tricks of time ― grayson hawthorne [the inheritance games]

008. SLUMBER PARTY

He doesn't answer me at first, just jollily shoves another scone in his mouth. He chews through it for another 20 seconds, then answers. "I do hate you. If you see, I saved the blueberry confections for myself and handed you the lemon-flavored scones," he shivered. "Such is the extent of my dislike for you, both personally and philosophically."

I roll my eyes, but I'm amused. "Seriously. This isn't a joke."

His shoulders drop. "Why would I hate you, Leah?" Xander asked finally. There were layers of emotion in his tone that hadn't been there before. "You aren't the one who did this."

Tobias Hawthorne had.

"Perhaps you're blameless." Xander shrugged his shoulders. "Or, you're the diabolical genius that Gray believes you are, but even if you believed you'd influenced our grandfather into doing this, I promise he'd be the one manipulating you."

"Your grandfather was....a piece of work," I told Xander. He picked up a fourth scone.

"I agree. In his honor, I eat this scone," and he did. "Want me to show you the confection room?"

A confection room. A room dedicated to just confections.

There's got to be a catch here. Xander Hawthorne, like his name, was a Hawthorne. There was something more about him that he wasn't revealing.

"Thank you for the offer, really," I tell him "but I'm going to wander around for a bit before going to bed."

"Regarding that..." The youngest Hawthorne brother made a face. "There's a chance Hawthorne House is a little tricky to find your way around. 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, but failed. "Really, Xander, I'll be fine."

A fifth and final scone was gobbled away by Xander. "Has anybody ever told you that you have a way with words?"

"Goodnight, Xander," I say, continuing to giggle. I half-run up the stairwell as he gestures at me, his mouth full of scones. Nonetheless, I got the unsettling impression that he was still trailing me.

I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't even close my eyes, so I went on exploring. I discovered a theater down a lengthy corridor. It wasn't a movie theater, but more like an opera house. The walls were gleaming gold. What seemed to be a stage was concealed by a crimson velvet curtain. The seats were on an incline. The ceiling arced, and as I switched a switch, hundreds of tiny lights along that arc sprang to life. I remember, Dr. Mac had mentioned the Hawthorne Foundation's support for the arts.

The next room over was filled with musical instruments—dozens of them. I bent to look at a violin with an S carved to one side of the strings, its mirror image on the other. Then there was a trumpet, with brass that glistened so brightly that it seemed unreal. Then my gaze was drawn to a piano, and I grinned broadly to no one in particular. I sat down slowly and cautiously on the seat, afraid of breaking something. I tentatively played a few notes, then beamed at the keys. I softly stroked my fingers across the keys, the notes smooth and connected.   Then, brought my left hand up to play the same  melody I'd known since I was a baby. Moonlight Sonata.

It had been my mother's favorite, and I had promised myself that I would never forget it after her death. I'd only ever had her teach me the first movement, and I'd figured out the rest on my own. In memory of her. Yet I didn't notice the figure leaning against the doorway until they spoke.

Leslie appeared in the doorway. "This is unreal," she said. "This entire place is unreal."

"That's an understatement." I tried to focus on the piano, but failed. I stared back up at her.

Leslie paused for a few seconds more before walking up to the balcony and testing the door. I followed suit, and the two of us took a step out into the cold nighttime air. There was a swimming pool down below. Someone was swimming laps. Grayson.  My body recognized who he was before my head did. In a ruthlessly effective butterfly stroke, his arms pounded against the water. And his back muscles...I couldn't tear my eyes away from him.

"I have to tell you something," Leslie said beside me. I brushed my flying hair away from my hair, staring at her.

"I heard something." Leslie swallowed. "It's bad. I overheard Zara and her husband talking. They're running a test— a DNA test. On you."

I had no idea how Zara and her husband had gotten a sample of my DNA, yet something didn't surprise me. This was all part of Hawthorne's antics. The easiest explanation for having a total stranger in your will, I reasoned, was that she wasn't a total stranger at all. The most straightforward answer was that...I was in fact, a Hawthorne.

I had no business watching Grayson at all, but he was all I could focus on as Leslie spoke. "If Tobias Hawthorne was....somehow your father," Leslie managed, "then our dad—my dad—isn't. And if we don't share a dad, and we barely even saw each other growing up—"

"Don't you...don't you dare say that," I choke out. "You're all I have."

"Would you still want me here?" Leslie asked me, her fingers rubbing at her neck nervously. "If we're not—"

I cut her off. "I want you here," I promised. "No matter what."
___

Eventually, I feel sleep creeping itself on me. My eyelids get heavy, and I feel my lashes flutter. I somehow bring myself up to Grayson's room, where I see him walking out of the shower, hair wet and dripping down.

He's in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

I could never have pictured Grayson in anything but a suit.

"Grayson Hawthorne in sweats?," I joke sleepily, but he doesn't say anything. Just punches a pillow lightly. When I see this, I give him a dazed look of bewilderment.

"You— I'm sleeping on the bed!"

He meets my gaze. "About that...I'm sleeping on the bed. I have swim tomorrow and I can't have a bad back for it. You know that."

I swallow, taking in his words. "Actually, no, I didn't know you swim."

"You don't?" he asks. "I'm surprised. I would've thought you would've at least done some research on the family whose fortune you stole," he says, giving me a cruel smile.

I don't say anything. I instead jump onto the bed, and he looks at me, perplexed as I build a bridge of pillows.

"Boundary." I say shortly. "Neither of us cross this, got it?"

He nods curtly, and I begin tucking myself in as I'm drawn back to him, removing his shirt.

"Are you serious?"

"I sleep with my shirt off."

"For crying out loud, can you just not for today? You're sleeping in a bed. With a girl."

"So?"

"So, don't," I snap.

"Too bad."

Asshole, I muttered under my breath.

I turn the light off, and suddenly I can't sleep anymore. Suddenly, I'm wide awake. Because even though I'm staring at the ceiling, I can feel him watching me, the burn of his vision, and I turn away.

Grayson Hawthorne is an unsettling type of person. And I hate him for it.

authors note

n/a

word count: 3036 words