The Billionaire's Favourite Mistake: Billionaires and Bridesmaids 4

by Jessica Clare

“None of your business!” Like she was going to tell him that she needed to mop up. Like she wasn’t humiliated enough?

  Asher just rolled his eyes and took another swig from his flask, turning to look up at the house. She used that time to clean up as best she could, but she was absolutely leaving this party as soon as she got out of this horrible situation.

  “I can’t believe you,” she told him, shoving his handkerchief into a hedge to hide it. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  She’d wanted sex. That? That was not sex. That was a mockery of sex.

  “Hey, you weren’t saying no,” he slurred at her.

  She stared at him in disgust. This was her friend. This was the man she’d loved. “What happened to the Asher I used to know? The guy that was always laughing? The smart, loyal, trustworthy guy?” The guy I wanted to marry?

  “He died,” Asher said in a cold voice. “He fucking died and there’s no resurrecting him.”

  “That’s a shame.” And it was, because she hated the new Asher. Greer straightened her dress and then opened her discarded purse and took out her glasses. Because, well, she didn’t care if Asher thought she looked nerdy. Not now.

  For the first time since she’d met Asher Sutton, she was pretty well done with him. It didn’t matter that he mumbled something that sounded like a drunken apology or that he put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him as they headed back to the house. Because not two minutes later, they ran into Magnus and Edie, both in the bridal party. And Asher slapped her ass in front of both of them. She was almost glad when Magnus and Asher got into an argument and Asher got punched in the face.

  He was right about one thing; the old Asher was dead.

  And Greer really hated the new guy.

  Chapter 2

  Asher woke up the next morning with his head pounding and fuzzy. Light trickled in through the slats of a nearby window. He rolled over to hide his face from the light—

  And promptly rolled off the couch and onto the floor, busting his nose.

  That woke a guy up.

  Holding his throbbing, bleeding nose, Asher peered blearily around him. Where the fuck was he? The room he was in looked like it had been furnished by a grandma. Stuffed antique chairs with a floral print were posed near a fireplace, and on a shelf across the room, old books and curiosities were strategically placed to draw the eye. It made his head hurt, almost as much as the busy Persian rug that he was currently lying on did.

  How much had he drank last night? And where was his damn handkerchief? He couldn’t find it no matter how much he patted down the front of his rumpled, ruined tux, so he just ripped off his jacket and wadded a sleeve under his nose to stop the bleeding.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Gretchen bellowed as she entered the room with a tray of food.

  He winced and recoiled, putting a hand to his throbbing temples. “Is this hell? Is that where I am?”

  “Very funny,” Gretchen replied in a singsong tone. It was clear she had no “inside” voice . . . or she just didn’t care that he was hungover. “You’re at Hunter’s house because you were totally shitfaced last night and I didn’t want you driving home. Your Aston Martin is in the garage, I brought you some coffee and toast, and now you can pretend to be human again.” She gave him a beaming smile.

  He rubbed a hand down his face. Fuck, he’d been piss-drunk from the moment the party started. He wasn’t an alcoholic—at least, not yet, his liver joked—but something about the wedding festivities really fucking got to him. Maybe it was because every time he saw Gretchen, he pictured Donna.

  Donna, his high-school sweetheart and the first girl he’d ever nailed.

  Donna, with bright red hair, an even brighter smile, and that sweet way of looking at him that made him feel like a king.

  Donna, who’d given confidential information about his business to a rival company the night before stock went public and torpedoed his fortune in one fell swoop. And when he confronted her about it, she confessed to cheating on him, left him, and shacked up with a man in his fifties.

  So yeah, wedding shit? It could go fuck itself. There was no such thing as a happy ever after. But . . . Gretchen was a good friend of his, and when she’d asked him to be a groomsman, he hadn’t had the heart to say no. Or rather, he’d tried, but Gretchen usually ended up getting her way.

  Here he was, one hungover, soul-sick asshole flat on her carpet with a busted nose.

