“CARE TO EXPLAIN?” Rose mutters, struggling to keep up with me as we enter the obscene, enormous villa through the garage.
We squeeze past a line of cars, each worth at least triple my yearly salary from two jobs combined, and up porcelain stairs until we emerge in a marble-floored hallway.
Talk about ostentatious.
Seriously, what sane person needs a six-bedroom house when they don’t even have kids?
Glancing around, making sure we’re alone, my eyes glide across the oversized, sepia pictures of Newport at night hanging on the wall. It’s an odd gallery of unconnected spots in town, no clear link: the lifeguard station at the beach, The Olive Tree restaurant, a private cab, Tortugo, the airfield where a few of my friends skydived last year…
The only plausible explanation is that those places mean something to Nico.
Rose nudges my shoulder, tapping her foot against the floor, one brow furrowed as she inserts more credibility to her signature impatient bitch face. It adds a few extra points to how good she looks dressed as Wednesday.
“Nothing to explain,” I say, playing it down. “He’s cute.”
“You don’t know him.” She folds her arms over her chest.
So what? I don’t know many people before meeting them. Isn’t that the whole point of dates, to get to know someone?
Besides his handsome looks, that guy seemed fun. He didn’t flip out when—on impulse—I threw beer in his face, and he has the softest lips I’ve ever kissed.
If you can call that tight-lip peck a kiss.
I’ve known less about some men I’ve shared proper kisses with in the past, so there’s that. I’ll learn more during our date. If he turns out rude, dull, or an asshole, no harm done.
‘At least I’ll know I seized the moment.’
My evening shift at the bar ends at nine tomorrow. Plenty of time to freshen up in the restroom and change from the uniform into my own clothes before meeting—
‘Nice one, Vee. You don’t even know his name.’
“I’ll get to know him,” I say, dropping the volume a few decibels as I spot the owner of this flashy house, the man who chose those sepia pictures, crossing the hallway. He yanks the door handle with so much force you’d think he’s trying to rip the main door off its hinges when he opens it. “How bad can he be?” I continue, my voice near whisper level. “He didn’t mind Ruby’s Diner, so he can’t be one of the uptight rich boys, right?”
Once bitten, twice shy.
A boy named Luke swept me off my feet back in high school. Never will I make the same mistake again. Never will I let a guy with more money than common sense trick me into thinking I could be more than his temporary fix for boredom.
Luke was the dream boyfriend—smart, sinfully hot with cute dimples on both cheeks, shiny hair, and a chiseled jaw. Well behaved, ambitious. What a dream. What a catch.
‘What a fucking pretentious, stereotypical douche.’
How much he loved groping my ass, latching onto my neck as he squeezed me against the lockers, didn’t mean shit once he parked his bright-red, convertible Porsche outside my house. The kisses, hand-holding, laughter… irrelevant. Like my personality that he adored, telling me every day I was cooler than his buddies.
The fact I let the asshole punch my V card? Who cares?
Not Luke.
Not once he saw where I came from.
Disbelief blazed from his eyes while he craned his neck left and right, gawking at his surroundings as he dropped me off one evening.
With each passing moment, his expression fell further. The smile almost permanently glued to his stupid, pretty face slipped off, replaced by a disgusted scowl. His nose wrinkled as if he caught the stench of decomposing fish guts, and… see ya.
We were over.
The next day, he walked past me like I didn’t exist. From then onwards, my life’s mission became avoiding rich boys.
Turns out it’s not that hard. As I’ve gotten older, so have my peers. Boys started paying attention to more than my ass, boobs, and long, caramel hair. They started inspecting what that ass was wearing, for example.
No designer labels? No second glance.
That’s still valid, even though it’s been over three years since I graduated. Of course not all rich men care about fashion. Some wear the most obscure things, so they don’t scrutinize my clothes, but… the sight of my thirty-seven-year-old, rusty car never fails to send loaded guys running in the opposite direction.
Working at a local newsstand and the bar across the street from Ruby’s Diner doesn’t exactly boost my social status, either. To be perfectly honest, my social status has always been in the gutter.
