Too Strong: Hayes Brothers Book 4

ROSE EFFORTLESSLY GLIDES THROUGH THE CROWD, not an ounce of doubt in her body as she strikes up conversations with anyone who crosses her path, whether she knows them or not.

She radiates confidence like a beacon while I’m a wallflower, hiding in the kitchen, nursing a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice—a far cry from the concentrated, artificial shit my father buys. This is the real deal. Freshly squeezed, jam-packed with vitamins and all-natural goodness.

I’ve never considered myself closed-off, but compared to my younger sister, in this setting, I’m an introvert. Tucked in the corner of the room, out of anyone’s way, I wonder what the hell I’m doing at the fanciest Halloween party in Newport…

The kitchen is a feast for the senses: gleaming marble counters, state-of-the-art appliances, and an extravagant finger food buffet that defies the very definition of the term. Tiny smoked salmon tartlets, caviar blinis, truffle risotto balls, escargot in puff pastry, lobster tails on crostini… I wouldn’t know the names if there weren’t tiny cards detailing the name, ingredients, and allergens in flowing calligraphy beside every dish.

‘What. A. Life.’

“What are you doing here alone?” Rose asks, bursting through the doorway with Mia by her side. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

If this was any other party, I’d be introducing myself rather than hiding, but I’m out of my element, intimidated by the luxury dripping from each and every tiny detail. Intimidated by the crowd whose rich, powerful, entitled aura couldn’t be masked by even the most extravagant Halloween costume.

“What time are you going up on stage?” I ask Mia, my hip glued to the cupboards, my phone in hand.

I’ve never felt more out of place. This is so not how I imagined this evening. Rose was supposed to be here, and after checking she could be left alone, I was supposed to join my best friend, Abby, on the beach. A bunch of our old high school friends are having a Halloween bonfire by the pier.

But Rose can’t be left alone.

The ungrateful brat.

As if it’s not enough that I lie to our dad and her mom about the piano lessons. They don’t know who Rose’s teacher is. Dad didn’t flip out straight away when her friends suggested Mia Harlow. That in itself wasn’t an issue since we kept the Hayes surname away from his ears, but he did flip out when he learned the next day that Mia just so happens to be a future Mrs. Hayes.

Dad’s not fond of them, hating the mayor for—I quote—“being an obnoxious, rich elitist who doesn’t give a damn about anyone other than the wealthy in this town.”

Rose whined for days, saying how talented Mia was and how much she wanted to learn from her.

I caved. Not that I had any choice. Rose wouldn’t quit whining until she got her way. It’s her annoying superpower—wearing people down.

For the first time in my life, I lied to Dad. We told him we found an older gentleman who’ll happily give her piano lessons, and what a coincidence… he lives just round the corner from where I got the job tending bar. It makes sense that I drive her there and back three times a week, doesn’t it?

So, yeah… as if it’s not enough I lie to Dad and Rebecca, now I’ve reduced myself to Rose’s babysitter, watching over my three-years-younger sister while she lives her delusional dream, befriending Newport’s elite.

She steps further into the kitchen, snatching the phone from me while I’m halfway through typing a text to Abby, exaggerating the complaints about my shitty evening.

“Nico’s not back yet, so—” Mia utters, the words dissolving on the tip of her tongue at the sound of the door opening.

The man in question enters, his commanding presence flooding the room. I’m probably making this up in my head, but it feels like the air turns crisper than a winter storm with his arrival. He immediately turns into the kitchen, casting a quick, loaded look at Rose and me before tightly enclosing Mia’s small frame in his huge arms.

He dips his chin, leaving a kiss in her hair with the intensity of a man who hasn’t seen the love of his life for years.

Tension knots my body. The possessiveness in Nico’s gestures knock the wind out of me, and I’m nothing but a passive observer: not involved, not on the receiving side of his dominant personality.

“You won’t be driving that thing, baby,” he says. “It’s too unpredictable. I’ll get you something less powerful tomorrow.”

Of course…

He bought her a car worth north of three hundred thousand dollars, and now he’ll buy another one just. Like. That.

God, why am I suddenly so petty?

Mia says nothing about it, and less than five minutes later, we’re outside, awaiting the show.

I head away from the crowd herding toward the stage and sit on an oversized outdoor couch in the deserted seating area.

I won’t miss the show, I can see the stage just fine, but at the same time, I’m out of the way, where I don’t risk being chatted up.

Or so I hoped…

Conor rounds the couch, taking a seat close enough that I get a hit of his heady cologne. “You stayed.”

“I had little choice.” I keep my eyes on Mia as she adjusts the height of her microphone stand. Cody’s there, too. Or maybe it’s Colt who drapes his hand across her collarbones, booming an introduction to the ecstatic crowd. “Your brother said stay, and apparently, I’m an obedient dog.”

Conor lets out a short, amused huff. “Yeah, Nico’s a tough one to say no to. Don’t take him so seriously. He’s mellowed out a lot since Mia.”

