Too Strong: Hayes Brothers Book 4

THE ANCIENT JUKEBOX in the corner honks out “Ocean Front Property” by George Strait as I cross the threshold of The Well.

The first fifteen minutes of my shift are spent getting used to the smell of stale beer, sweat, and the wet rag Polly, the owner, uses to wipe the counters and tables.

Shaky reproductions of the dim lights shine from damp furniture and a pool of spilled beer across the wooden floor that Johnny, Polly’s husband, is mopping up.

“Hey, Gary.” I round the bar, nodding to the regulars sitting at the counter—a mix of truck drivers home for the weekend and local small shop owners.

“Get me another, doll,” Gary says, slapping a twenty on the bar. He sets his glass on top and pushes it toward me. “You okay? You look tired.”

Polly’s head pops like a whack-a-mole from the counter where she kneels by the glasswasher. “Don’t tell me you’re sick,” she pleads, looking me over. “Tell me you partied all night.”

“I’m not sick, don’t worry. I couldn’t sleep.”

Because the thought of Conor Hayes kept me awake all night.

And the night before and every night since last weekend’s Halloween party.

I’ve not seen him while dropping Rose off at Nico’s for her piano lessons this week. A small part of me, the one I resent, was utterly disappointed.

He kissed me.

No, he consumed me. Every touch of his lips designed to melt me, turn me on, own me, please me, and then… nothing. I hoped he’d be home in the afternoons, playing hot and cold. Taunting. Teasing the way he did in the garden. I hoped he’d seek me out, try to make me change my mind about the date but nope.

No hot. Just cold.

I hate that it unnerves me this badly. Conor and I would never work, but at the same time, I can’t obliterate him from my mind.

I’m sure he’s in one of the elegant cocktail bars his older brother owns right now, enjoying a few beers with friends.

I doubt he ever set foot in a tiny place like The Well. No handmade, exclusive artisan liquor, jewel-encrusted decorations from high-end artists, or clientele in designer labels… just scratched-up bar stools and rickety, old tables.

A chalkboard menu with drink specials hangs on the right wall, and reasonably priced bottles line the shelves behind me. It’s not fancy, but it’s got character. A soul. Personal touch.

Old newspapers wallpaper the ceiling, sports or music channels flicker from two large flatscreens on opposite sides, and the walls are littered with things you’d find at a garage sale: broken clocks, mismatched art, lamps. A surfboard—wrapped in string lights to create a chandelier—hangs above the pool table.

I like the vibe. Casual, welcoming: the kind of place everyone knows your name. Somewhere you can let loose and be yourself without judgment because we’re all on the same boat—working (or not) class, struggling to make ends meet.

Time moves as if standing still tonight. Minutes trickle by so, so slowly while I serve the patrons, my mind elsewhere.

In that damned garage last week.

Curved into Conor’s chest.

With a huff, I grit my teeth, channeling all effort to think different thoughts. Less Conor-infested. More practical. I make a mental list of things to take care of after the weekend. I check if I’ll have enough time before work on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday to drop Rose at her piano lessons. That satisfactorily concluded, I double-check Becca’s shifts, making sure she can take Rose to college.

Rose passed her driving license a few months ago, but can’t afford a car without a job, so we’re dividing and conquering the taxi schedule.

“Oh boy,” Polly chirps, nudging me from my reverie. “Long time no see,” she adds, beaming at the man breezing into the bar.

Following her line of sight, my stomach threatens mutiny as my eyes lock with Conor’s. Money almost oozes out of his pores. The expensive details on his casual outfit scream he doesn’t belong in a dive like this. Designer logo on his t-shirt, expensive watch adorning his wrist, perfectly white shoes.

He carries himself with a sense of confidence and entitlement, shoulders back, cool, aloof expression easily mistaken for him looking down on everyone in the room.

He isn’t. That’s just a first flawed impression.