  “You look like hell,” Gretchen pointed out, sitting in one of the ugly chaises and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Why, thank you,” Asher croaked.

  “Did Greer do that to your nose?” She dumped a spoonful of sugar in her cup and then clanged the spoon against the side like she was calling cattle to dinner.

  Asher winced at each bang of the spoon against porcelain, and wondered if she was being obnoxious on purpose. “Why would Greer hit me?” He knew Greer. Greer was sweet, a bit mousy, and quiet. He doubted she even knew how to use her fists.

  Gretchen snorted and lifted her cup to her lips. “You tell me. You were the one trying to eat her face last night.”

  “I was?” He sat up, frowning. He didn’t recall that.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I have vague memories of mixing whiskey with that shitty punch you were serving.” And he’d loaded up on punch the moment the guests started to arrive. So no, he didn’t remember much about the party.

  Even as he thought it, an image flashed through his mind. Of big, dark eyes and even bigger, curly hair. Spangled sequins teasing over a pair of small brown breasts. His mouth descending on Greer’s and remembering how much he had to bend over to kiss her.

  Oh fuck. He’d kissed Greer. And then his brain fed him even more flashes of memory. Being in the hedge maze. Greer under him, her hands caressing him.

  Greer under him.

  Shit.

  His nostrils flared. “I think I fucked up last night.”

  “Do tell.” Gretchen stuck a pinky out as she sipped her coffee and raised her eyebrows at him.

  He was pretty sure he’d nailed Greer in the gardens. But he didn’t say anything to Gretchen about that. Hell, what could he say? I got drunk as fuck and stuck my dick into the nearest pretty girl, and it just happened to be our old roommate and my lunch buddy?

  That made him sound like the worst kind of asshole. And it made Greer sound like she was disposable. And she wasn’t.

  Greer was a sweetheart. Quiet and calm, he remembered how she’d stared up at him with big, adoring eyes when they’d been roommates. How she’d always had a kind smile and a nice word for him even when he was at his lowest. How she’d never fussed at him when he was behind on rent payments—as he so often was back in his college days.

  They’d transitioned from roommates to friends, and for a while all of them would get together on Mondays and have a lunch to catch up. Over time, people drifted away. Taylor’s job wouldn’t let her take long lunches, Gretchen buried herself in her ghostwriting, and eventually Chelsea went into hiding. But Greer? Greer always had time. Every week, they met at the same diner and sat at the same table and had lunch together. The talk was always relaxing and easy. Greer chatted a little about her latest clients she was working with in her wedding planning business and shared amusing anecdotes about bridezillas or strange requests. He’d tell her about his outsourcing business and she’d offer suggestions or a sympathetic ear.

  Greer always had time for him. She was a good friend, if unassuming. She wasn’t flashy, wasn’t demanding. She was . . . comfortable. Always there, always ready to lend an ear or a hand. She never pushed, never argued.

  She deserved so much better than a quick, drunk fuck at a party.

  Asher forced himself to get up from the floor, touched his nose to make sure it wasn’t bleeding any longer, and then staggered over to the co
ffee and poured himself a cup. “Nothing to tell, Gretchen. I just need to talk to Greer. She here?”

  “Nope. You’re the only one. I never saw Greer last night, actually.” Gretchen frowned into her cup. “What was she dressed as?”

  He racked his brain, trying to think. There was glitter, and her dainty, luscious body was practically hanging out of that low neckline. He remembered he could see the tips of her tight little brown nipples when she leaned forward . . . fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Stripper.”

  “What?”

  “Flapper. Sorry. Flapper.” God, he needed more coffee. “She was cute.” Cute didn’t cover it. His memories of Greer from last night? A lot sexier than he normally thought of her. Then again, he’d been drunk as fuck. She could have dressed up as Grover from Sesame Street and he’d have probably nailed her.

  Time to own up to his fuck-ups. “I probably wasn’t nice to her,” Asher lied to Gretchen. I am pretty sure I fucked her behind your house. “I should call her and apologize.”