I don’t let it affect me. I’m helping my parents and putting Rose through college.
That’s good enough if you ask me.
I started working evening shifts at The Well to pay for Rose’s piano lessons but Mia refused the money. I could quit, but my car is falling apart. It desperately needs replacing, so I’m saving the peanuts I earn serving beer, so I can buy a more reliable one.
The engine failed in the spring, leaving me biking to work throughout summer while I saved enough cash to get it fixed. Too bad the mechanic then warned me that keeping my old Mercury in relatively good, safe shape would take another few grand just for parts.
‘Better to save up for a few months and buy a car that won’t need to be coaxed into starting every day.’
Rose scoffs, glancing heavenward like she’s dealing with an oblivious, naïve child. “I guess you didn’t pay any attention to the other two guys standing beside your date, did you?”
“Not really.” My focus was solely on him, whatever his name is. The masculine yet soft energy, the deep brown eyes, curly, rebellious hair, and big hands. “Why?”
“Maybe if you did, you’d realize that, save for their hairstyles, the three of them are identical.”
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no.’
My stomach bottoms out faster than an express elevator.
Identical triplets… that’s more than enough information.
“Oh, yeah, sis. They’re the Hayes brothers,” Rose adds, her voice low like she’s hoping to soften the blow. “You told Conor Hayes to ask you out.”
“Shit,” I whisper, my lungs decompressing instantly, shoulders falling limp.
He seemed so… I’m not sure what.
Not Hayes? Other than Nico, I don’t know any of them personally, but Nico doesn’t give off the best vibe. The few times he opened the door when I dropped Rose off for piano lessons, an unpleasant chill whispered across my skin, sending a burning icicle-like cool through my bones.
‘Not rich.’ That’s how Conor comes across. Down to earth. Laid back, approachable, and unpretentious.
“Ugh, why didn’t you warn me?” I ask, frustration elevating my voice to a disgracefully high note.
“How was I supposed to know you like him?” Rose folds her arms over her chest, an incredulous, slightly amused expression marring her pretty, young face. “You met five minutes ago, sis, and you already told him to ask you out!”
“I don’t know if I like him. He seemed cool.” I roll my eyes, heading back to the garage. With one hand on the handle, I pause, fish my car keys out of my pocket and fling them at Rose. “Wait in the car. I’ll be out in five.”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think? I’m calling off the date.”
The door thunks closed behind me. I rush down the porcelain stairs, weave past the sleek, expensive cars, and I’m outside. Despite the end of October, the evening air warms my skin. Nico’s house is airconditioned. Cooler by five or six degrees than the lazy evening breeze kissing my hair. The temperature outside holds in the mid-seventies, the autumn comparably hot to the scorching summer we’ve had this year.
I stop by the stage, every fiber in my body responding to the beat of Fat Joe’s “All The Way Up” playing from the DJ’s setup. Girls grind against each other on a dancefloor marked out with retractable tape posts. They move in time with each other, sipping from red solo cups, each prettier than the next. But they pale compared to the stunning brunette who enters the garden through the side gate. My eyes are immediately drawn to her.
She’s alone, enough bling adorning her neck to rival a jewelry store. Holding her head high, she stalks past me in a tiny, form-fitting dress hugging her flawless curves. The fabric slides a tiny bit higher with every confident step. Red-soled heels pierce the grass in perfect time with the beat.
Whoever this girl is, she holds the ultimate power in this exclusive ecosystem. There isn’t one person in sight not following her sophisticated moves. She’s not paying anyone any heed, though, her eyes fixed on something or someone on the other side of the garden.
The beat keeps pumping, the potent bass vibrating through my bones. Conor stands right where I left him—by the drinks table—immersed in serious-looking conversation with his identical brothers and a guy wearing a white t-shirt covered in large blue, red, green, and yellow dots.
He must be Twister.
Conor hasn’t pulled my headband off yet. The antennae sway from side to side, and the stinger remains in place, passing for elongation of his dick.
‘What was I thinking?!’
Now, at a safe distance, my cluttered mind temporarily under control, it’s clear he’s not how he comes across at first glance. His confident stance exudes an air of wealth and privilege. The t-shirt he wears stretches tightly over his broad chest, accentuating every muscle.
