There was a difference between sentimental and straight-up asshole and he knew which category Stijn fell under. Asher made a mental note to have a talk with the man when he saw him again. Fucking bastard. “I don’t get why you care so much about this wedding when your own father treats you like a second-class citizen.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment he worried he’d offended her. But then she gave a tiny sigh and spoke. “I’m not too proud to say that part of me would like for my father to recognize how much work I’ve put into things. But it’s not about me, truly. This is the first time he’s married, and no matter who my father picks, that woman is going to be part of my family. It’s the least I can do to welcome her and make her feel loved and important.”
Ironic that it would fall to Stijn’s often-forgotten daughter to make his new bride feel important. But he understood. To Greer, it wasn’t about who he was marrying. It was something else entirely. “Family’s important to you, isn’t it?”
“It’s been the one thing I’ve never truly had.” Her voice was soft. “My mother died when I was eight, and the only memories I have of her are . . . not pleasant. She was in a very bad place for as long as I can remember, but she still loved me and made sure I had a caring nanny. Then, when she died, I went to live with my father, and, well.” She paused. “You can see how loving and attentive he is. But like I said, I did have nannies. And the staff at my father’s home has always been wonderful to me. They’re my family more than my father has been. My father’s parents were dead before I was born, and he had no brothers or sisters. There’s just only been him.”
He didn’t miss that wistful note in her voice, though. The tone that said as much as she accepted the past, she still hoped for it to someday change. And he hated that and wanted to fix it for her. He wanted to give her the big family she craved. He’d never had one himself, but he’d also never felt the loss like she had. Asher had grown up in a series of rigid foster homes and state care and the moment he was old enough, he’d escaped their control and set off on his own. “What about your mother’s side of the family? Did you ever visit them? How come they never took you in?”
“My father wouldn’t let them when I was younger,” Greer admitted. “I think it was a vanity thing more than anything else. When I turned eighteen, though, before I went to college—before we met—I went to India and visited my mother’s family in Agra.”
“You did?” He’d never known. “How was it?”
“It was wonderful.” The wistfulness in her voice nearly broke his heart. “India was like nowhere I’d ever been before and I loved it. The people there looked like me, not like Barbies. Everything was so vibrant and alive.”
“But . . . you didn’t stay?”
“I didn’t.” She sighed. “To them, I was still too American. Too different. I didn’t know the culture, or the language. And my mother’s family was extremely traditional and my mother . . . well. I mentioned she did porn, yes?”
“You have.”
“It sort of polluted things before I ever set foot there. India was beautiful, but I still didn’t fit in. I didn’t fit in there or with my father’s world, and I eventually realized that if I wanted a home, I’d have to make my own for myself.” She paused, and then her voice grew lighter. “Happens to everyone, I imagine.”
He knew what she meant. Having been bounced from foster home to state care facility as a teenager, he’d had no one he could call his own, until Donna. Maybe that was one reason why he’d latched on to her so hard. He’d wanted a family of his own, too. “You could always go back, you know.”
“I could,” she agreed. “I could take lessons in the language and learn the culture, but it still wouldn’t be a perfect fit. I love India. It’s beautiful, and it makes me realize who I could have been. But I’m not that girl, so I came back.”
He hated to hear her say that. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She chuckled. “Oh, come on, Asher. We both know you’re just sucking up to me because you want to extend the deadline for our bargain.”
He wasn’t. To him, she was beautiful. Not in an exotic way, but in a comforting way. She was brown-skinned and dark-eyed because it was who she was, just like her stubborn adherence to flat shoes despite her diminutive height. She was who she was, and she owned it, and he loved that. To him, that subtle confidence was a thousand times sexier than all the overly made-up Bunnis and Tiffis in the world. “I don’t need to extend our deadline.”
“No?” Her tone of voice was difficult to interpret. “Are you giving up, then?”
“Not at all.” His hand went to his cock and he stroked it absently, his mind picturing her curled up in her bed again, toying with her long hair. “I’ve got you right now, don’t I?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, tell me what you’re wearing.”
There was a little pause on the other end. “Phone sex?” She sounded scandalized.
She . . . also wasn’t hanging up, was she? That meant she was intrigued. “Yeah. Maybe I need brushing up on it, too.”
“If it’s anything like the rest of your technique? Probably.”
Oh, so tart. He loved it. He loved the mock-outrage in her voice and the fact that she wasn’t abandoning him at the thought. “So . . . tell me what you’re wearing.”