“How . . . how does Asher look at me?”
Kiki’s expression grew wistful. “Like you’re the best thing in the world and he’d do anything to have you.”
Oh. Greer’s stomach fluttered, and she felt her nipples tighten imperceptibly at the thought of Asher’s possessive glances. Others had noticed? She wasn’t sure how she felt about that . . . but it wasn’t making her unhappy.
And what did that say about her? Flustered, Greer pulled out her seating chart and tipped it towards Kiki. “There’s nothing going on, I promise. And as for your feelings, lots of brides get nervous before their wedding. You have a more unconventional wedding, so your nerves are going to be a little stronger than most.”
“You think so?” Oh, poor Kiki. She sounded so sad. But what could Greer do? Tell her not to marry Stijn? Not only would she be working against her father—the father she’d always desperately wanted to impress—but she’d be torpedoing her own wedding that she’d spent so much time organizing. And brides did have cold feet, and often changed their minds a dozen times before still showing up at the altar, all smiles. Most of the time, the panic was for nothing.
Most of the time.
“I know so,” Greer assured Kiki. “It’s all going to be fine.”
***
Gretchen: So like, we’re besties, right?
Greer: Of course!
Gretchen: Can I be your date to your dad’s wedding?
Greer: You . . . want to go to my dad’s wedding?
Gretchen: Hell yeah!
Gretchen: It’s going to be a TRAIN WRECK.
Gretchen: I shouldn’t have said that.
Gretchen: I’m sure it’s going to be a very nice wedding! But dude. I want front row seats for the bridal roulette.
Gretchen: Greer? Hello?
Gretchen: Oh come on. You know I’m just teasing you. We’re still friends, right? Love you? Kisses? Can a girl help it if she wants tickets to the craziest wedding of the century?
Greer: I’m not getting you tickets. There’s no tickets. It’s a wedding!
Gretchen: Damn.
***
Chelsea: Hey, so this is weird, but Gretchen wanted me to ask you something about the wedding.
Greer: Not you, too??
Chelsea: Not me what?
Greer: Oh, you mean Gretchen’s wedding? Sorry. I’m getting my weddings mixed up. What’s up?
Chelsea: She wanted to know if she could get tickets? And if it would be tacky to place a bet on which bride because it’s in Vegas?
Greer: Tell her she is dead to me.
Chelsea: :)
Her friends were jerks. Funny, but still jerks.
Actually, okay, they weren’t jerks. It wasn’t their fault she was totally stressing and losing her mind over this wedding. Greer peeked out the window in her room and frowned at the line of cars parked outside the gates. Already the paparazzi were showing up, and the wedding still wasn’t for two days yet. All afternoon, a helicopter had been flying overhead, and every time she left, she was trailed by someone following her, desperate to get details of the wedding.
She’d known it’d be a media frenzy, but she’d had no idea it’d be this crazy.
Her father’s wedding seemed to have captured the attention of the celebrity-loving tabloids. There wasn’t a day that went by that some new magazine didn’t have a new, lurid tidbit about the wedding, or “bridal confessions” or anything else to catch the public’s eye. Two of the triplets were eating up the attention. Kiki just seemed more tense as time went on. Her father? Her father was extremely pleased. He didn’t give two shits about the wedding itself, but the attention it was getting? He loved it, because it was good for business. Already he was planning a honeymoon issue of Dutchman magazine and some video sales. Of what, she had no clue—nor did she want to know.
And Greer?
Well, other than being utterly stressed by the pending wedding?
She was happier than she’d ever been. Being with Asher was just as she’d dreamed it. No, better, because she’d never imagined she could be so happy. When they weren’t together, they were constantly texting or sending silly notes to each other. When she had free time (and sometimes when she didn’t), he’d swing by the castle and pick her up so she could enjoy a nice quiet dinner somewhere. Most of the time it was back at his hotel room.
And they “practiced.” A lot. God, did they ever practice. They’d practiced so much that Greer’s head felt as if it were in a permanent fog of bliss. The sex was incredible. Granted, her standards had been pretty low when she’d agreed to the deal they’d made, but the reality kind of blew her mind. He insisted on making her come more than once each time he had her in his bed, and one night, he’d held his promise about licking her pussy for hours.
Yeah . . . that had been a really good night.
It was more than just sex, too. It was the way he touched her and held her. It was the way he talked to her about his day and asked for her advice on his business—as if she knew anything about outsourcing! But she liked that he asked her anyway. It meant that he valued her opinion.
Asher had proven to be sensible when it came to the wedding, too. Whenever the triplets thought up something new they wanted, he sensibly talked them into a much easier alternative—or out of the idea altogether. He was at every wedding meeting she conducted, and even though Bunni had done her best to flirt with him the entire time, he only had eyes for Greer.
So yeah, getting knocked up by a drunken man at a party? It might have been the best thing that had ever happened to Greer. She touched her stomach as she considered that, reviewing the endlessly changing placard of seating arrangements. Tiffi had showed up this morning with a laundry list of people she wanted out of the wedding and new people she wanted in and expected Greer to make it happen. She was doing her best, but it meant rearranging a lot of the seating. She couldn’t have the mayor of Las Vegas sitting next to the head of a pornography video company . . . could she? Or did it depend on if they brought wives? Most of the etiquette books didn’t give examples for that sort of thing, alas.