It changes when a goofy smile curls his full lips as he rests his elbows on the sticky, damp counter.

A slow, heated sweep of my face is all the attention I get before his gaze runs along the contents of the tall fridge in the corner. “Corona, please,” he orders, pulling a barstool closer.

“I’m sorry, we don’t serve Corona, and we’re actually closed to outsiders tonight. They have Corona in Tortugo. Try there.”

“They sure do. Nicer bartenders too.” He drags his eyes toward Polly. “Can I get a Corona, please?”

Polly, the traitor, nods once, snatches a bottle from the fridge, and pops the cap. “Lime?”

“No, thanks.”

“What are you doing here?” I snap, ringing him up. “How did you find me? Why did you find me?”

“I’m having a beer. It’s been a long day. And who said I was looking for you?” He tugs from the bottle, unfazed that the place fell silent. Everyone listens in like he’s an international spy ready to divulge state secrets. “When do you finish work?”

“Once my shift ends.”

He smirks, snaking the bottle left and right between his fingers. “Not long enough, huh? I thought a week would wear you down.” He takes another swig, giving me a minute to process his question before repeating it. “What time do you get off, Vivienne?”

“Nine,” Polly cuts in, boiling my blood. “But I wouldn’t mind letting her off the hook sooner tonight.”

How dare she pimp me out like that?

I turn to her, anger scorching a hole in my stomach. “I’m getting off early tomorrow for Abby’s birthday, remember? I’m working my full shift tonight.”

And, of course, as my hand whips toward Polly’s chest, it accidentally swipes Conor’s beer, and it spills… all over him. Where else would it spill if not over his thousand-dollar jeans?

“Beer in my face and on my pants,” he muses, accepting paper towels from Polly. “You hurt my dick and my nose. What’s next, Little Bee? You’ll knock my teeth out? Break my leg?”

“I’m—”

“Sorry,” he finishes, nodding a few times as he pats himself dry. “I know. You’re not doing it on purpose.” No annoyance taints his voice. He’s amused, eyes sparkling as he waits for me to speak.

“I’m really not—”

“Really not what, Little Bee?” He muses with a smug grin. “Not really sorry? Not really doing this on purpose?”

Oh the nerve of him.

“Listen,” I clip, the embarrassment long gone, replaced by an angry bee buzzing at the back of my skull. “Just leave.” I pull out the money for his beer from the till, handing it back. “Go, okay?”

He pushes my hand away. “Not until you give me one valid reason you won’t have dinner with me. And don’t say I’m not your type. You don’t kiss a guy like—”

“Shut up!” I wail, my cheeks aglow with embarrassment, stomach tight at the reminder of his perfect lips devouring mine.

I don’t fucking need a reminder.

‘I’ve replayed that kiss for a week straight.’

It’s etched into my very being by now.

“You’re you, okay? I’m just me. It’s a waste of time.”

His eyebrows bunch, but it’s not him who speaks.

“You’re you, he’s him, and I’m all out of beer, doll,” Gary says, rolling his eyes between us. “Grab me another, will you?”

“I’m me?” Conor asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I pour another beer for Gary, worrying my lip as I reluctantly meet Conor’s gaze. “What car do you drive?”

“Tonight? A Mustang, why?”

Tonight? How many cars does he have? How many cars does one person need? Isn’t it just one?

“Have you seen my car?”

He nods, accepting another Corona from Polly. She’s got things to do, but she’s not moving, gaze anchored on Conor as she drinks every word falling from his mouth.

“Yeah, Mercury. Classic.”

“A classic piece of junk. Is that a Rolex on your wrist?”

He glances down, checking which expensive watch he’s wearing today. It’s not the same one he wore last week, so I bet he’s got a whole collection.

“No, it’s not.”

“But you have one,” I continue, handing Gary his beer.

Conor straightens in his seat, a hard edge to his brown eyes. “You won’t go out with me because I own a Rolex?”

