Too Long: Hayes Brothers Book 6

A POUNDING HEADACHE rouses me from a dreamless sleep. My temples throb like a construction crew’s set up shop inside my skull. With a groan, I bury my face further into the pillow, inhaling deeply.

And that’s red flag number one.

The pillow doesn’t smell or feel familiar. It’s crisp under my head, the scent like lilies of the valley in full sun. Eyes closed, I feel for the edge of the mattress.

Red flag number two.

I cannot reach either edge. I frown into the heavenly smelling pillow, listening for the sound of my pets.

Red flag number three.

Perfect silence. Not even the flutter of wings.

My heart hammers away when I tear myself into a seated position, the unfamiliar room spinning wildly in tune with my stomach roiling. I fist the bed sheets, afraid I’ll tumble to the floor if I don’t hold on. The bed is massive, swallowing me whole with its plush pillows and crisp white sheets.

Blinking my bleary eyes, I look around, wondering where on earth I landed and… how? The room is huge, bathed in sunlight, the walls a light shade of blue that should be comforting but isn’t, considering I have no idea where I am.

My walls are white, so these walls aren’t mine.

I don’t have an ocean view from my bedroom window either. Sheer curtains dance in the salty breeze that sends chills down my back.

Squinting against the sunlight, I scan the expensive-looking, modern dresser against one wall, top bare, no picture frames in sight. A cozy wingchair is tucked into the corner next to a low coffee table where a stack of gray clothes awaits.

Finally, my eyes land on the bedside table, and the note propped against a water bottle. I pick it up with trembling fingers, reading the words written in unfamiliar handwriting.

Addie,

Don’t panic, you’re safe.

I’m sure you’ve found the water and painkillers by now. There’s a change of clothes on the coffee table. Don’t expect them to fit. Your bag’s hanging on the door, and your phone’s charging on the other night table. The bathroom’s on your right.

Come downstairs when you’re ready.

Colt.

Colt… the hot-as-sin, tall, broody guy from last night. Relief floods my system, somehow amplifying the headache.

Relief shouldn’t be my go-to feeling, seeing as I’m missing a substantial chunk of last night and woke up in a stranger’s bedroom, but I’m fine. Safe. Still in the dress I wore last night. Ugh… how drunk was I that I didn’t bother taking it off?

Colt wouldn’t leave me a note, painkillers, and water if he was a kidnapper, would he?

I swallow two pills, though I’m tempted to tip back at least five. Washing them down with water, I reread the note, my cheeks heating with embarrassment.

How did I end up here?

Bits of last night filter into my memory, but they’re like shattered glass, impossible to piece together.

I remember the Express Dates, Wesley calling me crazy, and then Colt and his identical brothers… everything after has fallen irrecoverably into the abyss of my pounding headache and alcohol-induced haze.

I stumble out of bed, my legs barely holding my weight. I enter the luxurious marble bathroom and find a spacious walk-in shower with an array of expensive-looking soaps lining its narrow shelf. White tiles gleam under the soft lighting as I strip, stepping under a stream of cool water to wash off the remnants of last night.

Ten minutes later, I shimmy into a pair of men’s gray sweatpants, tightening the strings, then tug a loose white t-shirt that dwarfs me over my head.

It’s not exactly a fashion statement, but it’ll do for now. I leave the pristine bedroom behind, bare feet padding against stone stairs as the familiar melody of “Sweater Weather” by the Neighborhood fills the air, growing louder with each step.

The staircase arches left, ending directly opposite a larger-than-life kitchen. Colt’s there, his back to me as he fiddles with a professional-looking coffee maker. The space is bright, filled with sleek appliances, breakfast bar in the center. The bitter aroma of coffee drifts through the air, mingling with the scent of sizzling bacon.

Colt turns around, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as they meet mine. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

I smile sheepishly, dragging my fingers along the cool marble tops. “I could be worse. Thank you for the clothes and taking care of me.”

He takes me in, starting with my bare feet, then up, assessing the fit of his oversized clothes, before he smirks at my wet hair and offers me a cup of coffee. “You’re rude when you’re drunk, you know that? And aggressive.” He points out a big bruise on his arm and… is that…?