I cock an eyebrow, watching the petite blonde on stage, seeming to float an inch off the ground with every move she makes. I didn’t tell him which brother said stay, so I doubt Nico’s mellowed much if Conor knew exactly who I meant.

“I’m sorry I let Rose have a beer,” he adds, aimlessly passing a half-empty bottle of Corona from hand to hand. “I wouldn’t let her have another.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she’d have two, but her mom’s very strict, and it’s always me who gets an earful whenever Rose does something Becca doesn’t approve of.”

“I thought you’re sisters.”

“Half sisters. Same father.”

“That explains why you don’t look alike.”

True. No one thinks we’re related. We’re completely different, which is odd. I’m ninety percent Dad with light brown hair, silver eyes, and a heart-shaped face, while Rose took nothing from him. She’s the spitting image of her mother save for her black hair and eyes. That must’ve been passed down from her grandparents or maybe even great-grandparents.

“Rose is a good kid, but she’s careless. She gets in trouble a lot, so Dad relies on me to keep her safe.”

“She’s safe here,” Conor says.

I take a good, hard look at the crowd of college guys ogling girls like candy. “Hardly. She’s barely eighteen. Very gullible. She already thinks Mia’s her best friend.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

I can’t stop a derisive snort flying past my lips. “Nothing wrong, but nothing realistic, either.”

Girls like Mia don’t befriend girls like Rose or me.

‘Princesses don’t hang out with the help.’

“She sure is amazing, though,” I admit, unable to tear my eyes from Mia as she starts singing. Her voice is rich and full. Each note slips from her mouth like honey trickling over a razor blade, a raspy depth in the lower registers.

Conor nods in agreement. “She has a way of captivating an audience. I’ve heard her sing a million times, but I still get goosebumps whenever she’s on stage,” he admits proudly, jigging the bottle in his mouth to get at the last of his beer. “So, you’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not. At least not about Rose.”

“Good.” He moves closer, his breath skittering across my neck. “Because I want to ask you something.”

I turn to look at him, caught off guard by the sudden proximity. “I already told you we’re not going out on a date,” I whisper, heart racing as I try to anticipate his next move.

“That’s not what I want to ask.”

“What do you want to ask?”

He moves even closer, his lips near enough to mine that our breaths mix, reminding me of that kiss in the garage.

I’m frozen. Even my eyes are unable to move.

There’s something in his gaze, a kind of blazing possessiveness that has my toes curling in my boots.

And then a thought that should’ve materialized the second he kissed me the first time pierces through me like a sharp arrow.

This isn’t about a date.

He doesn’t give two fucks about dinner. It’s what might come after dinner that he wants.

‘Sex.’

A jolt of excitement wrings me inside out. I shouldn’t be excited. I should be offended. Hurt. Humiliated.

I’m far from it.

Sex is noncommittal. Purely physical. In bed, who fucking cares where I’m from or how much I don’t fit with a man like Conor? No one. That’s who.

‘Sex is easy. I know the drill.’

A bit of fun, perhaps seduction if the guy feels particularly giving, maybe an orgasm if he’s not self-centered, and we part ways.

Now that… that could work.

There’s no denying the chemistry sparking and sizzling between us. The closer he is, the more I’m turned on. The kiss alone ignited my mind and body, waking an itch I wouldn’t mind him scratching. We could go to a motel, work through the desire, and part ways an hour or two from now.

‘Everyone wins.’

My gaze idles from his eyes to his mouth and back. I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. A silent invitation.

The universal language I’m sure he speaks, too.

The ball lands in his court, and the sly smirk twisting his features says he understood. Shifting his weight, he closes the gap between us. He’s close enough that his nose tickles the line of my jaw.

Hook, line, and sinker.

‘God, I’m good at this.’

My body tingles with anticipation as the tip of his nose drags its way higher, dawdling as he brushes a line to my ear, his hot breath against my skin.

“Do you want a beer?” he whispers, his voice curling at the edges.

Shit.

This isn’t seduction.

This is bold amusement.

The sentence falls like a hammer, breaking the spell. Disappointment settles heavily in my chest, the tension between us deflating as fast as a punctured balloon.

For a moment, I was caught in a dream-like state, thinking he’d kiss me before we’d go somewhere private. I wanted it. The thought of his lips on mine, his naked body pressing into me. The memory of that outline…

I shake that thought off, avoiding his scorching gaze as I scurry away, breaking the intimacy that’s now well and truly gone. “No, I have work in the morning.”

He clutches my chin between his fingers, turning my face his way. “What’s wrong, Little Bee?” he drawls, his tone charged with a heavy load.

He watches me like he sees right through me. I’m pretty sure he does. I’m not great at hiding emotions.

“Why the pout?” His knuckles outline the contours of my face, eyes never leaving mine. “You didn’t want me to kiss you, did you now? I’m not your type, remember?”

“I remember,” I mutter. The pressure in my belly revives as his gaze drops to my mouth, his brown eyes sizzling.

So he does want sex? Ugh…

‘What a weird game.’

