The Billionaire’s Favorite Mistake

by Jessica Clare

  “ʻI’m sorry’,” Bunni read from the card. “ʻForgive me? Can we talk?’” She looked up at Greer. “Is this from your boyfriend?”

  “Not my boyfriend.”

  “Is he single?”

  Grr. Why did that piss her off so much? “You’re getting married to my father, remember?”

  “Maybe,” Bunni emphasized as Tiffi came and sniffed the white camellias. “It’s a one in three chance, and if not, I need a backup plan.”

  Greer gritted her teeth. “Let’s just focus on one man at a time, all right?”

  “Okay, but this guy’s loaded, right?” She flicked the card. “Because these aren’t cheap flowers, and trust me, I know cheap flowers.”

  She was not going to discuss Asher’s wallet with Bunni. She was absolutely not. Brimming with anger, she turned and strode to her father’s office. Damn it. He still wasn’t back from the shoot. She jerked her phone out and began to text him.

  Greer: Vader, I have a problem with the wedding.

  Vader: So soon? I’m busy. Have the best man handle it.

  Greer: The best man is the problem. I can’t work with him.

  She watched her phone, waiting for the three dots to pop up to show her that her father was sending a text back. To her surprise, it rang a moment later. Uh-oh. Fighting the vague feeling that she was a child in trouble with her father, she clicked Answer and put the phone to her ear. “Yes?”

  “What is the problem with the best man?” Her father sounded cool, remote. Irritated.

  Greer braced herself for his anger. “I can’t work with him.”

  “And what is the reason behind this refusal?”

  “Vader . . . he is the one that got me pregnant.” She felt her face grow hot as she confessed it, and pressed a hand to her cheeks. “He’s not a nice man. He uses people.”

  “Do you think he’s going to get one of the brides pregnant?”

  Her father’s question stymied her. “Um . . . I don’t think so?” She was pretty sure he hadn’t even planned on getting her pregnant.

  “Then I do not see the problem.”

  He wasn’t going to support her? Greer’s heart sank. “Vader, please. I don’t like him. I don’t want to be around him.”

  “This is business, Greer. Whether we like someone or not has no bearing on our ability to work with them. He is the best man I have chosen for the wedding, and my proxy, and I expect you to work with him accordingly.”

  “He’s a problem,” she blurted. “Vader, please.”

  “You are an adult, Greer. If you have a problem with him, tell him.” And he hung up.

  Shocked, Greer let her phone fall from her ear. She should have guessed that her father wouldn’t have her back. Stijn Janssen was all about his own personal comfort, and she’d known that ever since she could remember. Still . . . she’d hoped.

  Greer squared her shoulders. All right, then. If this was her problem to solve, she’d solve it. She went through the settings on her phone, unblocked Asher’s number, and then sent him a text.

  Greer: We need to talk somewhere private and hash out our situation.

  Before she could even put her phone away, his response dinged.

  Asher: You name the time and place and I’ll be there.

  She looked around her. Tiffi and Bunni were still toying with the flowers, and Kiki was on the deck out by the pool, sunning herself. Combine those three with a staff full of nosy servants (a few of whom she was pretty sure were leaking info to the tabloids), and there was no privacy at the Dutchman castle. Not here, then. She didn’t want to meet him at his hotel room, either. That would give him too much control.

  They needed neutral territory. But where?

  ***

  Asher checked his phone and then the map app to make sure he was at the right place. Yup. Botanical Garden at the Springs Preserve. Kinda random, but wherever she wanted him, he’d be there. He strolled in from the parking lot, straightening his suit. The place was deserted, but that was no surprise given the heat of the day. Vegas in summer was hellish at best.

  The gardens were full of cactuses and palm trees, and he strolled down the stone paths looking for a tiny, dark woman with a big ponytail. When he spotted a familiar figure near the rose trellises, he headed in that direction. His steps had a bit of anticipation to them; maybe his flowers had softened her anger. Maybe they’d inspired her and that’s why they were meeting here.

  When he rounded the corner and saw Greer’s stony face, he thought maybe not. That was the look of a pissed woman if there ever was one.

  “You look nice,” he told her as he approached. She did, actually. Despite the heat, she was wearing a buttoned-up pale green cardigan that made her dusky skin seem luminescent and a pair of khaki capris with wedges. For some reason, that demure outfit got him all hot and bothered to the point that he felt the urge to stick his hands in his slacks pockets and furtively adjust himself. What was it about Greer’s modest clothing that made him want to touch her even more? Was it because he was the only one who knew what was under those layers?

  Whatever it was, he might have been the only man in Vegas to get an erection at the sight of a cardigan. He didn’t care. She was beautiful, and she’d be his again if he had anything to say about it.

  “We need to talk,” Greer said stiffly. She pushed her big glasses up on her nose and then gestured at one of the nearby benches lining the walk. “Sit. I have a lot to say.”

  He sat. He might have also sprawled his legs a little and put his arm on the back of the bench so it’d force her to be closer in proximity to him. A dick move, but he couldn’t resist. She was just . . . delicious.

