2. Cian
Chapter 2
Cian
S o, can I marry a woman that I really like—a smart, bold, funny, sassy, gorgeous woman—and have a baby with her to make both our families, especially our grandfathers (even if hers is deceased) insanely happy?
Or do I keep holding out for the woman I’m madly in love with but who I haven’t seen in a year and seven months because I can’t fucking find her since she snuck out the morning after our weekend together, quit her job, and moved?
Okay, from what we’ve gathered, she quit her job and planned to move before she met me. It’s not like she left the state because of me. Still, she’s out there somewhere and I can’t find her.
“How crazy would this be?” I ask Henry.
I’ve pulled him over to the windows in the dining room. Though we’re still in the same room with both Astrid’s and my families, the room is enormous—that’s a palace thing, I guess—and we’ve got plenty of space for a private conversation.
“For you to marry Astrid?” Henry asks.
I feel the knot in my gut pull tighter. It’s not as if I showed up to my brother’s wedding with any clue my grandfather would pull out another arranged marriage and that I’d be a part of it.
But Astrid is…awesome.
I’ve known her all my life. We’re definitely friends. I’d probably be an idiot to not marry her. Hell, it probably should have occurred to me that marrying her was a good idea even before now, honestly. Any normal, intelligent man would.
But my first reaction to my grandfather’s announcement is fuck no .
Why?
Because of Scarlett.
Goddammit.
I don’t even know her last name. I haven’t seen her in nineteen fucking months .
However, I can also admit that at least a part of my resistance to marrying Astrid is simply because it’s my grandfather’s idea. His command . I’ve been working very hard, for over a decade, to be sure my grandfather thinks I’m too careless to be given any kind of meaningful command at all.
And it’s been working. Perfectly. My grandfather has never given me any kind of responsibility. No one really has.
Apparently, marriage to his best friend’s granddaughter doesn’t count as a real responsibility though? That seems wrong.
“Say on a scale from one to a hundred?” I ask Henry.
“Probably in the seventies.”
I lift a brow. “Not even in the nineties?”
Henry lifts a shoulder. “It occurs to me that perhaps we should have been prepared for this.”
“Prepared for my grandfather to tell us on the night of my brother’s wedding that I now have to marry Astrid ?” I ask. Astrid and I are the youngest children in our families. And my brother’s wedding was supposed to solve all this ‘arranged marriage’ stuff. “Why should we have prepared for that ?”
Henry never bullshits me. “The agreement never said that the O’Grady grandson that married had to be the one that became king. Or even that it had to be the eldest grandson. It didn’t stipulate which of you would be married to the Olsen girl at all. It simply states, ‘an O’Grady grandson and Olsen granddaughter’.” He pauses. “You and Astrid are the only ones left.”
Right. My brother’s marriage isn’t to an Olsen. But Torin will be the next king of Cara and Abigail will be queen, and my grandfather is thrilled with that. With them. So we all assumed that made the agreement null and void.
I stare at Henry. “This is just now occurring to you?”
He nods. “We—I—really thought the goal was for Linnea to be queen.”
I shove a hand through my hair. “Of course you did. We all did. Linnea did. She’s been raised to be queen. The whole thing is over. The stupid agreement is settled.”
“But evidently not,” Henry says. “Seems a baby is actually the point.”
I feel a jab in the gut. Yeah, that’s news to us all.
The ‘agreement’ between my grandfather, King Diarmuid, and Alfred Olsen, has always been laughed off. They’d come up with it one night playing poker. Rip-roaring drunk. As the story goes—and mind you, the only people who have ever actually recounted this story are my grandfather and Alfred, so they could be making the entire thing up—my grandfather offered up a grandson in order to stay in the game. Alfred accepted the bet… and then, ironically, laid down a royal flush to my grandfather’s measly pair of, perhaps even more ironically, kings.
I mean, what are the chances?
Maybe if they’d said Alfred had a full house and my grandfather had three of a kind. But the added ‘flair’ of the royal flush is a little much.
And if it’s true, what the hell was my grandfather doing betting on a pair? Even if they were kings? That was stupid.
The whole thing seems fishy as hell to me whenever I think about it.
