Page 24 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

Good. I don’t have time to teach her. “Then come with me.” I step toward the assistant stylist as I start listing things off to the PA.

“No heaters. Keep the makeup understated when it competes with the dresses and overstated on the males. They need to appear just fucked yet still fuckable. You understand?”

The PA nods. “The lip-gloss-matching technique works for both the males and females. But Ty’s lips and nipples already closely match, so you went for a clear gloss with him.”

She gets it.

The assistant stylist is staring at me as if she wants to tell me off but can’t figure out how to start.

The photographer starts taking pictures of Adria and Ty, who have draped themselves all over each other and are alternating gazing into each other’s eyes and then at the camera as if inviting someone to join them.

More specifically, they’re inviting me, since I’m still in their line of sight.

I smirk at them, getting twin languid grins in return.

“Nice,” the photographer murmurs, pleased. “That’s a keeper.”

I pluck the tablet out of the assistant stylist’s hands, still speaking to the PA. “The ice is for their nipples as needed. They apply it, not anyone else. Check the crotches on all the pants, each outfit, each model.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” the assistant stylist finally says.

I hand the tablet to the PA. “And read my fucking notes.”

“You … you …” the former assistant stylist sputters. “You can’t just waltz in here and —”

The former PA, now the new assistant stylist, spins away, crossing to stand near the photographer without another word.

She shifts her focused attention between the photos as they download onto the laptop, double-checking the notes for the shoot on the tablet, and the models doing their thing in front of her.

“I believe I can,” I say coolly to the now-former assistant, even as I glance up to acknowledge the designer as he hustles toward me from the far photo shoot, having finally noticed my arrival.

Swathed in a pastel lavender brocade suit — the season’s ‘it’ color — he flaps his hands affectedly, grinning wearily.

I smirk back at him. “Maurice.”

“Salvatore. Thank the fuck,” he gasps. His olive skin is flushed, though his dark hair is still perfectly coiffed. “You’re here.”

“He just tried to fire me,” the former assistant stylist all but shrieks.

Her voice and volume is so piercing that I barely stop myself from shoving her away from me. Grimacing, I take a measured step to the side, completely dismissing her.

Maurice blinks at her, completely aghast — at her tone, not her words. She, unfortunately, doesn’t catch that nuance.

He sighs deeply as he snaps out a silver-foiled fan and flicks it — more pissy than fussy — rapidly before his heated face.

The brocade suit, paired with the heaters the former assistant has been running, isn’t going to help him regulate his temperature.

Being a multitalented fabricator mage, I could definitely help.

Maurice’s essence is less … robust, and primarily tuned to textiles.

But my attention is already shifting over his shoulder in the direction of the next shoot in progress.

In a hiss of whispers I don’t bother to listen closely to as I wander off, the former assistant pleads with Maurice to reconsider. He makes some sort of attempt to soothe her, more than I would have thought he’d bother with. Especially given how badly she just tried to screw up his shoot.

They’re fucking, then.

Maurice is poised to launch hot and hard with this collection, which is an exclusive, high-end addendum to the more consumer-friendly late-spring/early-summer collection he previewed last fall.

Trusting your career to someone you’re interested in continuing to fuck, but not committing to, is always a terrible idea.

I might not understand most relationship nuances, but even I get that.

I happily distract myself tweaking the styling for a half-dozen more setups.

But unlike with the first shoot, most of the assistants— and Maurice, of course— have a solid understanding of the brief.

The insistent buzzing settles under my skin as I use more essence than is actually necessary over the course of the afternoon.

I only think to check my phone twice — and then don’t actually bother to check it — before putting it out of mind.

I’m standing off to the side, sipping water, as Maurice gushes over the final setup of the day. He practically vibrates with contented exhaustion, lavishing praise on the equally exhausted models and crew.

The idea of checking my phone flickers through my mind again, reminding me that I should at least respond to the deluge of texts that must be waiting from Fluff and Fizz. But then a delightfully soft, smooth-skinned hand slips gently into mine.

Adria stares straight ahead, feigning that she’s listening to Maurice’s monologue of pleased praise while we all bear witness to the final few shots being captured. I grin down at her.

She’s in no way as subtle as she thinks.