  How had he been blind for so long?

  She tucked a tendril of stray hair back behind her ear and frowned at him. “Don’t look so pleased to be here. I still hate you.”

  “I don’t hate you,” he countered. “And just seeing you convinces me that I need to figure out how to make you like me again.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Don’t flirt with me. I know where that ends up, and it’s not a place I ever want to be again.”

  Where that ends up? Her words baffled him but he’d play along. “Go on.”

  “My father wants to pull off a ridiculous wedding in the next month,” she said bluntly. “A normal wedding takes a year to coordinate, and he wants this one done in weeks. It’s going to take all of my time and my resources just to try and stay on track, provided my health holds up.” Her hand touched her lightly rounded stomach.

  His own stomach felt as if it dropped into his shoes. “Your health? Is there something wrong with the baby?”

  “You needn’t look so worried,” Greer said dryly. “I was just referring to morning sickness. It was brutal for the first few weeks but it seems to have passed. Don’t pretend to be concerned for my sake.”

  For some reason, that pissed him off. “Just because I was a drunk fuckhead doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to you or the baby. Jesus, Greer. Give a man some credit.”

  Her eyes went wide and owl-like behind her glasses. She fidgeted and straightened them nervously, then nodded. “You’re right. That was unfeeling of me. I’m sorry.” Her mouth curved into an awkward smile. “My example of fatherhood has been Stijn, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t have much faith in men.”

  No wonder she was quick to assume the worst. Stijn was a cold bastard, and he couldn’t imagine the man in any sort of fatherly role. “Forgiven. Go on.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap, looking for all the world as if she were about to beg. “What I brought you here to say is that I think you should back out of the wedding.”

  “No.”

  She looked crestfallen. “Please, Asher? For me?”

  It killed him to have to turn her down. Killed him. Seeing the pleading, unhappy look in her eyes w
as tearing him apart. “Why do you want me out of the wedding?” It wouldn’t happen, of course, since the wedding was occurring simply because he needed a way to spend time around Greer for the next month, but he was curious to hear her reasons anyhow.

  Her hands twisted in her lap. “I can’t work around you. I need all of my concentration to pull this off—to give my father and his bride-to-be their fairy tale.” Her expression softened. “I want this to be a wonderful wedding. Weddings are the start of a new life together, and it’s more than just organizing caterers. It’s launching a couple into their happy ever after.” Her pointed face glowed.

  It dawned on him that Greer—quiet, studious Greer with the dickwad titty-mag-mogul father—was a romantic. No wonder she’d been so devastated over their interlude in the gardens. He mentally filed that information away. “So why am I a problem?”

  “Because I hate you and I can’t be around you without being angry.” Her jaw clenched. “Because I need to focus and the wedding needs to be my focus, not how much I want to punch your face.”

  He grinned and reached for one of her dainty hands. “You wouldn’t do much damage with one of these—”

  She jerked out of his grasp and jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch me! You lost that privilege the night you were a sperm donor.”

  “You mean the night we had sex,” he said flatly. Her constant insults were starting to nick at his temper. “Call it what it was.”

  “I am calling it what it was,” Greer corrected. “It wasn’t sex. Or if it was, it was sex in the very loosest interpretation of the term. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Asher, but . . . you’re terrible at it.”

  That . . . was unexpected. Greer the virgin chiding him on how bad he was at sex? “I’m terrible?”

  She gave him a pained little grimace. “I’m sure no man wants to hear that, but I figure I’m doing the world a service by correcting you.” She stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “It really was not good, Asher. I’m sorry.”

  He was torn between amusement and irritation. “What part?”

  “All of it.” She gave an emphatic nod. “I’m afraid that whatever you think your technique is, you’re going to have to go back to the drawing board.”

  Her cheeks looked flushed, and she was starting to fidget. He was intrigued at her reaction despite himself. Asher crossed his arms over his chest and did his best to look insulted. “Let’s break this down so I know what I need to work on, then. Kissing?”

  “Dreadful.”

  “Dreadful?”

  “There was entirely too much slobber and tongue. I felt like you were looking for my tonsils.”

  Well, damn. No matter how amused he was at the conversation, some things stung. There went his ego, deflating like a popped balloon. He’d never had anyone complain about his kissing before. He’d been drunk but he’d never thought being drunk destroyed his “technique” that badly. “I see. So, less tongue.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  “What about my foreplay? I’m pretty good at that.”

  “What foreplay? You groped me once and then pulled my panties off.”

  Okay, he must have been really, really drunk to neglect his partner like that. He’d always made sure Donna came more than once before he ever got his. If ever there was an incentive to remain sober for the rest of his life, there it was. “Point taken.”

  “Don’t ask me to critique the rest,” she said, and she looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t pleasant.”

  “Would you believe me if I promised you that it was all the alcohol and I swear I’m much better at sex than you think I am?”

  “Oh, Asher,” she said softly. She gave him a pitying look. “No, I don’t believe you.”

