver out from behind his back, he brandished it at Gib. “If you are an alien, I’m prepared to defend myself.”

“God, man, put that down.” Despite his foul, mixed-up mood, Gib had to laugh.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. Did you and Daphne have a fight?”

If only. A fight would’ve cleared the air. A fight would’ve been easy. “Quite the opposite.”

“I don’t understand.” Milo lowered the cleaver and hitched himself onto the stool.

“I kissed her. No,” he caught himself. The order mattered. It made all the difference, in fact. “She bloody well kissed me first. On New Year’s Eve.” His fork fell from suddenly numb fingers, clattered against the china plate. “She’s the one.”

“Our Daphne?” Milo hopped off the stool. He paced the length of the kitchen in quick, jerky steps. “Daphne Lovell? My boss? Co-owner of Aisle Bound and florist extraordinaire? Your best pal?”

“Yes to all but the last thing. Since I don’t go around kissing my pals. Christ on a crumpet, now I don’t even know what to call her anymore.”

Milo tugged with both hands at his spiky blond hair, arms akimbo. “I can’t believe she’s your Cinderella. You really had no idea?”

“Of course not.” Never in a million years would he have guessed Daphne would plant one on him in the dark. Why? Did this mean she wanted to screw him? Why now, after all these years as friends? Why then, at the wedding? Anonymously, in the dark? If she wanted to change the status quo, why not own it? “The point is that she didn’t tell me. And then tonight, at the stupid aphrodisiac dinner, one thing led to another.”

Milo froze, hands in hair, mouth working into surprised Os. “You mean the aphrodisiacs actually worked?”

He hesitated, then went with the expected answer. “How could they?” Except, was there any other smoking gun? “I don’t know. I doubt it.” Was it the food, or the game he made out of it? Gib couldn’t entirely say what flicked the switch on his libido. It sure as hell hadn’t been a conscious decision. “I can’t explain it. All I can say is that I kissed her. Once we got into it, I knew.”

“Got into it?” Trust Milo to latch on to the least important piece of information. He jumped back onto his stool with a lascivious grin. “More than a peck, then? A full-blown...what’s that word you tea-and-scone types like to use? Snog?”

Americans. Fought for their independence, and yet more than two hundred years later, were still titillated by all things British. “Yes. We snogged.”

“And then what?”

Gib pushed his plate away. He’d been kidding himself to entertain the notion of eating. The knotted sea serpent of emotion lurching around his stomach left no room for food. “I left.”

“No, before the leaving and after the snogging. What was her reaction?”

Probably would’ve been a good idea to stick around and catalogue it. “You don’t understand. I just up and left. With almost no conversation. It was hideous.”

“Makes sense. Must’ve been a lot to take in.” The empathy and warmth coloring Milo’s voice vanished with a naughty wink. “Realizing that Daphne has girl parts, I mean.”

“She’s not an androgynous robot. I’m quite aware of her womanly aspects.” Now. Now, he was aware of her firm breasts and petal-soft lips and the way the flare of her hips gave him the perfect handhold to steady her on his lap. He’d spent years studiously ignoring all her curves. Some days it had been harder than others, but he’d made a go of it. Never again, though. Gib couldn’t un-see, un-feel her body squirming closer to his, setting off a chain reaction between his heart, his dick and all the nerve endings in between.

“This isn’t a forgettable bad grope in a bar. What’s next?”

“Well, you can have all the curry, for starters.” Gib got up to rummage in the refrigerator for a ginger ale. Wondered when Milo would stop channeling his feminine side and quit talking this thing to death.

“Be serious. Because the situation certainly is.”

Gib walked down the hallway lined with art deco prints, shedding his shirt along the way. Oh, and desperately resisting the urge to sniff the collar and see if any of Daphne’s scent still lingered. To his dismay, Milo didn’t take the hint. Instead, he followed Gib into his bedroom, badgering all the way.

“You and Daphne talk to each other almost every day. You spend oodles of time together. What do you think will happen the next time you see each other? Which, if I remember right, will probably be tomorrow?”

The monthly National Association of Catering Executives meeting. The gathering place for everyone in the wedding industry. With a vicious wrench of each ankle, Gib sent his loafers flying into the corner. He and Daphne always went to the NACE meetings together. They liked to sit in the back and whisper to each other. This month’s speaker was on events. He couldn’t miss it. More to the point, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—hide like a scared schoolboy. “Tomorrow night, yes,” he muttered.