I stare back, nervously twirling a strand of hair around my finger, racking my brain for the right words.

“More or less,” I admit, my voice shaky. “I won’t go out with you because, in social terms, you’re here…” I stretch my arm, making a line in the air as far above my head as possible, accidentally knocking a few hardly-ever-used wine glasses tinkling from the rack bolted into the ceiling. “…and I’m here.” I make another line, significantly lower. Low enough he can’t see it because it’s almost at my knees, hidden behind the counter.

Judging by the look crossing his face, he’s starting to understand where I’m coming from, but I keep talking, determined to nail the point until no doubts remain.

“Let me paint a picture for you. I’ll fast forward a few dates at the diner and go straight to meeting your friends and brothers. Imagine I arrive at Nico’s house, parking my rusty car beside your shiny Mustang.”

He’s visibly annoyed now, one fist clenched on the counter, jaw set tight as he claws the label off the bottle.

“I’ll be late because I just finished my shift here and got dressed in the toilet at the back.” I motion to the door behind me. “I’ll wear a Walmart dress, buckle-laced boots, and the handmade jewelry Rose makes, trying to fit among your friends. They’ll ask what college I go to, I’ll say I work two jobs. They’ll ask where I live, I’ll say trailer park.”

“And you think anyone will care?” he asks, his tone dripping sarcasm. “You think I care?”

A derisive snort saws past my lips. “Everyone will. Don’t pretend they won’t. Don’t pretend you won’t. I know you only asked me on one date, but I’m not wasting my time. I know this will never work.”

“You know nothing about me, Vee.” He grinds his teeth, jumping from his stool. “But you sure paint a vivid picture. Looks like I overestimated you. See, I thought you’re cute, carefree, and confident, but you’re actually judgmental and fucking shallow if you think I, my family, or friends give a damn where you live, work, or what car you drive.”

He nods his goodbyes at Polly and Gary, then turns on the sole of his sneaker, marching out of the bar, jeans still wet.

My cheeks burn bright. My skin bursts into prickles and I’ve never felt more embarrassed. I didn’t mean it to come out the way it did. I wasn’t judging him. Only myself.

We’re from two different worlds. Two ends of a spectrum. While it was supposed to be just one date, what’s the point in getting to know him better when the end is easily predictable? Building my hopes up if he’ll toss me aside in a few days?

I get attached too fast to not defend myself. It’s enough I can’t shake him off after one kiss. A date will be the last nail in my coffin.

“You’ll regret it,” Polly sing-songs, wiping the counter with the old, wet rag. “I know the Hayes are loaded, but I bet you’ve not spent time with any of them. They’re decent people, Vee.”

I fold my arms, tapping my foot against the floor. Polly’s like a cool, crazy aunt. The kind that helps you pick out your date outfit and gives you advice on impressing the guy. The kind that helps you sneak out to parties by lying to your parents.

Now she’s anything but cool. The other aunt. The one who smells like moth balls and the seventeen cats she lives with.

“How would you know?” I ask.

She’s fifty-three. I doubt she spends her weekends partying with the elite.

“Cassidy, soon-to-be Mrs. Hayes, is good friends with my youngest, Mary-Jane. Logan comes over whenever anything needs fixing, and never charged me a dime.”

“Logan?” I mutter under my breath, labeling the Hayes by more manageable categories than just their names. “Is he the one who owns Stone and Oak?”

Polly nods, snatching five glasses from the counter. The bar is starting to empty, only a few people left nursing their drinks. Gary will remain parked by the counter until closing. His bushy mustache twitches in amusement as he eavesdrops on our conversation. Johnny’s nowhere around, probably cleaning the toilets at the back or rearranging the sign above the front door into something cringy that he considers funny. Last week it was ‘I drink therefore I am’, and the week before, ‘We sell water. Frozen and floating in liquor’.

“Yes. And you met Shawn the other night when he cuffed the two guys who started that brawl.”

