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 coffee 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.