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 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.