Too Much : Hayes Brothers Book 1

CLUTCHING THE BIG, HEAVY SHOULDER BAG close to my side, I knock on the door to Theo’s condo at five to seven in the evening. The neighborhood is one of the fancier ones—upper-middle class, at least. Maybe lower-higher. The snow-white building looks clean and well-kept as if it hadn’t been here long. I cross the spacious hallway, knocking on the door on the ground floor.

Heavy, rushed steps reverberate inside and Theo yanks the door open, his broad chest dressed in a black t-shirt in my face. “Hey.” He steps aside, letting me in. “Did you find it okay?”

I nod, entering an airy entryway with a light brown wooden floor and white walls. It flows effortlessly into the open plan living area, beyond which there’s a sliding window wall overlooking a private, secluded terrace.

What strikes me as odd is that the condo is sterile-clean.

No dirty laundry, empty pizza boxes, or beer bottles in sight. High ceilings, contemporary, minimalistic design, and high-end furniture—casual sophistication.

Theo’s shoes are neatly organized in the hallway, a large flat-screen TV hangs on a marble feature wall in the living room, and an off-white fluffy rug lays under the glass coffee table. There’s even a potted plant by the floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows, all thriving, green and healthy.

“I have hope,” I say, kicking my white sneakers off. “You haven’t killed the plant, so Ares should survive too. At least he’ll let you know when he’s hungry.”

“Thank you for thinking so highly of me. Don’t give me any credit for the plant. Ares knocked it over on Friday, and it stayed on the floor until Mom stopped by to repot it last night.”

He leads me to the kitchen equipped with a breakfast bar, dusty-blue cabinets, and high-end appliances that look brand-new, as if no one has used them yet.

That’s hardly surprising. He’s a man in his twenties and obviously can’t complain about lack of money. I’m sure he doesn’t need to cook his own meals. I’d be willing to bet his diet is comprised of takeout food and cereal, or maybe he lives off, boxed-meals prepared by some new-age nutritionist. It’d explain why there’s not an ounce of fat on Theo’s body.

Navigating life in America may not be tricky, but the culture differs from what I’m used to. I probably got the wrong end of the stick tonight, missing the mark by a mile, but it’s too late to change my mind now.

Americans aren’t as casual as Greeks. We’re loud, proud, family orientated, and we love great food, good company, and cooking. I helped my mother in the kitchen since I could hold a spoon, mastering the art of cooking early in life. Years later, I polished my skills in culinary school and have dreamt of owning a little restaurant ever since.

From what I gathered so far, Americans are a tinge more reserved, making my brilliant idea strikes me as not too brilliant now that I stand in Theo’s kitchen.

Ares runs out of a room further down the hall, wagging his tail and planting sloppy kisses all over my face when I crouch to pet him. “Hello there, I’ve got a little gift for you.” I scratch his ears, then unzip my bag enough to fit my hand inside and retrieve the rubber ball loaded with treats, but not enough to let Theo see the contents. “There. Have fun with that, and don’t chew on Daddy’s shoes.”

He picks the ball and immediately spits it out, sniffing and nudging it with his nose before taking it in his mouth again. Wagging his tail left and right, he runs away to a big, comfy dog bed in the living room.

“Daddy?” Theo echoes, amusement lacing his tone. “I don’t know how I feel about that. You want a beer?”

“Sure.” I drop my bag on the breakfast bar. “This seems like a bad idea now, but here goes…” I slide the zipper, wiggling my fingers. “Have you ever tried Greek food?”

Theo’s eyes jump between me and the ingredients for a meal I planned piling on the counter, his eyebrow curved into a question mark. “You want to cook?”

I can’t tell if he’s surprised, annoyed, curious or if he thinks I’ve lost the plot. “You said we’ll talk about your game. I’m sure it’ll take a while, and I don’t want you to order food because you won’t let me pay,” I huff, dumping the empty bag on the floor once vegetables, meat, and condiments are out. “I hoped cooking for you wouldn’t be emasculating.”

He hands me a bottle of Budweiser, bracing himself against the marble countertop, arms straight, shoulders rolled back. “You want to cook for me. Greek food.”

“Yes. Is that okay?”

