The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

The waitress appeared. “Have you decided?”

“I’m not hungry.” Because what I was interested in wasn’t on the menu.

Royce gave her a strained smile. “We’ll each have the filet, medium rare, with a Caesar salad.” He snatched up the wine list and pointed to an entry. “And this bottle of wine, please.”

She was gone almost instantly.

“I said I’m not hungry,” I repeated.

“And this is supposed to be a date, not a business meeting, so maybe start acting like it.”

Our evening tonight was to lay the groundwork that Royce and I were a couple, so when our engagement was announced next month it’d be less of a shock. Cape Hill wasn’t large, and news of our evening would spread quickly.

Especially since the girl two tables over from us had snapped a picture. It was probably already up on Instagram.

At least, if it fit in with the girl’s color story.

“It’d be more believable if you didn’t look like you hate my guts,” he added.

“I don’t,” I said and frowned. “Honestly? I have no idea how to feel about you.”

A playful expression crossed his face. “I think you like me. You just don’t want to.”

“God, you’re cocky.”

He grinned widely, and I did my best not to let it get to me. A weaker woman would have swooned at that smile. “It’s not cocky,” he said, “if you can back it up.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s exactly what a cocky person would say.”

He laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “Can I tell you something?”

“Go for it.”

“You look great,” he said, “but I miss the green hair.”

The momentary lightness in me faded. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly your father’s cup of tea, was it?”

The muscles along his jaw flexed like he was gritting his teeth. “Nothing is. You’ll get used to it after a while.”

Although the way he’d said it made me think otherwise. Like Royce was still struggling not to disappoint his father. I ran my fingers along the edge of my silverware. “You said you were protecting me the other day.”

His expression glazed over. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I sighed. I was so very tired already, when I knew I still had a long way to go. “Please? Can we be honest with each other and—”

“Everything I have was given to me,” Royce said. “He never stops reminding me and Vance of that. It all came from him, and he can take it away from us at any time.”

His hard, serious expression made my insides cold.

“Which means,” he continued, “everything that’s mine? It’s his, according to him.” His gaze captured mine and refused to let go. “So, if I show an interest in something—let’s say a particular Northcott sister—he might decide to take her away from me, just because he wants to make sure I remember who’s in charge.”

“Holy shit.” Every muscle in me locked up. I had my doubts about a lot of things he’d said, but this I believed. Royce liked to mess with people, and he’d learned it from his father.

Macalister was Zeus. He fucked with the mortals just for the fun of it.

For sport.

Which meant everything was more dangerous than I realized. If Macalister decided to “take me away” from Royce, that meant the deal would be off and my family would be left with nothing. Anxiety fluttered in my chest. I would have to depend on the man sitting across from me to guide us through the next few weeks.

“We shouldn’t talk about it right now.” Royce’s gaze dropped to the table and focused on something. “He has at least a spy or two here.”

He plucked a non-existent piece of lint from his sleeve and flicked it away. It’d been a normal gesture, but I didn’t miss his meaning. He’d used it to motion toward the couple sitting a few tables away.

One of whom was the girl who’d taken a picture of us. The idea of spies sounded ridiculous, but the Hales had a stupid amount of money, and it made them paranoid.

The wine arrived. I sat awkwardly still as the server poured Royce a sample, and my gaze followed the swirl of the red wine in his glass before it was set against his lips. When his throat bobbed with a swallow, a pulse deep between my legs mirrored it. Was that why he’d made a move on me in the library last year? Had he been sampling me? Making sure he wanted to buy the entire bottle?

He nodded his approval to the waitress and the wine was poured in both our glasses, and he didn’t speak again until she was gone.

“Come home with me tonight.”

I choked on my wine, coughing and sputtering.

“So we can talk about it freely,” he offered over the rim of his glass.

Oh, he was smooth. My body clambered for it, but I shoved the desire down. “Right.” My tone was drier than the wine. “Talk.”