Friends to Lovers (32 page)

The joke was on him. Gib didn’t matter at all to his parents. They’d chosen Gerald over him from the day they let the doctors go prospecting for a bit of Gib’s liver without so much as a by your leave. “Bully for you.”

“Father’s having another baby. With Clare.”

On complete overload now, Gib barely registered that shocker. “Bully for him.”

Gerald got up, moved to sit right next to Gib. “I want you to talk him out of marrying her.”

This was the reason his life had been upended? Because Gerald didn’t like a potential stepmother? Once again, he’d put his own needs above Gib’s. And damn the consequences. Guess the introspection inherent in getting on the wagon only went so far. “Who am I to avert the course of true love?”

“Bollocks to that.” Gerald slammed his hand on the coffee table. “The only thing he loves are the blow jobs she gives him.”

Gib planted his tongue into his cheek. “Must be slightly more to it than that, or she wouldn’t be pregnant.”

“Very funny.” Gerald braced his palms on his thighs, leaned forward. “Gibson, I need you back in London. Back to dining with Father at the club. Popping in to take him to lunch. Work your way back into his good graces.”

“Can’t go back to something that never existed in the first place.”

He waved away Gib’s objection. “Rubbish. Father’s stubborn. Holds a grudge. But I’m sure he’s missed you all this time. You’re the eldest. His heir. If you make the first move to reconcile, he’ll fall in line.”

“All this just to get your bedroom back?”

“While that would certainly be nice, I’ve a far bigger task for you. If you stop him from marrying that woman, then the new baby won’t be in line to inherit any of the family fortune.”

Whatever kernel of respect Gerald had gained with that touching story of his journey to sobriety evaporated faster than boiling water on a subzero morning. “Seriously. You have it in for a fetus? For God’s sake, I’ve never heard of anything so wholly self-serving.”

“Nonsense.” Gerald cuffed him lightly on the shoulder “This affects you, too. We two have to stick together. Protect what’s rightfully ours.”

Titles and money were the last things Gib cared about getting from his father. Ironically, probably the only things he ever would receive. “Do you think I’m sitting around, hoarding pennies, waiting for Father to die? I’ve my own revenue from the estate. Bloody sheep and alfalfa and crofters.”

“Now that you mention it, could I stay there for a bit?” Gerald’s tone was overly casual. As if asking for nothing more than another cup of tea. “At the manor?”

He needed space. To put actual, physical space between he and his brother. Or else Gib might give in to impulse, haul off and smack the supercilious smirk off his face. Was Gerald really that clueless? He expected Gib to say, sure,
bro
,
you got my visa yanked
,
let’s have a sleepover?

Gib got up, walked over to the built-in bookcase by the fireplace and stared at the photographs. They’d be the last thing he packed, and the first to unpack back in England. A shot of he and Milo three Halloweens ago, dressed as Batman and the Joker. The whole group at Ivy’s family cabin last summer, burned to a crisp but grinning like idiots. A cockeyed picture he’d taken with his phone of him and Daphne at a Chicago Fire game, heads close together. It was his favorite of them all. These people loved him, respected him, understood him. They were his real family. The one he’d put together by choice. As opposed to the wretched excuse for a family tenuously connected to Gib by a random act of DNA.

Turning back to Gerald, he propped his elbows on the mantel. “Forget the manor. Forget the estate. Forget waiting for the Grim Reaper to pay a visit in order to line your pockets. Why don’t you give my other income stream a go?”

Gerald frowned. “What else? Do you have a secret trust fund I don’t know about? Uncle Charles used to favor you, as I recall. Did the old goat set you up when he died last year?”

So that’s how it was. The only way Gerald could imagine supporting himself was by profiting from their relative’s death? He shouldn’t be too surprised. There’d been a whole cadre of like-minded people at university. Next in line for a big title and an even bigger estate. Content to live off the work of previous generations, rather than creating something of their own. Gib would have none of it. Didn’t know how any of them could look in the mirror and see anything but shame.

Overenunciating each word, Gib said, “I. Have. A. Job.” When Gerald said nothing, he continued. “It pays a more-than-livable salary. Now that your days are no longer riddled with hangovers, you might even learn to like it.”

“Do you, though? Still have a job? Because Castellan doesn’t have your transfer paperwork.” If Gerald had ever held down a real job, he’d know that human resource departments were notoriously treacle-slow. And they both would’ve been spared this fact-finding visit. His brother leaned forward, hands outstretched, parallel to each other. As though trying to literally box Gib into an answer. “Are you really coming back to London?”

