***
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 was 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.