Page 18 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part Two

“Also,” Greg adds just before he steps out of the vehicle, “you’ll meet the rest of your security detail when we get back to London, Lord Savoy.” He’s intentionally rubbing it in a bit, like a dominant asshole.

Yeah, I’m fourth in line to the fucking throne now. I always was, but now everyone else knows it too.

“I get Mirth,” I whisper to myself, waiting like a good little boy for Greg to secure the entrances and exits, then open my door. “I get Mirth. I can handle all of this because it comes with Mirth.”

Rian Callaghan is leaning against an aged wooden door in a long, otherwise empty corridor. The lower level of the building, as well as the stairwell, was thronged with students dashing between morning classes, so the empty upper hall is a welcome relief.

Mixed-race, the wolf shifter is a ridiculously pretty, green-eyed boy on the verge of becoming a stupidly gorgeous male specimen.

I had noted it offhandedly when I briefly met him outside the Lake Thun stables.

But it’s understanding his connection to Mirth — and by extension, his connection to me — that makes me look closer, see more, now.

Not that I can’t handle the competition. I never did give a shit about my own looks, and they never attracted anything of value for me anyway. Mirth loves me despite the way I look. She never was big on drawing attention, and that’s all my face does.

I already know that Rian doesn’t swing my way, not even a little.

Not that I’m particularly attracted to him.

My main concern — especially because I’m certain that Mirth, who so easily accepts people at face value, didn’t pick this up from our last joint conversation — is that I’m not sure Rian’s going to be great at sharing either.

That’s a complication. Because Mirth needs him. Therefore, the fledgling Savoy bond group needs him.

Oddly, though— because it’s unusual for me to attempt to juggle multiple complications at once— none of that is actually why I’ve abandoned Eli’s shopping list and hopped on a plane to Dublin.

Dressed in worn jeans, not-so-worn work boots, and a white T-shirt under his black sweater, Rian looks up as I approach.

Arms crossed protectively across his chest, he clearly hopes I’m someone else but already knows I’m not.

An old black leather backpack, barely half full, slumps against the wall at his feet.

“It’s rare that people frown at the first sight of me,” I say like a complete asshole, smoothing a hand and a touch of my essence down my dark-navy suit jacket. I count the buttons — thankfully just in my head — before I can quash the impulse. Four. Only the top button done up.

“Sully.” Rian offers me a conciliatory smile, straightening away from the door. His Irish lilt is more pronounced than it had been over the phone or at Lake Thun, maybe from being back in Ireland.

I’m pleased he doesn’t give a shit about titles, though his gaze flicks to Greg hovering at the entrance to the corridor behind me, and a bit of his frown returns.

“Mirth insisted,” I say. “Though she thought I was going to be wandering around London all day, yammering on about being Lord Savoy and buying expensive shit. Either way, she decided that poor Greg here should keep me safe.”

Rian raises an eyebrow. “What expensive shit?”

I shrug. “Like a house. And art to put in it. How many houses do we need in London?”

“We?” Rian asks, just a little edged.

I grin at him, just a little snarky myself.

Because he should know that I’m cool to let him fuck around, feign ignorance, or avoid shit, but only until it bores or bothers me.

He’ll have a difficult time outplaying me anyway, if I’m in the mood.

To make that clear, I deliberately glance at the name plaque beside the door he’s been holding up — Professor Trina Callaghan .

He’s staked out his psychologist mother’s campus office.

“Is she in class or dodging you?”

“Both,” he huffs. “Maybe.”

“Let’s grab a coffee or whatever while we wait.”

“While we wait?”

“Yeah, we.”

Rian takes a deep breath, then finally drops his arms to his sides with a somewhat doubtful nod of agreement.

I get that the situation is overwhelming. So reminding myself I’m here for a reason, I drop my selfish-prick mask, stepping just close enough to grasp the top of his shoulder.

I don’t touch easily. Not like this, but … I want to make this work.

I’m not certain what I bring to this bond group yet, other than mountainous piles of dirty money.

And … Mirth doesn’t need my money. Bolan doesn’t give a fuck about assets or other such shit.

Depending on how the earl’s assets are tied up, Eli probably could have bailed Christoph out himself, so the duke didn’t have to sell land to maintain his inherited estate. Or start his winery.

But I still don’t want to just be an unlimited bank account to everyone but Mirth.