“Hell yeah!” Those steady, penetrating eyes of his blaze with excitement and a pleasant shudder of relief rattles through me. It’s a lottery trying to fit in here. “Can I help?”

“Not tonight. Maybe some other time. Tonight, I cook; you ask questions and take notes.”

“Fine, I doubt you’re brave enough to eat anything I’d cook. We’d both end up at the hospital for sure.” He gestures to the cupboards. “Make yourself at home, but if you’re cooking, I’m doing the dishes.”

“That, I can agree to. Where are your knives?”

He points to the left, and after three more questions about bowls, pans, and cutting boards, I wash the vegetables and start dicing while Theo sits at the breakfast bar, bombarding me with question after question. During the hour it takes to prepare food, he fills five pages with neat handwriting, listening to every word I say about Greek mythology.

He opens two more beers when I start serving, heat flaring my cheeks when I glance around. I’m not what you’d call a tidy cook. Some women clean as they go along, but not me. I’m too impatient and focused on cooking to do the dishes. Bowls, forks, spatulas, and pans litter the countertop. Theo’s kitchen never was this messy before, I’m sure.

“It smells amazing,” Theo says, dipping his head to inhale some more when I set a plate of souvlakis with a side of Greek salad, chips, and tzatziki dip before him. “If it tastes as good as it smells and looks…” He takes a bite of the chicken skewer, chewing sluggishly, and his eyes roll back into his head. His chest rises abruptly as he lets out a lavish groan.

“Good?” I ask, burning up as that low, satisfied groan loops inside my head and I… I can’t… God, I can’t think straight. I stuff my mouth with salad, coming down from the high, absolutely mystified that he can turn me one with one sound.

“Good?” he mumbles. “Where the hell did you learn to cook like this? It’s delicious.”

“Greeks love food, Theo. You’d struggle to find a Greek woman who can’t cook, and I went to a culinary school, so that helped.”

I’ve cooked for many people but watching Theo polish the food with a blissful, boyish smile that looks sexy but out of place on a man of his stature is so satisfying. Sitting with him at the table, talking, smiling, and laughing while Ares scratches my legs, begging for scraps, is very close to happiness.

A feeling that eluded me for almost two years.

“That was so damn good.” He pushes the empty plate aside, wiping his lips with a napkin. “Thank you.”

Once I finish, he starts cleaning up the mess I’ve made. I wrap the leftovers in plastic on a clean plate, so he’ll have lunch ready for tomorrow, then dry the dishes and stash them away while Theo wipes the counters and grabs two more beers.

Ares sleeps in his bed, but his ears perk up when we move to the living room. He leaps on the sofa, making himself comfortable in my lap, and Theo opens his laptop, showing me the graphics for his game.

“What do you think?” He gets comfortable beside me, the intoxicating scent of his cologne tickling my nose again.

“Persephone looks amazing, and so does Hades, but, and I don’t mean to offend you, Zeus with that lightning bolt looks ancient. He’s the god of thunder, so why not take inspiration from the pop culture’s equivalent?”

“You mean Thor?”

I snatch a notepad and pen from the coffee table, roughly sketching the image in my head—a tall, broad man with white hair and beard. He radiates lightning out of his hands, and his eyes sparkle with the same stark whiteness.

Theo’s silent as if not to disturb me. He’s scratching Ares behind the ears, his forearm resting against my thigh. My entire body is swamped with intense heat at the touch. It’s been too long since anyone touched me like this.

“You never said you’re an artist,” he complains when I hand him the notepad. “Quite the talent you’ve got there.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me.” I readjust the puppy, cuddling him to my chest. As soon as I rent my own place, I’m getting a dog, too. “This is how I imagine Zeus. A modern incarnation.”

He studies the drawing a while longer before he closes the notepad, setting it on the side table by the couch. “You cook like a pro, draw, and you’re obviously great with dogs.” He points at the rubber ball that’s out of treats and kept Ares occupied for an hour while I cooked. “What else?”

“We should save this for another day,” I say, looking out the window where the sun has already set, dusk fast approaching. “It’s getting late.”

He checks the time on his cell. Several unanswered messages from what I think is a group chat wait on the screen, but he doesn’t bother reading them. “It’s only nine o’clock. Come on, one more beer, and I’ll order you a cab.”