“Oh God… I bit you?” I gasp, my cheeks reaching boiling point as I look away. “I’m so sorry. I don’t remember much after Wesley left. How did I end up here?”

“You barely held yourself upright. Surprisingly, it didn’t stop you kicking or throwing your fists. I took you home, but you couldn’t find your keys, and your phone was dead.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, and I notice a few more, smaller, scratches and bruises. “I figured I could either bring you here or leave you on the doormat.”

“I’m really sorry. I’m not usually like that, I swear. I bet you regret bringing me here.”

“Not really. You stopped throwing punches when I put you in the cab, but you did run your mouth almost the whole journey back. You’re very creative once you get going… plonker, nutter, wazzock, tosser, pillock, and my personal favorite: daft git. The cab driver couldn’t stop laughing when you told him I were taking the piss.”

I hide a smile behind the cup, the glint in Colt’s eyes contagious and helping to quell my embarrassment. “All I can do is apologize.”

“I don’t need apologies. It was quite the experience.” He turns to flip the bacon. “Sit down. Breakfast won’t be long.”

“Can I help?”

“No, I’ve got it. If you want to do something, lose the fake accent. I like the British one better.”

“I don’t like hiding it but it’s exhausting when every person I meet goes ‘oh, I love your accent’ then proceeds to mimic it with some kind of ‘Gor blimey, guvnor’ fake cockney nonsense.”

Colt chuckles. “I promise not to try.” He pulls two plates from the cabinet above his head and, a moment later, sets one filled with eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and toast before me. “As requested, a traditional English breakfast.”

I grab my fork, ready to dig in. “I requested breakfast?” I start with the eggs and bacon, both cooked to perfection.

“Demanded paints a clearer picture.” He sits opposite me, starting with a bite of sausage that he promptly spits back out. “Yeah… don’t eat that.”

“Why?” I lean over the plate, inhaling. “It smells fine. What’s wrong with it?”

“Tastes like cardboard: the only British sausages I could find in the store this morning.”

I chuckle, taking a bite. “They’re not that bad, a bit overcooked, but edible. You’re just not used to British cuisine.”

“Clearly.” He loads the egg onto his toast, pushing the plate aside. “Now you’re sober, I have some questions.”

“Um, okay, fire away.”

“What exactly do you expect from your fake boyfriend?”

The fork slides out of my grasp, clanking against the plate and sending a splatter of tomato juice into my face and over the pristine, white t-shirt I’m wearing.

I’m hit by a flashback from last night of my wailing into the table about Grant, my mother, and living on a farm with many mini-Grants.

“God… I forgot I told you, and—” I look up, meeting his amused gaze. “Your brothers were there…”

“They were. So? Care to share more details?”

“You can’t be serious. You… you want to do it? Why?”

He shrugs, jaw set tight. “I have my reasons. And I didn’t say I would. Not until I know what I’m signing up for.”

“Is it the money? How much did I promise? I only have fifteen grand right now and—” I gesture around. “You don’t look short on cash.”

He smirks, grabbing our plates and setting them beside the sink. “I don’t want your money, Addie.”

“Then what do you want?” I snap, jumping to my feet. “Did I… did I… did I promise you sex?” I pale further when another thought strikes, and suddenly I’m hyperventilating. “Did we… oh, God, we had sex last night, didn’t we? I promised you more?”

His entire demeanor changes in a flash. From casual and relaxed to so unsettled his hands are shaking.

“You were drunk off your fucking mind!” he seethes, his voice powerful enough to make me shudder as he beats his fist against the counter, anger radiating off him like a storm in full glory. A category five hurricane. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you begged. I took you home so no one would fucking touch you.” His chest heaves as he squeezes his neck, staring me down, his composure snapping back into place. “We didn’t have sex. Is that clear?”

I’m stunned into silence, no longer hyperventilating. No longer breathing at all, my eyes so wide it feels like they’ll pop out of place any second.

“I’m sorry,” I stutter, finding my voice. “I didn’t mean to imply… I’m sorry, it came out wrong.”

He pins me with a stare that spells out you’re damn right it came out wrong. “You haven’t promised me anything. You haven’t even asked if I’ll do it, but you obviously need someone. I might be available if you tell me why you need a fake boyfriend and what exactly you expect.”

