Page 9 of The Grandest Game
“Definitely late,” Jameson called.
“I am never late.”
“It’s almost as if,” Jameson said innocently, “someone told you the wrong time.”
Lyra barely heard Jameson, because the only sound her brain could process was footsteps on the pavement behind her. She told herself that she was being ridiculous, that she couldn’tfeelGrayson Hawthorne coming closer.
He was nothing to her.
A Hawthorne did this.That memory gave way to another, her father’s voice replaced by Grayson’s:Stop calling.That was the imperious, dismissive order he’d issued the third and final time she’d dialed his number looking for answers, looking forsomething.
To this day, Grayson Hawthorne was the only person she’d evertold about the memory, the dreams, her father’s suicide, the fact that she’d been there.
And Grayson Hawthorne hadn’t cared.
Of course he hadn’t. She was a stranger to him, a nobody, and he was a Hawthorne, an arrogant, cold, above-it-all,assholeHawthorne who didn’t care how many lives his billionaire grandfather had ruined—or whose.
Grayson stopped a few feet shy of Lyra. “I assume, Jamie, that you’re aware that you’re being watched.”
“Oh, I assure you, he most definitely is.” That reply hadn’t come from Jameson.
Lyra finally managed to turn around. Beyond Grayson—who she didnotlook at—she could see a figure strolling toward them, far enough away that he shouldn’t have been able to hear or respond to the conversation.
And yet…Lyra studied the new arrival. He was tall, broad through the shoulders but lean everywhere else, and he moved with a grace that she recognized, like to like. His accent was British, his skin light brown, his cheekbones sharp.
And his smile was nothing short of dangerous.
His black, thick hair curled slightly on the ends, but there was nothingmessyabout it. About him. “Though, as a point of clarification,” the newcomer said, his eyes locking on to Lyra’s, “Jamesonwasn’t the one I was watching.”
Me, Lyra thought.He was watching me. Scoping out the competition.
“Rohan,” Jameson greeted, his tone half-accusing and half-amused.
“Pleasure to see you, too, Hawthorne.” The guy’s accent sounded less aristocratic than it had a moment before, and Lyra was hit with the sudden sense that thisRohancould be whoever he wanted to be.
If only it were that easy for her.
“Take a step back,” Grayson ordered. Lyra wasn’t sure if he was talking to Jameson or Rohan. The only thing that was clear was thatherpresence didn’t even register.
“My uptight and somewhat less charismatic brother here is going to be the one making sure everybody plays by the rules this year,” Jameson warned Rohan. “Yourself included.”
“Personally,” Rohan said, his gaze going back to Lyra’s, his lips slowly curving intothatsmile again, “I find that playing by the rules isexactlyhalf the fun.”
Chapter 7
LYRA
Jameson flew the helicopter, which surprised Lyra less than the fact that Grayson deigned to ride in back with the players—four of them in total. The introductions had already been made.
Focus on the competition, Lyra told herself.Not on Grayson Hawthorne.
Rohan was to her right, conveniently blocking—or mostly blocking—Grayson from view. The British competitor sat with his long legs stretched out slightly, his posture casual—deliberately so. Opposite Rohan was a guy in his mid-twenties who Jameson had introduced as Knox Landry. Lyra turned her attention to him.
Knox had frat-boy hair, gelled and combed back except where it fell artfully into his face. He was white, lightly tanned, and brunette with shrewd eyes, dark eyebrows, and a sharp jawline, and he wore an expensive fleece sports vest over a collared shirt. The combined effect of his outfit and his hair should have screamedcountry cluborfinance bro, but a nose that had been broken one time too many whisperedbar fightinstead.
As Lyra studied him, Knox openly returned the favor. Whatever he saw in her, the guy clearly wasn’t impressed.
Underestimate me. Please.Lyra was used to it. There were worse things in the world than being handed a strategic advantage, right off the bat.
