The Inheritance Games

“What are we doing here?”

“Sighing melodramatically,”

If there’s any part of you that wants to find me

“You.” Alisa greeted him with a steely-eyed look.

“I take it I’m not forgiven for interfering?” Grayson asked.

“You’re nineteen,” Alisa retorted. “Would it kill you to act like it?”

“It might.” Grayson flashed his teeth in a smile. “And you’re welcome.”

“You.” Alisa greeted him with a steely-eyed look.

“I take it I’m not forgiven for interfering?” Grayson asked.

“You’re nineteen,” Alisa retorted. “Would it kill you to act like it?”

“It might.” Grayson flashed his teeth in a smile. “And you’re welcome.”

“Are you the world-saving type?” Alisa asked, like that was a perfectly ordinary question.

“No?” I guessed.

“Ever had your life ruined by someone with the last name Hawthorne?” Alisa continued.

I stared at her, then managed to answer more confidently this time. “No.”

Alisa smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lucky you.”

“You asked how I know where you father is.” His eyes were the same color as his suit—gray, bordering on silver. “It would be best, for the moment, for you to just assume that I know everything.”

His voice would have been pleasant to listen to if it weren’t for the words. “A guy who thinks he knows everything,” I muttered. “That’s new.”

“It’s not what you think,” Libby promised. She was an apology cupcake baker. A guilty cupcake baker. A please-don’t-be-mad-at-me cupcake baker.

I couldn’t let myself get any angrier. Instead, I pictured myself playing chess. I marked out the moves in my mind. Girls like me didn’t get to explode.

“I brought a copy for you. I suggest we retire to your rooms and go over the details.”

“Our rooms?” I repeated. The doormen were wearing tuxedos. There were six chandeliers in the lobby. Nearby, a woman was playing a five-foot-tall harp. “We can’t afford rooms here.”

Alisa gave me an almost pitying look. “Oh, honey,” she said, then recovered her professionalism. “You own this hotel.”

“I brought a copy for you. I suggest we retire to your rooms and go over the details.”

“Our rooms?” I repeated. The doormen were wearing tuxedos. There were six chandeliers in the lobby. Nearby, a woman was playing a five-foot-tall harp. “We can’t afford rooms here.”

Alisa gave me an almost pitying look. “Oh, honey,” she said, then recovered her professionalism. “You own this hotel.”