“No, thank you, I’ll walk.”

“No way I’ll let you walk, Thalia. The motel’s like, what? Four miles away?”

“Five, actually.”

His face flashes with recognition, and he almost chokes on a sip of beer. “Don’t tell me you walk to the Country Club every fucking day.”

I bite my cheek, chuckling softly. “Okay, I won’t.”

“You walk?” he growls, and Ares lifts his head, watching him with bright, curious eyes. “Why?”

“It’s not that far and only takes an hour and a half. Fresh air never killed anyone.” I cuff his arm, squeezing lightly. “I can afford a cab, Theo. The tips are great, but I’d rather save money and get out of the motel as soon as possible.” The moldy, dusty odor lingers in my hair and clothes, even straight after a shower, as if I’m starting to decompose while living in room thirteen.

Theo’s eyes bore into mine in a tight-jawed silence. With an exasperated huff, he grabs his phone, dialing a number. “You got time?” He pauses, listening to whoever’s on the other side of the line. “I need a ride. Get your ass to my place ASAP.”

“It’s sweet of you to—”

“You’re not walking,” he clips, slamming the phone on the side table and startling the dog again. “Sorry, boy.” He pats the dog’s head, eyes on me. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you trust me now that you know me a little?”

The condo is silent, and my heart picks up pace because I’m suddenly very aware we’re alone—a scene I imagined too many times already. We wore no clothes in those thoughts, and we were much, much closer.

Despite the contradicting gossip about the Hayes brothers that I’ve heard from too many people, not much of it has any reflection in real life. In fact, I’m disappointed Theo isn’t as described—a player who fucks every pretty girl he can get his hands on. I’ve never considered myself particularly pretty, but the consensus among my friends and family has always been just that.

Not to Theo, unfortunately. Either I’m not his type, or he’s not that big of a man-whore.

Too bad. He makes me tick in a very special way. I’m drawn to both; his interior and exterior. Starting with his sharp, handsome face and confident stance, down to his charming character, cognac-colored irises, and low, husky voice. Even how he mindlessly toys with his lower lip whenever he’s deep in thought renders me hot and breathless.

Do I trust him, though?

He’s given me no reason not to. He’s the first person I’ve felt truly comfortable around in a long time.

“Eight, I think,” I say after a long beat.

“Eight is good. You need to know two things: I never do anything unless I want to, and I never lie.”

The conversation took a turn from casual to spiked with hidden meaning. Meaning I can’t decipher. Theo’s not eager to explain, pivoting the chat back to my culinary school.

A loud knock sounds on the door ten minutes later. The door swings open after Theo yells come in. A young boy bursts inside the condo, keys in hand, longish hair tucked behind his ears, save for a few wayward locks bordering his handsome, youthful face. There’s no need for introductions. A name would be beneficial, but one glance is enough to pinpoint a surname.

Here stands before me, one of the three youngest Hayes brothers. The resemblance to the older four is unmistakable. Same dark hair, brown eyes, strong jaw, and broad shoulders. I can’t wait to meet their parents. They must be the most stunning people alive to produce seven ruthlessly handsome sons.

“That’s Cody,” Theo says, moving his attention to his brother. “This is Thalia. We need a ride.”

Cody nods, lips curling into a wide grin. “Chauffer Cody at your disposal.”

Theo smirks under his nose. “Nico bought them each a Mustang for their seventeenth birthday, so they’re pretty keen to chauffeur us around wherever we need.”

He bought them cars?

The cart girls swoon over Nico, although only from afar, as most are afraid to get within shouting distance of him. They never fail to casually slip into the conversation the widely known fact that he’s filthy rich, but I’m still blown away. Nico doesn’t come across as thoughtful, and buying cars for his youngest brothers sure is pretty high up there.

Theo scoops Ares into his arms. Looks like the pup is going for a ride too. I retrieve my bag from the kitchen, then follow both brothers out of the building. Theo opens the back door of the shiny, cherry-red Mustang, letting me in first, then urges me to scoot over and hops in with Ares.

“You’re the new girl at the Country Club, right?” Cody asks, revving the engine, eyes locked on mine in the rear-view mirror instead of the road as the car shoots forward.