And my grandfather’s delight—and stubborn insistence—over the idea of an O’Grady-Olsen wedding makes me absolutely willing to believe he bet a grandson on a losing hand on purpose.
Making my doubts even stronger, he and Alfred wrote up the agreement on the back of the playbill from the show they’d seen earlier in the evening. This “binding agreement” is whisky stained, smudged, and about seventeen words long. It was also witnessed by men who were just as drunk, not to mention subordinate to both my grandfather and Alfred. But everyone insists it’s completely official.
‘Everyone’ being my grandfather, Alfred, and all of our parents. Meaning that legal or not, there is a lot of pressure, guilt, and manipulation within the family behind making this happen.
And hell, it might be ‘legal’ too. In Cara, anyway. My grandfather is the king. He is more or less the law.
And now, tonight, my grandfather told us all for the first time that they’d assumed a baby would be the ultimate outcome. He and Alfred wanted their families united by blood .
A child. A real, human person who would be a combination of two old, wealthy, influential families’ DNA.
Jesus Christ.
I blow out a breath.
I’m the last man standing. The third and final available O’Grady grandson.
And Astrid is Alfred’s only other granddaughter.
This is crazy.
But kings have this really annoying habit of thinking they can always get their way.
Because they can always get their way.
“Cian? Can I talk to you?”
I turn and find Astrid looking up at me with wide blue eyes. She looks absolutely panicked.
Which makes complete sense.
Miles Stafford, Astrid’s best friend, is standing just behind her. He looks concerned as well.
“Yeah. Of course.”
I’ve known Astrid my entire life. I have been living in the US for the past twelve years, but until I was seventeen, I lived in Cara. Our families have always been close. I’ve always liked Astrid.
Besides being smart, bold, and beautiful, she’s also now famous. She’s a gymnast. Was nearly an Olympian. If it wasn’t for a devastating fall during the qualifying rounds, she would have likely brought a gold medal home to Cara.
Because of her, and her hockey star brother Alex, the world is discovering our tiny, remote country. Astrid and Alex have put Cara on the map, and they are truly heroes in our country.
Despite her injury, she’s now an advocate for athletes with disabilities, an inspirational speaker, a children’s book author, and has a number of endorsements.
Yeah, I should probably just marry her.
If this had all come up two years ago—pre-Scarlett—I would have.
Astrid crosses her arms. “We can’t do this,” she says.
“No?” I ask.
“It’s nuts,” she insists. “We’ve always thought so even when it was Linnea and Torin who were supposed to get married.”
I nod. “Did you have any idea this might happen? To us, I mean?”
“None,” she says, shaking her head. “And I’ve never heard anyone talk about there needing to be a… ba—baby.”
She stumbles over the last word.
I nod. “Me either.”
“I really like you,” she says, sincerely. “You’re great.” She gives a soft laugh. “You’re a catch. And we’d have fun. I’m probably stupid for not wanting this.”
I give her a grin. Astrid and I have a lot in common. She’s got a great sense of humor, and she likes to go out, be amongst people, dance, and laugh, and party. Whenever we’re both in Cara, we go down to the pub and hang out and have a great time.
And she’s beautiful. Being close physically to this girl would not be a hardship.
But…not if there’s an agenda.
And not if she’s going to look like she’s been sentenced to the gallows.
And not since I met Scarlett.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” I say anyway.
Astrid blows out a breath and glances at Miles, then back to me. “I just can’t…it’s not you. It’s me.”
I chuckle. “You don’t have to say that.”
That gets a smile from her. “I mean it. I’m not interested in getting married. At all. To anyone. Ever.”
She looks at Miles again. He’s looking at her with a grim set to his mouth. I wonder if there’s something going on between the two of them. I know I’m not the first one to wonder. They first got close after her injury and Miles became her physical therapist. They’ve been inseparable ever since. The media has certainly speculated on their relationship. But there’s never been any proof, photographic or otherwise, that they’re more than friends. And there would be no reason for them to keep that from the family if there was, so we all assume there’s not.
Still, they’re very close and he clearly knows things about her no one else does.
“Please tell me there’s a way out of this,” Astrid says to me.
