Home > The Billionaire’s Favorite Mistake (Billionaires and Bridesmaids #4)(8)

The Billionaire’s Favorite Mistake (Billionaires and Bridesmaids #4)(8)
Jessica Clare

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.


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.

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