“On second thought…” I remoisten my lips, giving him a taste of his own medicine. “I’ll take that beer.”

His grin widens. “This will be interesting,” he adds, more to himself than me. “Alright, one beer coming right up.”

It takes a moment before I get a hold of myself and realize that, however strong the pull between us, giving in means tears and disappointment at best.

He’ll forget about me once he gets his fill, and I… I think I have whiplash from the pendulum motion of my thoughts.

Now that he’s not close, reducing my brain to an infinity pool of desire, and I can think relatively straight… one night with him might not be a good idea if the way I crave another of his hot kisses is any indication.

Maybe he does come back with the beer. Maybe he doesn’t. I don’t get to see because Mia finishes her gig two minutes later, and despite Rose’s pleas, we head home.

She’s silent all the way back, staring out the window, eyebrows theatrically bunched in the middle, arms and legs crossed.

She’s annoyed. ‘So am I.’

If not for her, I wouldn’t have met Conor tonight. I wouldn’t feel so jittery and feverish inside recalling the way he kissed me. I wouldn’t wonder whether I’d made the right call shooting him down.

I park the car. The engine dies before I turn the key.

Great. Just what I need.

“At least we got home,” Rose mutters, slamming the door.

My head hits the headrest as I watch her make her way round the clay pots Rebecca put out to grow vegetables at the start of summer. It was nice while the novelty pushed her to take care of the tomatoes, carrots, and salad, but her efforts faded quickly. Now, nothing but desiccated twigs poke from the soil.

I move my gaze further from the car to the place I call home, my stomach churning at how different this place is from where I’ve just spent a few hours.

No driveway here.

No porcelain steps lead inside a humongous villa.

My house is nothing like that. It’s not even a house. It’s a rickety trailer with faded blue paint peeling at the edges.

No marble floors, Persian carpets, or high-end appliances inside. Here, the walls are a dull, faded shade of yellow, adorned with family photos. The living space is small, crammed with mismatched furniture: a three-seater sofa, an armchair, and crammed in by the window, a table with just two chairs, so we have to take turns eating dinner.

The kitchen doesn’t have an island, an oversized fridge, or a custom-made coffee machine. It’s a kitchenette, complete with sink, stove, and mini fridge.

It’s not much.

It’s not really a house, but it is home.

Rebecca flings the door open, her curler-wrapped hair lit from behind and a once-black robe cinched around her waist. With both arms firmly planted on her hips, she waits for Rose to approach and blow in her face so she can check her daughter wasn’t drinking.

Once satisfied, she steps aside, letting Rose pass, and glares at me, pointing her thumb through the door. A silent order to haul my ass inside.

“Why so grim?” she asks, squinting as she watches me climb out of the car. “What happened to your costume?”

I shrug, not in the mood to even think about the disaster my costume has caused, let alone relay the evening. It’s too risky, anyway. When I get going, I don’t think through my words, and it’s a given the frustration bubbling inside me would make me accidentally spill whose house we were at tonight.

I may be twenty-one, but if my father finds out I entered the Hayes lair, I’ll be grounded until I’m twenty-five, so it’s safer not to open my mouth.

The air inside the trailer is thick with cigarette smoke and the chemical stink of cheap cleaning products. My dad sits parked in the armchair, eyes glued to the TV. A can of Coors is propped on his big belly, cigarette dangling between the fingers of his other hand. Despite his rough exterior, the wife beater he wears and rugged looks, my dad’s a real softie deep down.

He’s always been there for us, working hard to provide for the family. He’s not the fancy, eloquent type, but the farthest thing from a deadbeat you could imagine. Dad’s never been one to party hard or let anything get in the way of his responsibilities. He enjoys a few cans of beer on the weekend and smokes like a chimney, but we all have our vices.

Gummy bears are mine.

“Hey, Angel, how was the party?” he asks.

I occupy half his attention while his favorite actor waves his way into the studio, greeting the talk-show host with a firm handshake.

“It was fine. I’d tell you more, but I’m tired. By the looks of it, my car’s dead again, so I’ll be biking to work tomorrow.”

“I’m not working tomorrow. I’ll take you in, just wake me up when you’re ready.”

I smile small, retreating toward the bedroom. “Thanks, Dad, night night.”

“Night, Angel.”

As expected, Rose is already comatose on the lower bunk bed. The ASMR sounds of raindrops on windows emanate from her birthday present, a small portable speaker in the extravagant—for a speaker—shade of blood orange. She always drifts off straight away, while I toss and turn, searching for a comfortable position.

After washing up, I change into pjs, and climb the wooden ladder to the top bunk. The mattress sags beneath my weight, springs whining in complaint as they dig into my back.

I lay here under my cozy, weighted blanket, in the comforting hum of artificial rain patter and air conditioning, unable to keep Conor from hijacking my thoughts.

What is it about him that has me in such a tumult over one kiss?

My cheeks burn at the memory, then grow incandescent when shame hits me square in the jaw. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. He’s been nothing but kind all evening, and I…

I was my usual, antagonistic, hot-headed self.