Too Much : Hayes Brothers Book 1

MY HAIR IS A BLESSING IN DISGUISE.

It’s my best feature.

Many women would kill for a head of hair like mine.

Ah, but if only they knew how frustrating and hard it is to tame tight, spiral curls.

I stand in front of the mirror on Saturday evening, huffing and puffing like an enraged Chihuahua when curls spill out of the clip, refusing to stay where I want them. I’m aiming for a classy updo, but with enough hair to produce two, maybe even three wigs, the updo looks as if there’s a second, very hairy head on top of my existing one.

The hair clip flies across the room, and I revert to my standard, boring half-up, half-down hairdo to at least get the locks off my face and show off the not-too-flashy makeup. I settled for simplicity: eyeliner, mascara, and red lips. Modest and not too out there.

The dress is too out there, but I’m silently thankful to Shawn and Jack for choosing it. I want Theo to see me the way he saw me this morning when we almost kissed.

That man drives me crazy. Wild. Raging with need whenever we touch. I’m more than certain he wants me, but for some mysterious reason, he’s holding back, and since I woke up in his arms, I’ve been pondering the idea of taking the first step.

Sometimes, you have to make it happen. Seize the opportunity or forever regret not trying. After all, when we’re nearing the end of our time in this world, when we’re old, lonely, and in pain, no longer ticking positions off our bucket list, we regret the things we didn’t do, not the ones we did.

Theo’s not a regret I want to have when my life flashes before my eyes in fifty years or so.

“Are you ready?” His voice travels through the closed bedroom door, and a tap of his knuckles follows.

“I think so.” I readjust the straps of the backless dress with a modest cleavage at the front. “You can come in.”

The door opens inward. I watch in the mirror as Theo steps into the room. He’s dressed in chinos and a V-neck t-shirt, a silver cross around his neck hanging down his chest.

Air moves with him, and the scent of earthy cologne fans my face. Slowly, I spin on the silver heels, self-conscious and pleased at the same time, when Theo’s rapt attention focuses on my body.

“You look…” His chest rises and falls faster, and a muscle feathers his jaw when his eyes jerk to meet mine. “You want me to kill someone tonight?”

“Any complaints should be directed at your brother and his husband-to-be. I didn’t buy the dress. Also… I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Damn right it’s a compliment. You look hot.”

I take a small clutch bag off the bed, crossing the room to stop in front of him, so close our feet almost touch.

“You smell so nice,” I huff, inhaling the air around him.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always smell nice. And you look rather handsome too. Are we supposed to write the truth now or when we get to Nico’s? What kinds of truths are we talking about here?”

“Whatever springs to mind. An odd, funny, random, or dirty fact about you that you don’t normally shout from the rooftops.” He pulls out a black permanent marker from his pocket. “Do mine first.”

I take the cap off, ironing his shirt with my hand, dazzled by the hard, well-defined muscles under my palm. Why does he have to be so infuriatingly perfect? Even the deep, rough scar marking his cheek is beautiful.

“I know the difference,” he dictates casually, “Between hard and fast.”

My hand trembles and my cheeks burn hotter when memories of his body pinning me to the couch a few weeks ago invade my mind. Is he doing this on purpose? Does he know he makes my heart skip a few beats with one heated look?

“I think hard and fast should be in capitals,” I mutter, focused on the task.

“Sounds good.”

I don’t see his face, but his voice is laced with amusement. He is doing this on purpose.

The bastard.

I inhale a deep breath, handing the marker back. My body is ruled by fits of shivers, the ache between my legs unbearable, but two can play this game. “Do you know the difference between don’t stop and keep going?”

His darkening eyes, brimming with warmth, spell out mischief. God, it’s good to know I’m getting to him. “Keep going is an encouragement for the guy who can’t find the right spot. Don’t stop is praise for the guy who knows exactly where that spot is.” He runs his hand down my side, stopping on my hip. “Do you know the difference between hold it and hold on?”