She angles her head, exposing her neck as she guides my attention toward Ty.

The shifter model is lounging against the far wall next to a smaller Jan van Huysum still life.

Yes, more flowers, mostly roses and poppies, with an iris, I think.

And more bugs, including a couple of moths and a wasp.

But also a nest with unhatched finch eggs.

So while I’m still not a fan of the color palette, I guess it’s less … morbid?

I’m thinking about everything too much, jumping focus. I could take my meds now. But Ty flashes a grin, and Adria squeezes my hand, and I don’t want my meds. I want to be distracted, not hyperfocused or dampened.

Ty’s grin widens wickedly in my direction, though his gaze flicks to Adria with even more intent. He’s more interesting, more real, vibrant, than the famous painting hanging next to his shoulder, but the look gives me a slight pause.

With the way that Adria caressed his cock without explicit consent, I assumed they were an item. But his gaze and his slightly stiff body language tell me differently.

“Are the two of you together, beauty?” I ask her.

She shivers, nipples peeking through the oversized thin black sweater she’s thrown on instead of getting into her street clothes. Her gaze lingers on my mouth. “With you, we want to be.”

Her more than him, I suspect.

But I still let her tug me away from the shoot and toward Ty. He’s thrown on sweatpants in that typical shifter way. They ride exceptionally low on his hips. His cock hardens in anticipation as we approach.

I drop Adria’s hand to grab my satchel, which I’ve left hanging on the end of one of the now-disorganized clothing racks, not bothering to sling it over my shoulder.

Adria prances ahead, smiling at Ty, then glancing saucily over her shoulder at me.

Her long sweater barely covers her delectable ass and completely falls off one shoulder when she spins back to reach for Ty.

They’ve both refreshed their makeup, matching what I previously applied.

With her arm looped over the back of Ty’s neck, Adria reaches for me. I wave her off, giving her a grin to tell her I’m happy to follow. She playfully shoves Ty out into the short corridor. By the time I join them there, she’s pressed him up against the wall with her tongue deep in his mouth.

I hum appreciatively. “So pretty,” I purr.

Ty palms Adria’s ass. She moans into his mouth, arching her back for my benefit.

Then she’s spinning away from him, leaving the poor boy a little befuddled as she beckons for me with both hands, walking backward.

I sling my satchel over one shoulder to take her hands. Ty prowls ahead of us, opening a door off the corridor.

Inside the mostly empty room beyond — an auxiliary gallery for more intimate displays, perhaps — a few candles light the space in a wash of flickering gold.

The candles, along with a teal settee and a stiff-backed chair that are the room’s only furniture, have obviously been quickly cobbled together, based on the improvised candle holders— mostly compostable cups and used light-gel filters in an array of colors.

The settee occupies the center of the space, likely an unused prop from the shoot. It’s draped with multiple sheets.

I stifle a chuckle, setting my satchel just inside the door. I palm my phone, navigating a slight spike in anxiety when I force myself to not check the screen for messages.

Ty struts to the settee, settling back in a pose similar to the one I arranged for their first shoot. He’s having no issue filling the crotch of the sweatpants.

I slide into the chair. It’s been set at a perfect distance, a perfect viewing angle, from the settee.

“What a treat,” I murmur, though the two of them have slightly miscalculated. Or they know just enough about my more recent predilections to set the scene, but not enough to understand that my attention span is so ridiculously short that the duplication of the photo shoot is a slight misstep.

I perch forward on the chair, cross my legs, and settle my phone on my knee, pressing it under my hand facedown.

Behind me, Adria slides her warm fingers into my collar, reaching around to loosen my tie. Then, leaving the tie still knotted, she unbuttons a few of my shirt buttons. I refuse to count how many, focusing on the soft caress of her breasts against my head, neck, and shoulders.

Ty cups his cock through his sweatpants, not rubbing.

I feel my first stir of true interest when Adria slips her hand fully into my shirt, tweaking my nipple as she nibbles along my neck. She touches my chin, trying to angle my lips to hers.

Except I don’t kiss people I don’t love.

And one of those very few people — those two people? — is dead now.

I tap her wrist in playful reprimand. “Go to Ty, beauty.”