The Inheritance Games

“What are we doing here?”

“Sighing melodramatically,”

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

“He left you the fortune, Avery, and all he left us is you.”

“There’s a chance that Hawthorne House is just a tiny bit hard to navigate. Imagine, if you will, that a labyrinth had a baby with Where’s Waldo?, only Waldo is your rooms.”

I attempted to translate that ridiculous sentence. “Hawthorne House has an unconventional layout.”

Xander did away with a fifth and final scone. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words?”

“Aren’t you supposed to hate me?” I asked.

“I do hate you,” Xander replied, happily devouring his third scone. “If you notice, I have kept the blueberry confections for myself and gave you”—he shuddered—“the lemon-flavored scones. Such is the depth of my loathing for you personally and on principle.”

“What do you think, Gray? Got a nickname preference for our new landlord?”

Landlord. Jameson was rubbing it in, like he could handle being disinherited if it meant that the heir apparent had lost everything, too.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Grayson said lowly.

“I think we both know,” Jameson replied, “that the only person you’ve ever protected is yourself.”

“So,” Nash said beside me, casually eyeing his brothers. “Whose ass do I need to kick first?”

Grayson looked up from the book he was holding. “Must we always resort to fisticuffs?”

“Looks like I have a volunteer for the first ass-kicking,” Nash said, then shot a measuring look at Jameson, who was leaning against one of the wrought-iron staircases.

“Leave her alone,” I told Nash.

“You’re protective,” Nash commented, “and you seem like you’d fight dirty, and if there’s one thing I respect, it’s those particular traits in combination.”

“Sometimes,” Jameson Hawthorne said, sounding strangely contemplative, “things that appear very different on the surface are actually exactly the same at their core.”

“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.”