“Hold it is an order.” I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. “Hold on is a promise.”

Theo swallows hard, placing his hand firmly on my waist, a marker in hand. “What am I writing on you?”

And poof, the moment passes.

Is there something fundamentally un-fuckable about me? Why is he so adamant about keeping at a distance? The electric current between us grows in strength every day and proportionally grows his resistance.

“I’m having second thoughts. I might’ve gone too far with honesty,” I say, trying to come up with a less incriminating truth. “How about, this dress is too tight for panties.”

His eyes snap to me, popping wide as he grinds his teeth, his breaths sawing in and out. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He grips my hip, fingers digging into the thin fabric. He’s probably feeling for the outline of my underwear that isn’t there. “You’re not lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

“I’m not writing that. You’ll be eye-fucked all evening, and I’ll definitely kill someone. Many someone’s. All two hundred of them. Pick a different truth and put on a pair of fucking panties.”

“I can’t… it’s too tight.”

“Stop teasing, Thalia. It’s enough I have to deal with you dressed like this,” he utters, tracing his index finger across my collarbones, then lower, following the edge of the white fabric on my chest. “Don’t push me. There’s a fine line I don’t want to cross. Pick a different truth.”

Don’t push?

Does he know me?

If pushing, poking, nudging, and tearing apart uncrossable lines is the way to get him to drop the act, I’ll push, poke, and set the world on fire.

“I’m missing a pearl necklace,” I say, smiling when he moves away, glancing around the room as if searching for the said necklace. “Write it down.”

“A pearl necklace?” His eyebrows draw in the middle for a second before it clicks. “Jesus! You have such a dirty mind. That’s not going on you!” He tosses the marker aside.

“Don’t be like that. It’s supposed to be fun, right?” I shove the marker back in his hand. “You win. Nothing sexual.” Which means I have to use the original idea. “Write I spent a month in jail.”

“What?” he mouths, frowning. “Why? When?”

“Almost two years ago. I couldn’t afford bail.”

“So… you were waiting for trial?” His eyes search my face. “What were you accused of?”

I wonder what his reaction would be if I told him the truth… murder. Would he run? Kick me out the door? Would he listen to my story? Doubtful. No one back home cared to listen. No one asked if I killed him. Everyone assumed I did, yet no one asked why.

Their mind was made up: guilty.

Vasilis Dimopoulos was a beloved Greek hero. Robin Hood incarnated. The man thousands idolized. Presidential candidate. Philanthropist.

Whether I actually killed him and under what circumstances wasn’t important. The truth wasn’t important to the crowds of people spitting in my face. Vasilis was dead, and someone had to rot in jail.

A witch hunt began. People stood outside the court, holding banners with Burn her at the stake written in crimson. Many petitioned for a public trial.

“That’s not important,” I say on a sigh. It’s selfish to hide the truth while we’re growing closer each day, but tonight isn’t the time to drop a bomb that’ll turn our relationship upside down. If I ever pluck the courage to share my story, Theo will be the one to hear it because what I never thought possible happened: I trust him unconditionally. “Just write it down, and let’s go. We’re going to be late.”

He holds the marker harder, jaw muscle ticking. “Are you sure you want me to write that?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you about it one day, but not tonight, okay?” The wounds are fresh; I don’t think they’ll ever heal. “I’m not ready.” Not ready to lose you.

He replaces the cap on the marker, shoves it in his back pocket, and then pulls me into a tight hug, lips on my temple. “When you’re ready, I’ll listen.”

I cling to him, soaking up the closeness and peace he evokes. It’s a simple gesture—a hug. Nothing extraordinary, but when you’ve been deprived of human contact for as long as I have, a hug means more, it hits differently.

Waking up in his arms this morning was the happiest, most peaceful, and wholesome moment of my life. I’ve woken up next to him before, but it was different today. He didn’t do it out of pity or because he was worried. He wanted to hold me all night. Once I tell him the truth, he might not get close to me again.