“No.”
She looked crestfallen. “Please, Asher? For me?”
It killed him to have to turn her down. Killed him. Seeing the pleading, unhappy look in her eyes was tearing him apart. “Why do you want me out of the wedding?” It wouldn’t happen, of course, since the wedding was occurring simply because he needed a way to spend time around Greer for the next month, but he was curious to hear her reasons anyhow.
Her hands twisted in her lap. “I can’t work around you. I need all of my concentration to pull this off—to give my father and his bride-to-be their fairy tale.” Her expression softened. “I want this to be a wonderful wedding. Weddings are the start of a new life together, and it’s more than just organizing caterers. It’s launching a couple into their happy ever after.” Her pointed face glowed.
It dawned on him that Greer—quiet, studious Greer with the dickwad titty-mag-mogul father—was a romantic. No wonder she’d been so devastated over their interlude in the gardens. He mentally filed that information away. “So why am I a problem?”
“Because I hate you and I can’t be around you without being angry.” Her jaw clenched. “Because I need to focus and the wedding needs to be my focus, not how much I want to punch your face.”
He grinned and reached for one of her dainty hands. “You wouldn’t do much damage with one of these—”
She jerked out of his grasp and jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch me! You lost that privilege the night you were a sperm donor.”
“You mean the night we had sex,” he said flatly. Her constant insults were starting to nick at his temper. “Call it what it was.”
“I am calling it what it was,” Greer corrected. “It wasn’t sex. Or if it was, it was sex in the very loosest interpretation of the term. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Asher, but . . . you’re terrible at it.”
That . . . was unexpected. Greer the virgin chiding him on how bad he was at sex? “I’m terrible?”
She gave him a pained little grimace. “I’m sure no man wants to hear that, but I figure I’m doing the world a service by correcting you.” She stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “It really was not good, Asher. I’m sorry.”
He was torn between amusement and irritation. “What part?”
“All of it.” She gave an emphatic nod. “I’m afraid that whatever you think your technique is, you’re going to have to go back to the drawing board.”
Her cheeks looked flushed, and she was starting to fidget. He was intrigued at her reaction despite himself. Asher crossed his arms over his chest and did his best to look insulted. “Let’s break this down so I know what I need to work on, then. Kissing?”
“Dreadful.”
“Dreadful?”
“There was entirely too much slobber and tongue. I felt like you were looking for my tonsils.”
Well, damn. No matter how amused he was at the conversation, some things stung. There went his ego, deflating like a popped balloon. He’d never had anyone complain about his kissing before. He’d been drunk but he’d never thought being drunk destroyed his “technique” that badly. “I see. So, less tongue.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“What about my foreplay? I’m pretty good at that.”
“What foreplay? You groped me once and then pulled my panties off.”
Okay, he must have been really, really drunk to neglect his partner like that. He’d always made sure Donna came more than once before he ever got his. If ever there was an incentive to remain sober for the rest of his life, there it was. “Point taken.”
“Don’t ask me to critique the rest,” she said, and she looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t pleasant.”
“Would you believe me if I promised you that it was all the alcohol and I swear I’m much better at sex than you think I am?”
“Oh, Asher,” she said softly. She gave him a pitying look. “No, I don’t believe you.”
He barked with laughter. Fair enough. He’d deserved that. He was just about to ask her to critique his package when she wove unsteadily on her feet and her face went white. “Greer?”
Her hand went to her forehead, and he saw it was shaking like a leaf. “I . . . I don’t—”
He shot up from the bench and grabbed her before she could collapse. “Greer!” Her body felt fragile against his, and he cradled her against his chest. Her face was beaded with sweat, and her lips were pale, mouth parted. Her glasses were askew and he pulled them off her face, gently tapping her cheek.
Asher’s heart pounded in his chest. “Greer. Talk to me, baby. Let me know you’re okay.”
Her eyes fluttered after a moment. “I’m fine,” she breathed. “I just need a moment.”
“You’re not fine,” he growled, and picked her up in his arms. She was so light, her body so damn fragile. He sat her down on one of the benches and ripped off his blazer. “You nearly passed out.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he told her, wadding up his jacket to act as a pillow, and guided her to lie down on the bench. It was so damned hot out—why had she asked to meet out in a garden in the desert in summer? “Tell me what I can do.”
“Just give me a moment,” she said, pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”