Her grandfather passed away about two years ago. It’s been hard on everyone. Alfred was one of a kind. And my grandfather has truly seemed lost without his best friend. We always knew that Alfred was the one person King Diarmuid would listen to when it came to policies and big decisions. Truly, the only off-the-wall thing Alfred ever did was this arranged marriage plan. In every other way, he seemed to keep my grandfather reasonable and open-minded.
Unfortunately, Alfred had suffered with dementia and there had been about five years before his death where he’d been fading, and his personality had changed.
My grandfather slowly lost his best friend and confidant, and we all saw the effects. My grandfather grew gruffer, and more stubborn.
I glance in the direction where our families are standing, gathered around the King.
I frown. I don’t see my brother or his new wife at the moment. Or Linnea and Jonah. All of the people who most recently bucked the king’s expectations. We could use some tips. But I watch everyone else.
Fiona is talking with our mother and grandmother. Very likely advocating for them to step in with the king. I’m sure she thinks this is crazy and doesn’t agree with forcing Astrid and me together. Fiona has always taken care of me.
Hell, all of my siblings have in one way or another. I’m the baby. In every way. No one expects much from me and my three siblings have all given me everything from a home to jobs to advice. I’d left Cara because Torin and Fiona were leaving. Torin’s ideas around abdication were grand and passionate and I was easily won over. Of course I was. My older brother is one of my idols. I’d happily settled in with Fiona and helped her with her mission of rescuing animals and running an endangered animal sanctuary and raising her beloved surprise baby.
I never had to worry about finding a place or purpose.
My siblings have given me both.
You could do this, step up and settle this arranged marriage thing once and for all. You could produce this all-important heir. You could finally be the one who did something big.
I ignore the voice in my head. I hate that voice. The one that nags me about being aimless and a little too carefree.
As I watch Fiona talking with my mother, I wonder briefly if Fiona could have married and produced an O’Grady-Olsen heir with Alex. Probably. Now that we know that a child is the ultimate goal rather than an Olsen sitting on the throne, it seems plausible that Diarmuid and Alfred would have accepted any combination. But Fiona is happily married. So she’s not a possibility either.
That’s what Astrid or I need to do .
The realization hits me right in the face.
Of course. It’s obvious. All we have to do is be in love with and married to someone else.
That would put us out of contention just like Fiona, Torin, and Linnea are.
Or at least one of us needs to do that.
“Are you seeing anyone?” I ask Astrid.
“What?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Anyone at all? Someone who’s a really good friend who would step up and marry you out of convenience?” My gaze settles on Miles.
But Astrid is shaking her head. “No. I don’t want to be married at all.”
“You two couldn’t just fake it for a while?”
“Me and Miles?” Astrid asks, looking shocked.
“Yeah. You’re friends. People already speculate that you’re a thing. Couldn’t you claim that you’re together? Maybe even get married to make it official for a while?”
She frowns. “Define ‘a while’.”
“I don’t know.” I sigh.
I hate to say until my grandfather dies. That just sounds so bad. Plus, he could live another twenty years.
“It’s just an idea,” I say. “Diarmuid accepted Abigail for Torin. He accepted Linnea and Jonah together. If one of us is in love and committed to someone else, he can’t expect us to get married.”
Astrid and Miles look at one another. Miles rolls his eyes.
“How about you and Henry get married?” Miles asks, looking at me again. “That would really put a stop to all of this.”
I glance at Henry and give him a grin. “He’s got a point.”
“That would work except that they’d expect us to kiss each other in public and in front of them,” Henry says, looking bored.
“They would,” I agree, suddenly feeling lighter, because at least the four of us still have our senses of humor. “And we can’t do that. You’d never be able to go back to women.”
“Definitely my biggest concern,” he says dryly.
And I laugh. Things are going to be okay.
Astrid and Miles are grinning too, but after a moment passes, Astrid sighs. “Are you serious?” she asks me and Henry. “I mean, you could be very progressive. Step out as a bi-sexual member of the royal family. That would be cool.” She looks at Miles. “Or should we talk about it?”
“Well.” Miles rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t have a better idea.”
Neither of them looks excited, which is interesting.