I grab the seatbelt, yanking it over my chest before I dent the back of the driver’s leather seat with my face when Cody decides to brake. “Yes. I see the news travels fast around here.”

“It does if you’re a Hayes,” Cody admits, glancing in the rear-view mirror. “Where are we going?”

“The motel by Costa Mesa,” Theo supplies.

Cody will never be my go-to driver. He’s too careless. My stomach ties in knots when he speeds down the freeway at double the limit and parks outside the dreaded destination inside of ten minutes.

“Thank you.” I peck Theo’s cheek, my legs wobbly, heart slowly climbing back down my throat. “If you need help with the game, you know where to find me.”

He hands Cody the dog, urging me to exit the car. “Grab your stuff, Thalia. All of it.”

My eyebrows knot in the middle. “Sorry, what?”

“I said pack your shit. You need a place to stay, and I’ve got a spare bedroom sitting empty. My condo is only a mile from the Country Club.”

“N-no…” I shake my head, watching him with mute perplexity as I back away, both hands clasped around the straps of my bag. “I think you had one beer too many, Theo.”

He cuffs my wrist, stopping me in place. “I’m stone-cold sober. Pack. Your. Shit. Omorfiá. You just found a place to stay that doesn’t come with a dripping sink or drunk idiots knocking on the door at all hours. Rent-free. Well, kind of. You take care of groceries, cooking, and help me with the game.”

He can’t be serious. It’s a joke, for sure. Who in their right mind asks a stranger to move in with them? He’s joking, right? Wrong. He’s dead serious, staring at me with conviction, an edge in his eyes as he works his jaw in a tight circle, fingers cuffing my wrist. The touch titillates every nerve in my body.

“That… tha-that’s,” I stutter, stumbling over the words, experiencing a bad case of brain fade. What the hell is he on? “I can’t move in with you.”

“Yeah, you can. And you will. Pack your stuff before I do it for you.”

“Theo, I—”

He snatches my bag, forces his hand inside to retrieve the motel room key, and shoves past me, shoulders tense, the vein on his neck pulsing rapidly.

I’m rooted to the ground, still making sense of what the hell is happening when he barges inside room thirteen, but as soon as he starts throwing my clothes into a suitcase that lays open by the wall, I’m on the move.

“What do you think you’re doing?” For one long, confusing moment, I think I might knee his balls and shove him out of here. My head… shit, my mind is roaring. I’ve never been this jittery inside. “Stop!” I snap, clawing at his arm.

“Don’t even try to argue, Thalia,” he wiggles out of my grasp, shoving more of my clothes in the bag. “I’ve got a spare bedroom that no one ever uses. You said you trust me, so give me one reason why you shouldn’t move in with me instead of staying here.”

My mouth opens and closes, but I’m at a loss for arguments. At least reasonable arguments.

“We got a deal?” he urges, holding my makeup bag in hand.

My reason splits in two. One side tells me to stay put, the other screams to stuff my pride in my back pocket and take him up on the generous, albeit odd and careless offer.

This isn’t the time to hold your head up. Say thank you. Be grateful.

“Groceries, cooking, helping with the game,” I recite on an exhale. “But also, I clean and pay rent. At least a little, your condo is huge. It must cost—”

“It costs nothing. I own that place. No rent. We clean together, but you can take Ares for a walk every now and then if you want.”

“Okay, okay,” I mutter, staring at him, but more like right through him while trying to calm down my racing mind. “Okay,” I huff again, and by that third okay, my mind clears. Self-preservation instincts take the reins.

I can’t imagine ever regretting the decision as I watch the determination on Theo’s face. We’ve not known each other long, but we’re on the same wavelength, connecting like two raindrops falling into the same puddle.

“Thank you.” I step closer, fling my hands around his neck, then press my lips to his cheek and cuddle into his chest, effortlessly calm when our bodies connect. “It’s… just thank you.”

He wraps his arms around me for a second, then pushes me away and grabs two zipped suitcases. He wheels them to the Mustang, where Cody waits by the open trunk. I throw the rest of my clothes into the last bag and grab the pillow and blanket from the bed, leaving the mattress protector behind.

I step out of the room, feeling ten times lighter and ten times heavier all at once.