Tempting to let him twist in the wind. But the answer was simple. Undeniable. He’d been demoted. Said job might very well still be at the mercy of his brother’s cheating schemer of a girlfriend. At least one person at his new company was spying on him. Brimming with that knowledge, coupled with how his parents had weathered major upheavals without telling him, and that Gerald was still a selfish bastard, Gib wished there was some other option.

The prospect of his life in England could not be worse—and yet it was the only place he could now go. Was it worse to go someplace where you knew no one? Or to return to where you didn’t want to encounter the people that you did? Gib could swallow his pride. Scrabble his way back up the ladder at Cavendish. Suck up a return to his colorless, emotionless world across the Atlantic.

Hunching his shoulders, he picked up the snapshot of Ben, Mira, Ivy, Sam and Daphne. What absolutely gutted him, though, was leaving behind the real family he’d cobbled together here in Chicago. Gib hadn’t ever realized he’d been craving love with the thirst of a dying man in the desert. That he’d been seeking the closeness and trust his family never showed him. Or that as soon as he finally experienced it, he’d love enough to sacrifice it. To leave Daphne.

“I haven’t any other choice,” he said with a shrug.

Chapter Nineteen

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom

~
Anaïs Nin

Trophies, in general, were great. Big trophies, however, were a pain in the ass. Daphne wrestled her two-tiered golden cup atop a marble base out of the backseat of her car. It stood almost four feet tall. Weighed more than her toddler niece. And it clearly was no more eager to be in the single-digit wind chill of Chicago than she was. Reaching from the sidewalk didn’t cut it. With a grimace, she stepped into the gutter to get closer. Wet, sloppy snow instantly soaked the bottom of her yoga pants. Dribbled into her sneakers. But she hadn’t strategically planned her wardrobe around being shin-high in snow.

When the celebration party at the shop had finally broken up, Ben and Ivy drove her home. Daphne spent a good half hour sampling the trophy in different display spots around the apartment. Entry hall, dining room table, even the wide lip of the bathtub. None of them clicked. It finally hit her that it belonged at Aisle Bound. Because the victory didn’t belong to her alone. Without Ivy’s stint at RealTV, she wouldn’t have even been thought of for the show. It was a team effort, so the team deserved to have the trophy displayed.

Gib had been an integral part of that team. He’d taught her how to overcome her camera shyness. How to power past the fear and indecision. His coaching helped keep her focused enough to win. Showing him the trophy, sharing her victory would be the perfect first step toward reestablishing their platonic friendship.

Daphne understood why he hadn’t come to
Flower Power.
Or at least, she did once Mira and Ivy came up with an explanation after a bottle and a half of champagne. He must’ve needed distance to recover from the breakup neither of them wanted. As much as she wanted to see him, to touch him, Daphne certainly knew how much harder that would make saying goodbye. But she loved him too much to not have him in her life in whatever form they could manage. This insight came to her at one in the morning. Not really the time to do anything but jam her feet into the shoes closest to the door and go.

It took a belly-deep grunt, but the damn thing finally slid out of her car. Momentum almost sent her sliding ass-first into a snowbank. But the effort would be worth it when she saw his face light up. ’Cause really, who wouldn’t smile at the sight of a trophy taller than Gimli in
Lord of the Rings?

Daphne hefted the bulky proof of her utter flowerificness onto her hip. Eyed the block and a half of icy sidewalk she’d have to traverse to reach Gib’s place. Her feet were already numb. It’d be safer to just slog through the snow. Barely halfway there, voices traveling through the clear, icy night caught her attention. Her head jerked up. Safety first, in the middle of the night. She sure had one heck of a weapon at hand.

Luckily, the warm yellow glow spilling onto the walkway came from Gib, silhouetted in his doorway. Not just Gib, though. The dark bulk looked big enough to be two people. Sure enough, his arms lifted and a curvy woman stepped out of his embrace. A blonde woman.
The
blonde woman. Daphne was close enough now to recognize her. The one who’d been draped all over him at the
Windy City
magazine party. The one he’d slept with—his therapist, Doc Debra.

She tightened her grip on the trophy. Thought about using it as a weapon after all. Trouble was, Daphne wasn’t sure who deserved a good bop on the head more. Gib, for dropping her to go back to his womanizing ways? Or herself, for stupidly falling for his speech about breaking up now to make it hurt less later?

God, it was all so clear. Gib didn’t break up with her because he was leaving. Because he thought she deserved more than phone sex and a long-distance relationship. Because he cared so damn deeply. No. Not a word of that rang true. Not anymore. Not when his most recent bed buddy waltzed out of his arms in the middle of the night, only two freaking days after his supposedly heart-wrenching breakup with Daphne.