I look at Henry. Pretend to be involved with Henry in a romantic relationship? I mean…it wouldn’t be a huge stretch. We already spend all of our time together, live together, like each other a lot, know each other very well. And I’m a royal-in-hiding in the US for the most part. A few people have figured out who my family is, but the number of people who see me on the street and know who I am is extremely tiny. Coming out as a couple with Henry wouldn’t affect my life much.
“What do you think?” I ask him.
“I’d do it,” he says. “But…” He blows out a breath. “Fuck,” he mutters. Then he meets my eyes. “I found her, Cian.”
I frown, trying to figure out what he’s saying. “You…” Then my eyes widen. “ What ?”
“I found Scarlett.”
I let that sink in.
“Scarlett?” I repeat. “ My Scarlett?”
He nods.
Holy shit. He found Scarlett. The woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since we spent the hottest, sweetest, best weekend of my life together. Before she snuck out Monday morning while I was sleeping and completely vanished.
I went back to where we met, where she was working that Friday night, but they told me that had been her last night. We went to her address after Henry dug it up, but the house was empty. Her landlord didn’t have a new address for her. There was no forwarding information submitted to the post office.
I searched every place I could think of in New Orleans. Then every place I could think of in Louisiana.
Henry, who is plugged into a network of law enforcement and resources I don’t even know or understand, has searched for her.
But it’s like she never existed.
After six months, Henry staged an intervention. My friends tried to get me to admit that I was likely never going to see her again. But I couldn’t fully let go.
I still haven’t gotten to that point, but…we aren’t actively searching anymore.
Or so I thought.
“You’re sure ?” I finally ask.
“Yes.” He blows out a breath. “I found her sister first. But yes, I’ve…spoken to Scarlett. It’s her. For sure.”
I react without thinking. I grab the front of his shirt and push him up against the wall. “You’ve spoken to her?”
His eyes don’t even widen. He probably expected this reaction. Plus, he knows he can totally take me if this actually gets physical.
“Yes.”
“When?” I demand.
He hesitates. “Recently.”
I tighten my fist on his shirt and press him more firmly into the wall. “When were you going to tell me?”
“When it was time,” he says. “Maybe.”
Fuck, I hate when he does that. “Stop it.” I shove back from him and push my hand through my hair. “I hate when you get all vague and I-know-better-than-you,” I tell him.
“I couldn’t tell you right away,” he says, smoothing a hand down the front of his dress shirt. “I had to be sure it was her. And then…there are reasons.”
I can’t fucking believe he found her and didn’t tell me. That he’s seen her , talked to her, and I’m just hearing about it.
“Let’s go,” I say. I turn back to Astrid. “I think I have a solution.”
She’s watching us with intrigue. “Scarlett?”
“I—” I look at Henry. “Let’s put it this way. I’m going to get myself married. If it isn’t to Scarlett, then Henry owes me. Big.”
She presses her lips together, clearly trying to fight a smile. She nods. “Okay.”
“I’ll keep in touch. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
She gives me a soft, genuinely affectionate smile. “Okay.” She glances toward our families. “I’ll cover for you.”
“You will?”
“Of course. I’ll tell them we’ve discussed things, but we need some time to really figure things out.”
Right. My grandfather said the engagement would be announced in three months. We’ve got a little time. But not fucking much.
I’ve been looking for Scarlett for nineteen months. Now I know where she is. Or Henry does at least. Three months is plenty of time to let her know exactly how I feel and what I want.
“Thanks, Astrid.”
She nods. “You’re saving me from marrying Miles. I owe you, too.”
“Brat,” Miles mutters.
She shoots him a smile, then looks back to me. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to…” I look at Henry.
“Emerald, Ohio,” Henry tells us.
I narrow my eyes. Emerald? Immediately I think Emerald City . Scarlett’s mom, Judy, is obsessed with the Wizard of Oz. If I’d known there was a city named Emerald, I probably would have thought of looking there.
So we’re going to Ohio. Okay, then. Makes sense why it was hard to find her. Ohio is a long way from the luxury hotel in New Orleans where I last saw her. Or the Pink Ladies strip club on Bourbon Street, where I first saw her.
But it’s not too far away to keep me from going to her.
Nowhere is too far away.