“It’ll be weird.” Milo sat on the black down comforter.

“Undoubtedly.”

“You need a plan.”

“I don’t have one.” How could he come up with a plan when he could barely think? When he did think about the kiss, his dick surged in his shorts. That sort of reaction usually short-circuited thinking. Gib dropped his shirt on the bed. “How about giving me some space?” He glared at Milo, then jerked his head toward the door. It didn’t budge his roommate.

“What would Doc Debra tell you to do?”

Really? Like he didn’t have enough to worry about tonight? Milo might as well ask him to come up with a solution to fossil fuel dependence while he was at it. “Why would you bring her up?”

“She was your shrink for almost six months. Didn’t you go to her to figure out how to deal with your commitment issues?”

If he’d been a vampire, Gib would’ve hissed and bared his fangs. Or as a werewolf he could’ve growled. Hell, even kittens could make their fur stand on end as warning. But the most Gib could do was slam the closet door once he retrieved his slippers shaped like soccer balls. Daphne had given them to him as a joke last Christmas. However, Chicago winters were no joke, and as ridiculous as they looked, he appreciated the warmth.

He spat out the psychobabble line Doc Debra had drummed into him at every appointment. “I don’t have commitment issues. I incurred an emotional trauma in my formative years and am still dealing with the fallout.”

“Potato, potahtoh,” Milo said in a singsong voice. “My way is shorter than saying ‘my family treated me like crap but nobody else can hurt me if I don’t let them get close to me.’ Didn’t the good doctor tell you to start engaging in deeper relationships?”

“Yes.” Over and over and over again. “But I already have a deep relationship with Daphne.”

“That gives you a leg up, doesn’t it?” Milo bounced on the bed with the energy of a toddler. Gib wished he’d bounce right down the hall to his own room. “You need to ask her out on a date.”

“What would we do on a date?”

That stilled his bouncing. “You’re kidding, right? How often do you two go to the movies, or watch sports together, or grab dinner? Aside from missing out on the nervousness, perfume and enough hickeys to turn into a connect-the-dots anatomy lesson, you guys have essentially gone on hundreds of dates already.”

“I’m not sure dating one of my best friends is a good idea.” In fact, it sounded just about as dangerous as juggling running chain saws, or flaming swords. Or both, at the same time.

“You promised Doc Debra you’d try. Before she agreed to cut you loose, you promised to make a stab at a healthy, normal relationship.”

“I obviously tell you too much. Either that, or I talk in my sleep and you listen at the door.” Gib pulled out his pajamas, and then slammed the drawer. And yet again, Milo didn’t take it as an invitation to drop the subject and walk away. The problem with having a really close circle of friends was that as the years slipped by, it became harder to hide any deep, dark secrets. Which meant truths that hit uncomfortably close to home could be lobbed when they were least expected—or wanted.

“Do you ever wonder why I don’t have a serious boyfriend?”

Now that was an easy one. “Because you flit through the clubs like a bee with ADD in a rose garden?”

An uncharacteristically still, expressionless Milo stared back at him. “Don’t be glib. We’re having a sharing moment.”

To his great dismay. “Must we?”

“I’m not like Ivy. I don’t think every man I meet could be ‘The One.’” Milo made air quotes with his fingers. “But I’m constantly looking. I want to find my soul mate. The person who makes me happy, day or night, just by being in my life. The olive in my martini. The guacamole to my tortilla chip. The bun to my—”

Gib held up his hand. “Stop. I get it. You want to find true love. Good for you. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way.”

“I think you do, deep down. You’re just scared. Otherwise you wouldn’t be fighting it so hard. Don’t treat Daphne like a disposable toy. You both deserve better. Ask the girl on a date. If it all goes south and you laugh your way through it, no harm done. But don’t squander this chance. Not everybody gets one.”

Too bad he hadn’t known Milo could be so insightful. Gib wouldn’t have wasted two hours a week for six months with a shrink.

* * *

The dining room at Gulliver’s Pizza and Pub wasn’t very crowded. The ceiling, on the other hand, didn’t have an inch of spare room. Ornate chandeliers, Tiffany style lamps and gilt sconces vied for space. Marble busts sat atop the end cap of each booth. Daphne had no trouble finding her father at a table in the center of the restaurant, holding court.