Oh, and look at that. For some reason her feet kept propelling her forward. The full moon shone down brightly through the leafless branches. It, coupled with the nearby streetlight, provided an almost spotlight on Debra kissing him good-night. Great. Just the visual she needed burned into her brain. It could only mean that Gib ended things because he wanted to play the field again. Go back to his new day/new woman regimen. That he’d given commitment a shot for what, less than a week, and found it not to his liking.

It should hurt. It should devastate her. But since Gib had already decimated her heart into little more than a beating pool of blood, Daphne couldn’t really tell. She turned around to slink back to her car before he even shut the door. Chalk up her decision to go on this misguided late-night escapade to a massive sugar overdose from the party. Just go home and pretend he’d already left. After all, in two days there’d be four states, an ocean and, depending on the flight path, one or two countries between them. Out of sight, out of mind. At least, Daphne hoped it’d be that easy.

Then the trophy slipped a little. As did her pants—the drawstring of which she’d been in too much of a rush to bother to tie. Daphne made a wild grab, caught the pants, but dropped the trophy. It landed with a spectacular crack of marble against cement, and then a resounding bong from the metal of the trophy bowl.

The even worse sound was that of Gib’s voice. “Daphne? Is that you?”

Shit. Of course he’d heard her. The trophy rang louder than the Sunday mass bells at St. Hyacinth Basilica. And of course he recognized her, due to the whole best-friends-until-two-days-ago thing. No slinking home now. “Um, yeah.”

“Are you okay?” He jogged down the sidewalk, no coat, no gloves. Just fleece pants, a thin cotton Manchester United shirt and a worried expression.

“Yeah. Fine.” She tied off her pants.

“What is...” His voice trailed off. Gib looked down at the now cracked but still gleaming marble pedestal broken off at her feet. Over to the wide gold top of it lying half in the street. He picked it up, shook off the snow and carried it over to her. “Oh my God. You won?”

Daphne snatched it from him. “Yeah.”

“That’s brilliant!” Arms wide open, he rushed forward as if to hug her. Daphne held her broken trophy up like a shield.

“Don’t. Don’t come any closer. Don’t touch me. Just...don’t.”

“What? Why? What’s wrong?”

She’d save the self-recrimination about her questionable judgment for later. Right now, though, she’d be more than happy to tell Gib what was wrong with him. Screw taking the high road. He’d hurt her. Made a fool of her. Tossed her love aside as if it were as disposable as a condom. This could very well be the last conversation they ever had face-to-face. She damn well wouldn’t skip the opportunity to give him a piece of her mind. “I’m not blind, Gib. I saw what just happened.”

“You mean dropping the trophy?” He squatted in the snow to pick up the hunk of marble. “Looks like a clean break. Come inside. I think we’ve got some superglue in the junk drawer. It’ll fix this right up.”

“The trophy doesn’t matter. Well it does, but not like you do. Like you did. To me.”

“You want to add a few more sentence parts so I can figure out what you’re talking about?”

Really? He was going to make her spell it out? Rub her face in it? “I saw you and Doc Debra just now. The hugging. The kissing.”

Gib ducked his head. Cleared his throat. His breath hung in the icy air like cartoon thought bubbles. “Ah. Well, what you saw wasn’t what it looked like—”

She cut him off by jabbing out her hand, upraised. “Uh-uh. No explanation necessary. Spare me the details. We don’t have that kind of a friendship anymore.”

“That kind?” he mocked. She could hear the air quotes in his voice. “Have you drawn up a revised friendship agreement? Is that why you came over? Brought me two copies to initial? Is there a notary public waiting in your car?”

“I came over to share this with you.” She thrust the top half of the trophy back at him. When he didn’t take it, she let it fall back to the ground. “I came over here to thank you. And yes, to make a fresh start. We didn’t end things on anything close to a good note. Now I know why.” She tapped her head with her index finger. Of course, wearing puffy mittens, it probably looked stupid. Like she was slapping herself.

“Do you?” Gib snapped out the words, obviously pissed. Brows drawn together into a straight line of fury. Of course, he also looked half-frozen. But hey, it was his stupid idea to run out to her without a coat. He could walk back inside any minute. Maybe guilt was keeping him frozen to the spot.

“You promised me no more lines. No more well-used speeches. No reruns of anything you’d done with your legions of women. But it turns out that what you gave me was nothing more than a variation on that oldie but goodie, it’s not you, it’s me.” Mimicking him, Daphne used her admittedly horrible British accent. “‘Break up now, before we care too much for each other.’ Can’t believe I fell for it. I should’ve known that you couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—commit. I should’ve known you weren’t ready.” Righteous anger was the only thing that kept her voice from catching on the tears clogging her throat. “I should’ve known better than to trust you.”