  Gretchen patted the tray. “Come caffeinate first. You need to be coherent.”

  She was right. He thumped into a seat next to her, rubbed his face, and then reached for a cup. “Thanks for looking out for me last night.”

  “Oh, this is way more fun than sending you home.” The look she gave him was pure evil. “So can I listen in when you call Greer?”

  “Nosy.”

  “Of course. You two are my friends and she’s carried a torch for you since like, grade school.”

  He choked on the coffee. “Oh god, don’t tell me that.” Because now all he could think about were her dark eyes gazing up at him, and peeking down her dress to see her nipples . . . he was such a bastard. He’d never be able to look her in the eye ever again.

  “It’s true. Well, not the grade school part. But her being in love with you?” Gretchen fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You are her knight in shining armor. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it before.”

  He hadn’t. Greer was just so . . . sweet. He’d just assumed she was that sweet to everyone. All of this was making him feel worse. He gulped down a burning mouthful of coffee. Gretchen’s words had done more to sober him than any amount of caffeine. “I don’t suppose you know where my phone is?”

  “I’m sure I do, Prince Charming.” She waved it in the air. Gretchen was enjoying this far too much.

  ***

  A short time later, when his head stopped feeling like it was a drum, he tried calling Greer. She didn’t answer, so he texted her instead of leaving a message.

  AS: Hey there. It was good to see you at the party.

  To his surprise, an answer came through almost right away.

  Greer: OK

  AS: Just wanted to say that I was pretty drunk, and I don’t remember most of what happened.

  Greer: OK

  AS: I never meant to uh, take advantage of the situation. I hope we’re still good.

  Greer: Sure.

  AS: You know I value you as a friend.

  Greer: Sure.

  AS: And I would never try to hook up at a party normally. I was just in a bad place.

  Greer: No prob

  AS: I just hope we can still be friends? I’d like to put the whole thing behind us.

  Greer: Consider it behind us.

  AS: Great. Thanks.

  AS: I know sex can ruin friendships, but I would rather we stay friends.

  Greer: Sure—friends.

  Asher stared down at his phone. The conversation seemed okay, but he couldn’t get over the fact that he felt like something was wrong. Greer wasn’t very . . . chatty, he guessed. Weren’t women chatty in texts? She always had plenty to say at lunch. Then again, he’d never really tried to carry a text conversation with her before, so maybe this was just how she was. Some people hated texting. He reread the text conversation, then added a final note.

  AS: We still on for Monday lunch?

  Greer: Sorry, going out of town. Maybe next time?

  AS: Sure, next time.

  She was just busy. He was imagining things. Feeling better, Asher poured himself another cup of coffee and tried not to think about the gentle slope of Greer’s breasts, or the tight pricks of her nipples brushing against his chest. Fuck his brain. She was just a friend, and now she was a friend that he’d put in an awkward situation.

  At least they were still friends, though. That was because Greer was a genuinely nice person. He was lucky to know her.

  ***

  Greer glared down at her phone, fuming at the text conversation. We still on for Monday lunch? As if she ever wanted to see him again after last night?

  Hope we’re still friends.

  You keep on hoping, she thought angrily. She closed the text window and promptly blocked his number from calling her phone again.

  ***

  Weeks Later

  Greer clutched the airline sickness bag to her chest. It was the third one she’d gone through on the flight out to Vegas. She closed her eyes and willed herself to die. Either that, or stop vomiting. At this moment, either one would do.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Chadha-Janssen?”

  She opened her eyes and squinted at the flight attendant hovering nearby. The woman’s white Dutch bonnet and wench costume did not look comfortable, especially when she leaned in toward Greer. But it was a normal sort of thing given that she was flying on her father’s private plane. Greer gave her a wan smile. “I’m fine, thank you. Just something I ate.”

  “Well, you just hit your button if you need me.” The woman beamed a bright pink–lipped grin at Greer and straightened. Her high-heeled wooden shoes clacked as she headed back toward the front of the plane.