“The Chief of police?! He’s a Hayes?”

“The oldest brother,” Gary confirms. “Stand-up guy, he is. His kid’s in kindergarten with my granddaughter.”

“Well, that’s just two out of seven. Besides, I’m not saying they’re bad people. I’m saying I don’t belong in their crowd. Have you seen Nico’s fiancée? She’s like something out of a Disney movie. Cinderella or whatever.”

“She’s gorgeous, but she’s lovely, isn’t she?” Polly continues, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re wrong if you think they’d judge you. Cassidy didn’t come from money, sweetheart. And Theo’s wife worked as a cart girl at the Country Club.” She leans her hip against the fridge, arms crossed, eyebrow still raised. “I can tell you like Conor. Your face lit up the moment he walked in. It’s just one date, Vivienne. He’s into you.”

The kiss last week speaks in favor of her statement. I do like him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have told him to ask me out, but…

At twenty-one, I no longer believe in fairytales. And Conor Hayes asking me out is just that, a fairytale. It won’t work.

But it isn’t Conor’s fault.

It’s mine.

My insecurities won’t allow me something as simple as a meal at a cheap diner.

Jesus, so much drama over one dinner.

‘So much drama because you like him.’

“You’re overthinking,” Gary says, swilling back half his beer. “And that means you’re not sure you made the right call.”

Oh, I made the right call considering how invested I already am and that I’d end up as nothing more than a notch on Conor’s bedpost, but assuming he and his brothers are entitled, condescending assholes might’ve been too much.

I grab my bag from under the counter, flinging it over my shoulder. “I’ll work the time back next week,” I tell Polly, coming out from behind the bar. “I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it. Have fun!” she yells after me, amusement tingeing her voice.

I bust out the door, scanning the street. Conor’s still there, leaning against the side of his Mustang parked further down the road. The cherry of his cigarette flares, a cloud of smoke droning around him as he takes a drag.

“I’m sorry,” I say, coming closer, sweat oiling my palms. “I realize that’s all I’ve been saying since we met, and it means nothing by now, but I am sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? Everything you said? Or that you judged me even though you don’t know me?”

“Neither. I mean, both. I’m sorry I’ve made it sound like you’re the problem. It’s not you, okay? It’s me.”

“Ah, the famous it’s not you, it’s me bullshit…” He flicks his cigarette butt into the sewer before raking his fingers through his hair.

“Ugh,” I huff, clenching my hands into fists. “That came out wrong…”

“Then tell me how it was supposed to come out because everything you said tonight is fucking ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous, Conor. We’re from different worlds.”

He pushes away from the car, close enough now to dip his head and look me in the eyes, his hot breath warming my cheek. “Money doesn’t define me. You’ve labeled me a rich prick, but that’s not me.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, the electric current between us back in full force, almost cracking like lightning in the cool evening breeze. “You’d know if you’d let me take you out.”

My mind races.

I’m trying hard to resist him, but my willpower splinters when he lifts his hand, ghosting his knuckles along my cheek.

“One date, Vee. That’s all I’m asking for now.”

‘If it were that simple.’

“No. I can’t, I…” I say, my voice trembling, heart pummeling my chest. “Please, just stop seeking me out, okay?”

“Why?” His narrowed eyes search mine like he’s trying to pull my thoughts straight from my head. “You’ve not given me a single rational explanation.”

‘Because this has already gone too far.’

And he only kissed me once.

Because he consumed my every thought this past week. Because it would take a split second of inattention to absolutely lose myself in him.

‘He has no idea how quickly I’d get attached.’

I don’t want to be another one of his conquests.

‘Another notch on his bedpost.’

I don’t want to be a temporary fix for his boredom.

“I…” I bite my lip. “I just can’t.”

He watches me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with just a single nod, he hops behind the wheel and drives away, leaving me alone. Torn. Filled with regret.