He snatches my empty cup, starting the coffee maker. His shoulder muscles look carved in stone they’re so taut. I didn’t expect him to lose his temper so fast…

He looked in physical pain when I suggested we’d had sex. Like he wasn’t far off breaking out in hives at the thought of touching me while I was drunk.

That’s the cutest thing.

My belly fills with butterflies that quickly turn to pissed-off wasps when I remember what we’re talking about.

“My mother,” I sigh, settling back down, both elbows on the counter, my face hidden in my hands. “She’s utterly disappointed that her only daughter chose a career instead of becoming the perfect housewife. She firmly believes I should be married with at least two kids by now, and she chose the perfect husband for me years ago: Grant.”

Colt’s intense gaze softens, his expression less severe with every word I speak. “You come from one of those traditional, high-profile families, don’t you? Expectations from the moment you’re born.”

“Yeah, you could say that. My mother says a woman’s worth lies in her ability to marry well.” The coffee maker hisses and sputters as it fills a cup, the aroma hanging thickly in the air. I let out a weary groan, running a hand through my hair. “Arranged marriages have been the norm in my family for centuries, but my father doesn’t support that. He wants his kids to choose their own path, but he can’t do much about my mother’s nagging and meddling. She’s been insisting I marry Grant since I turned eighteen.”

He’s proposed at least half a dozen times over the past four years. Every time, saying no gets harder because I know what comes after—weeks of my mother’s shitty attitude.

“I can’t imagine how suffocating that feels,” Colt says, his voice calmer now, no trace of the earlier anger.

“Yeah, it is. Suffocating and infuriating. Grant wants a part of my father’s fortune, so goes along with whatever my mother says.” I sip the hot coffee, locking my hands around the cup. “She’d ask him to join us for the cruise if I hadn’t lied and told her I met someone… I can’t handle another will you marry me in front of the whole family.”

“He proposed?”

“Any chance he gets. My mother’s livid every time I decline. She doesn’t understand I have bigger ambitions than being a wife. She thinks a career is a waste of time, that I’m not worth anything unless I conform to her expectations.” I set the cup down, gently twirling it around to keep my hands busy. “I just want a drama-free week to celebrate my brother’s engagement.”

Colt falls silent, deep in thought as he tidies up. He loads the dishwasher, cleans the milk-frothing nozzle on the coffee machine.

“Come on, I need a smoke,” he says once there’s nothing left to do.

I follow him through the large living room. The panoramic windows look out into a massive garden equipped with a swimming pool and a tennis court. We settle on a double swing under a tree, and he lights up a Marlboro, surrounding himself with a cloud of thick, gray smoke.

“When’s the trip?” he asks.

“The flight leaves tomorrow morning. A week of cruising and back to Miami on Sunday.”

He runs a hand down his face, then pinches ash onto the artificial grass. “Tomorrow… fuck, that’s tight. Anything I should know before facing your family?”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, inhaling another drag. “I don’t know. Topics to avoid? Questions I shouldn’t ask? Do I need a fabricated life story? A certain profession? Dress code?”

It strikes me again that we know absolutely nothing about each other. He might be a criminal and I wouldn’t know.

“What is it you do?” I ask. “Nothing illegal, I hope.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Business management. I own a few spots in Orange County and manage my brother’s businesses.”

“That’s impressive. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. You?”

“Twenty-two next month. Dress code is…” I pinch my lips remembering the Formula One keyring I saw peeking from his back pocket last night. “The rich and famous at the Monaco Grand Prix, but I don’t care what you wear. I don’t really care if they like you and you shouldn’t either.”

“So, you basically want to show your mother you can make your own choices and they’re none of her business?”

“Precisely.” I get up, nervously pacing the pool’s length. Colt’s sweatpants hang low on my hips, prompting me to tug them up every few steps so I don’t end up flashing him my bare ass. “I can’t believe you’re considering it.”

“I’m not considering,” he says, resting both elbows on his knees as he looks up at me from under those dark lashes.

Men shouldn’t have lashes this fucking thick. It’s not fair.

I’m not sure if he’s aware how appetizing he looks when he stares at me like this, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his t-shirt beyond capacity. I need an inconspicuous breath to cool myself down.

“What time are we leaving, Audrey?”