Rian looks me steadily in the eye — he’s about ten centimeters taller — then grasps the side of my shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For coming. I know you’d rather be with Mirth.”

“She didn’t send me.”

“I know.”

“Eli says we need more horses. Did he send you a shopping list?”

Rian swallows, presumably at the mention of Eli, not the prospect of buying horses. But then he laughs, still sounding just a little overwhelmed. “Not to me.”

“All right, then. You can help me with mine.”

I drop my hold on him. Rian picks up and swings his backpack over his shoulder, and we turn back down the empty corridor. Greg hovers near the exit to the stairs, looking everywhere but directly at us.

“So … Mirth, you, and me …” Rian prompts. “And Lord Elias Hereford? Just the three of us?”

I glance over at him. “No. Though nothing has been solidified yet.”

“I guess that’s a conversation for Mirth and me,” he murmurs.

“Some of it,” I say. “But this, today, is about you getting some answers you need, right? About your dad?”

Hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, head slightly bowed, Rian nods. But he doesn’t continue the conversation.

“Coffee shop?” I ask Greg as we near.

The cat shifter nods, types something into his phone, then opens the door to the stairs.

Rian and I trail behind Greg down to the first floor, crossing toward the main entrance.

Classes must have started because fewer students than before traverse these lower corridors, barely glancing our way.

My suit, rather than my blue hair, likely stands out more on campus.

Rian brushes his shoulder against mine in that tactilely casual shifter way.

And I know, no matter how much I want to be Mirth’s shadow right now, that I’ve made the right choice in coming to support him.

Armin should be with us too.

Maybe all of this wouldn’t feel so disjointed, so rushed, if Armin were still with us. Mirth wouldn’t have been forced to choose anything at all. All of our relationships — as lovers and friends — could have unfolded more naturally.

Hot tears spike behind my lashes, my cheeks flushing with restrained emotion, restrained grief.

Rian brushes his shoulder against mine again, intentionally this time. He presumably can smell my grief, though he doesn’t know me all that well yet.

I clear my throat, and we don’t acknowledge it further. Neither of us can do anything about any sense of what should have been involving Armin anyway.

According to the map Greg has pulled up on his phone, the University College Dublin has a few small coffee shops spread throughout the campus.

Rian matches my stride, not bothering to hurry or to duck or cover his head in the rain, driven now by a rising wind, any more than I do as we cross from the building that houses his mother’s offices to a nearby bustling cafe.

As we push through the glass doors, students in a range of ages take one look at Rian and me and get a little stuck.

A hush momentarily falls throughout the space.

It’s enough to unnerve Greg just a bit. The cat shifter had fallen slightly back to give us an illusion of privacy, but now he slips forward to place himself between us and the seating area as we join the line at the counter.

Understandably, really. Mirth doesn’t have a few million followers on her socials, then make a habit of wandering into college-campus cafes.

Heroically, both Rian and I attempt to ignore Greg as the cat shifter continues to stay between the two of us and everyone else as we order, while also trying to blend in. He’s unsuccessful. But then, so am I.

“Spanish latte,” I say to the cashier, not bothering to scan the menu.

Sporting an adorable septum piercing, she just gulps and nods before turning wide brown eyes on Rian.

“Triple espresso,” he says. “Straight.”

I give him a little amused look at the pointed ‘straight,’ but he doesn’t catch it. Or he deliberately ignores it. “Greg?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” the cat shifter says, his back to me.

Rian scans his phone over the card reader and inputs a generous tip. I should be pleased he doesn’t expect me to pay, but it bothers me instead.

I smile at the cashier. “Thank you.”

She smashes her lips together as if frantically suppressing a massive smile, muttering something that might be, “You’re very welcome,” while barely opening her mouth. I turn to scan the seating area.

All the tables are occupied, but a trio of women sitting in the corner by the window — and obviously eyeing us — stand up, giggling quietly and grinning among themselves as they heft backpacks over their shoulders.

“We’ve got a class,” a brunette with her long hair partly twisted back from her temples calls out, waving us over.

“Thanks.” I flash her a grin, causing more giggles to erupt from the next table and from two more over.

I turn back to pick up my latte, ignoring the whispers of “Do you know who that is?” and “That’s Salvatore!” and “Fuck, he’s even tastier in person!” Then, as the group moves to the exit, the first brunette says, “Who is that other guy? He’s adorable. Should we know him too?”