Gib thumped his sternum. “I am not your problem. Trusting me was never the problem. The real problem with you, Daphne? It’s that you don’t trust yourself. You don’t believe in yourself. Sound familiar? Because it’s the very problem I identified when I started coaching you for the competition.”

“What are you saying? That I need to Tinker Bell myself? If only I believed in myself as a sexy, beautiful woman, you wouldn’t feel the urge to screw the first bimbette who walks by?”

His mouth quirked into an expression she couldn’t decipher. Then he shivered. “Something like that.”

Maybe he had an eighth of a percent of a point. Maybe. Something for Daphne to mull as she started the lengthy process of trying to get over the love of her life. But it in no way excused his behavior. “Well, I believed in us, Gib. I thought that would be enough.” She spread her arms, palms up. Took one last look at his sharp cheekbones. Meltingly beautiful eyes. The sexiest, most well-shaped lips she’d ever seen on a man. The lips she’d hoped to spend a lifetime kissing. “Guess I was wrong. Goodbye, Gib.” Daphne turned and walked away. Hoped the snow crunching underfoot would mask the sound of her breath hitching. And felt the tears freeze on her cheeks as they began to fall.

* * *

Gib could feel Agatha’s gaze on him as he lifted his luggage out of her trunk. She’d insisted on driving him to O’Hare. Had filled his ears the entire way on I-94 with complaints about her new boss. But now her silence was even louder.

“Out with it, woman. You’ve never been shy about expressing your opinion. I can tell you’re itching to lay some last bit of wisdom on me before I leave. It had better not be a reminder to wear my raincoat.”

She shook her head, making the cream tassel on top of her knit hat bounce. “No advice. I’m just worried about you. The way I’d worry about my own son.”

Certainly far more concern than his own mother had ever shared. God, he’d miss Agatha. “No need to worry. After all, I’ve hit bottom. In one fell swoop, I’ve lost a job I loved, the true family I forged here, and my best friend.” He dropped his suitcase to the curb, crossed his arms over his chest. Grimly continued to recount the cesspool his life had become. “To top it off, I know I’m head over heels in love with Daphne. She is the only woman for me.”

“You should know. You’ve certainly comparison shopped enough for three men.”

Gib ignored her jab, just like he had every other disapproving comment over his dating choices she’d sent his way. “And I love her too much to drag her off to share an uncertain and jobless future. For God’s sake, she’s a partner in two businesses here. Has family she actually cares about. I’m certainly not enough of a prize to yank her away from all that. My family situation’s shit and my job’s at the mercy of my brother’s mistress. I would give anything to stay with Daphne. The old, selfish Gib would’ve stuffed her into my suitcase and taken her to England. But I won’t ask her to sacrifice her happiness for me.”

Matching crinkles of approval bracketed her eyes and lips. “Oh, Gibson, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You truly are a good man. I’m sorry your current reward for that is life pissing all over you.”

He ratcheted his lips into a tight smile. “So if you think about it, I’ve nowhere to go from here but up.”

Agatha enveloped him in a tight hug that strained the seams of her wool coat. “Good luck, Gibson.”

“I’ll miss you.” He waved as she pulled into traffic. Basked in what was probably his last sunny sky for a while, then trudged inside. If anything, the noise level increased. The loudspeaker mumbled loudly almost nonstop. Every line for security stretched out to the check-in counters. Gib couldn’t have picked a busier afternoon. Suddenly, exhaustion washed over him. Looked down at the gray-and-white checkerboard tiles, and couldn’t summon the energy to go any farther. He sank onto a bench. The bloody endless lines would still be there when he was ready. Gib just needed a moment to regroup.

Shrugging out of his overcoat, he laid it on top of his pile of suitcases. Rolled his head to stretch the crick in his neck, and saw Sam, of all people. Looking more than a little ridiculous, as he held two tall stalks covered with flowers as bright blue as an Easter egg out in front of him.

“Damn it, I told you I didn’t want a big send-off.” But he’d grab at any excuse to spend a few more minutes with the guy. As Gib stood, he felt a grin stretch wide across his face. “What’s with the mini bouquet? It’s a little on the small side to give to Mira. You might want to get Daph to fill it out with some roses or something.”

“It’s for you.” Sam shuffled his feet. Looked up at the skylights while he handed over the flowers. “They’re forget-me-nots. In the language of flowers, they mean
true love.
”

Gib looked down at the vibrant splotches of yellow at the center of each flower. He’d never been more confused. “Pardon me?” When he looked back up, Mira was only a few steps away. She picked up the pace when she caught his eye, her long legs stretching across the checkerboard tiles. Needle-sharp heels clattered with a distinctive ping.