  Since the urge to vomit was leaving, however temporarily, Greer set the bag aside and curled up on the purple velour couch she was reclining on. It was nice of her vader to send his private plane, but she did wish that it wasn’t so very . . . Dutchman. But that was Stijn—he was proud of his empire and he wanted the world to know it.

  Her father, Stijn Janssen had come to the US with plans to copy the Playboy empire. He’d created his own magazine—The Dutchman—and instead of bunnies, he had Dutch girls in white bonnets, wooden shoes, and chesty wench costumes. He’d been very progressive in the market, and wasn’t afraid to experiment with new things, so had made an incredible fortune. And while it hadn’t always been easy growing up as the only child of a man that peddled busty, mostly naked fetish magazines, she supposed that it could be worse. Vader was caring in his own way. He just . . . had a very peculiar way.

  Stijn had wanted Greer to visit him in Las Vegas while he received the “Businessman of the Year” award from Prospectus magazine. He was throwing an enormous party at the Dutchman castle (yes, her father had built himself a castle in Vegas) and wanted his quiet, studious, wholly unbusty daughter there. Well, actually . . . the party wasn’t for several weeks, but he wanted his daughter to plan the occasion for him. It didn’t matter that Greer was a wedding planner and not a party planner. Stijn wanted her because, well, she’d probably work for free. And while her father had assistants that could probably do the job, most of them were like the flight attendant and had been hired for, ahem, other assets.

  It was sweet of her vader, really, to call on Greer even though she was busy in New York, but it had been a while since she’d seen him. And really, she was flattered he’d thought of her, no matter the circumstances, so she’d agreed to go even though she’d been feeling a bit under the weather lately.

  By the time they landed, Greer was feeling much more like herself. Her sickness had passed, she’d eaten some crackers, and she was ready to enjoy a few days in Las Vegas. This would be like a vacation, she told herself. A chance to get away and reset from all of the things that were currently bothering her in New York City.

  Like the fact that she wa
s still beating herself up over sleeping with Asher.

  Or the fact that she’d been avoiding him ever since. Monday lunches? A thing of the past. If she never saw him again, it’d be too soon.

  The Dutchman white limo was waiting for her when the plane landed, and the driver must have been new, because he looked a little surprised to see her. Sure, she was brown and small and her father was a blond European. She was tempted to take out her ID and show him her name, but decided to be nice and not cruel to the poor driver.

  He took her to the Dutchman castle, on the outskirts of Vegas. Her father adored pomp and bombast, and his home was no different. Most people would be happy with a mansion in Vegas. Not Stijn Janssen. He wanted one that looked like a castle, complete with a moat, two towers that looked as if they were topped by breasts, and a drawbridge with his initials carved into the wood. She suspected that if her father could get away with a coach drawn by white horses, he’d do that, too.

  No one came out to greet her when the limo pulled up to the mansion. That wasn’t surprising. Sometimes her father had a girlfriend who took on the role of hostess, but most of the time they were just fame-bunnies looking to spend her father’s money, and cash in on a bit of notoriety. Greer took her bag from the driver, wheeled it to the staff entrance instead of the garish front double doors, and let herself in.

  “Greer!” The moment she entered, there were people to greet her. Marta, the head cook, rushed out and showered Greer with air kisses. “Look at you! So pretty. Just like your mother.” Two of the elderly butlers came and hugged her as well, and it felt a bit like coming home.

  “Hi, guys.” Greer hugged the staff, smiling at familiar faces and shaking the hands of new ones. “Good to see you all. How are things? Vader treating you well?”

  Marta rolled her eyes and wiped her hands on her apron. “Look at you. Carrying in your own suitcase. Lucas! Take that upstairs for Greer. Put it up in the Yellow Room.”

  The man named Lucas—young and very new to the staff—paused. “I think Kiki’s in the Yellow Room.”

  “Dios mio,” Marta breathed, shaking her head. “One of your father’s new girlfriends.”