  He barked with laughter. Fair enough. He’d deserved that. He was just about to ask her to critique his package when she wove unsteadily on her feet and her face went white. “Greer?”

  Her hand went to her forehead, and he saw it was shaking like a leaf. “I . . . I don’t—”

  He shot up from the bench and grabbed her before she could collapse. “Greer!” Her body felt fragile against his, and he cradled her against his chest. Her face was beaded with sweat, and her lips were pale, mouth parted. Her glasses were askew and he pulled them off her face, gently tapping her cheek.

  Asher’s heart pounded in his chest. “Greer. Talk to me, baby. Let me know you’re okay.”

  Her eyes fluttered after a moment. “I’m fine,” she breathed. “I just need a moment.”

  “You’re not fine,” he growled, and picked her up in his arms. She was so light, her body so damn fragile. He sat her down on one of the benches and ripped off his blazer. “You nearly passed out.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he told her, wadding up his jacket to act as a pillow, and guided her to lie down on the bench. It was so damned hot out—why had she asked to meet out in a garden in the desert in summer? “Tell me what I can do.”

  “Just give me a moment,” she said, pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Oh yeah, everyone faints all the time. They drop like flies at my office,” he said sarcastically. “I’m constantly catching women in the elevator.”

  He was pleased that her mouth moved in a half smile. “I didn’t eat breakfast today. Too stressed. Probably just catching up with me.”

  “That’s not smart,” he told her in a low, gentle voice. He brushed the sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. “You need to remember that you’re eating for two now.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes I forget.”

  “You stay here and I’ll get you some water and a snack, all right?” When she murmured agreement, he raced down the path, looking for a snack machine or a gift shop, anything. By the time he found it, he was drenched in sweat—some of it from nerves at the sight of seeing Greer collapse like that—but he got a bottle of water and a package of peanut butter crackers and then raced back to where he’d left her.

  When he came back, the stubborn woman was sitting up on the bench. She managed a wan smile for him. “I’m really sorry, Asher. This wasn’t how I planned today would go—”

  “Quiet,” he told her, and pulled the cap off the water and then knelt at her side, holding it to her lips. “Drink. And then you’re going to eat these crackers.”

  She sipped at the water obediently, and his heart slowed from its mad, fearful gallop in his chest as the color returned to her face. She held a hand out and he gave her a cracker, then watched with a bizarre sense of satisfaction as she nibbled on it, then asked for another.

  Minutes passed, and Asher’s entire world consisted of feeding Greer and making sure she drank enough water. Taking care of her. Hell, if she’d have let him, he’d have ripped her shoes off and massaged her feet, but he was going to take what he could get.

  When she finished the last cracker and the bottle of water was empty, he put a hand on her knee. “Feel better?”

  “Much.” She primly removed his hand from her knee. “Thank you.”

  He tried not to feel disappointed at that small rejection, but damn. “Good. I’m going to walk you back to your car. You need to get out of this heat. And then I want you to go home and eat a big meal. Lots of proteins and carbohydrates. Then, when you’re done with that, take a hot shower and relax for the rest of the day.” He picked her glasses up and held them out to her.

  She plucked the glasses from his hand and scowled at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. I have entirely too much going on to take a day off. I have to call a dozen caterers and see who can squeeze us in, and then there’s staff for valet parking for the day of the wedding, and I need to call about cakes, and—”

  When she stood, he stood, too, and tried to pick her up in his arms again.

  She batted a
t him, angry. “What are you doing?”

  “If you’re not going to relax and take it easy, I’m going to force you to.” He ignored her flying, ineffective fists, and cradled her against his chest. “The wedding can’t go on if the planner passes out all day.”

  “Fine,” she bellowed, shoving at his chest. “Fine! You win! I’ll go home and eat an enormous meal and then spend the rest of the day in bed.”

  He put her down.

  “With my phone,” she amended. “And my laptop. But in bed.”

  Small victories.

  ***

  Even though Greer swore she was fine, Asher insisted on following her home and didn’t relax until she was pulling her rental car into the driveway at the Dutchman castle. Only then did the breath he’d felt like he was holding all afternoon escape him.

  God, he’d felt as if he’d aged a hundred years in an hour. Seeing Greer collapse like that had made him realize just how delicate she was . . . and just how much she meant to him. They’d been such close friends all through college and he’d taken her for granted: the late nights she’d stayed up studying with him, the times he was sick and she’d made him chicken noodle soup, the unwavering support she’d given him, the way they both liked the same sappy black-and-white movies.

  Seeing her faint had just clinched in his mind that she was his, and he’d do anything to win her back. It was clear that his Greer had a spine of solid metal under that sweet, demure exterior, though. He mentally replayed her quiet removal of his hand from her knee over and over again.

  He needed a plan to win her back.

  All right, then. If he was going to create a fake wedding just to get her closer to him, he’d take advantage of that closeness.

  If Greer was around him daily, there was no way he couldn’t break down those barriers she’d erected. She’d loved him once; he could get her to love him again.

  He hoped.