Despite his casual appearance, the devil’s in the details. And those tell a different story. Gleaming white Jordans on his feet, gold watch on his wrist, and beaded bracelets stacked up his arm all scream luxury.
All my shoes combined aren’t worth as much as one pair of his. At this point, with the engine desperate to heave its soul out every morning, even my car isn’t worth as much as Conor’s Jordans. The thought of him willingly accepting half my costume while he can afford a thousand drives me up the wall.
I don’t know why. It’s just a fucking headband and a DIY stinger stuffed with two rolls of crumpled toilet paper, but I’m glowing with barely controlled anger.
The polyester bee dress and headband set me back fifteen bucks. Not a fortune, but I bet Conor tips his barista more for his five-dollar, tall macchiato or whatever the hell kick-starts his morning.
My heart thumps faster, threatening to snap through my ribs the hotter my temper flares. A quick mental pep-talk and I’m off, marching across the pristine green lawn, my boots leaving a trail of flattened grass in their wake.
Conor casually rests his lower back against the table, broad shoulders relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips. He’s tall. At least six feet. His curly hair, styled in an intentionally messy way, makes him effortlessly hot. Golden flecks pepper his hazel eyes, softening the sharpness of his features, but his heated gaze is intimidating, intriguing, and arousing at once.
He looks like a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it. His confidence is magnetic, crushing, enough to extinguish the inferno of my anger for a moment.
A very short moment.
The second his eyes dip, roving my body, caressing every curve, I’m ambushed by a burst of self-consciousness.
“You’re back,” he says, his lips curling into a warm, genuine smile that incites the butterflies in my belly to riot against my next move. “What do you need?”
My cheeks heat, an uncharacteristic blush pinking up my face. It’s not what Conor said that throws me off track but how he said it… like he’s ready to make every one of my requests come true.
I grit my teeth and visualize stomping my foot to get back on track with the anger. It works. My rage grows hotter, fiercer now that I know why I’m getting so worked up.
Because I wish he wasn’t Mr. Richie Rich. I wish he was just an ordinary guy I could go to the cheapest diner with, who wouldn’t make me feel embarrassed about my clothes. Somebody who could look at my thirty-seven-year-old car without that ‘just stepped in dogshit’ expression.
People judge. ‘And people with money judge hard.’
But he is what he is. I’ve learned my lesson and won’t make the same mistake again.
Dating wealthy men only ends in tears, if you’re lucky.
“We are not having dinner tomorrow,” I say, stepping closer to snatch back my headband off his head. “And you are not keeping my costume.”
I wrench the stinger away, expecting the elastic to snap. I made it last night, and I’m not exactly a seamstress, so it’s not the sturdiest construction. Instead of pulling off, the stinger jerks from my hand, hitting Conor’s sensitive spot with enough force to make him kneel. His face flashes with pain, the color changing from red to white to green and back.
“Oh shit, sorry,” I gasp, crouching before him, where he’s clutching his jewels in both hands, stinger now at his waist.
“Why—?” he asks, the word pushed through clenched teeth, dark, sinful eyes unfocused, almost hidden behind his curly hair.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you! I thought the elastic would snap. I made this myself.” I poke the stinger making it jitter left and right. “I’m useless at sewing. I didn’t think it’d hold if I yanked hard enough.”
“No.” He winces, inhaling deeply as he gets to his feet, slowly straightening his spine. “Why aren’t we having dinner?”
“Oh…” I stammer, standing back a step as he unhooks my stinger. “You’re… you’re… just not my type.”
His eyebrows furrow, another question dancing on the tip of his tongue, judging by his lips falling apart.
I don’t wait for him to find the right words. Grabbing the stinger, I mumble bye, bolt across the lawn, then inside, and slam the garage personnel door behind me.
Or try to slam it, but stupid Conor gets in the way, the door whacking him in the face.
‘God, this is a disaster.’
His eyes water. Blood spews from his nose, staining the white t-shirt he wears.
It’s not funny, it’s terrifying, but I can’t stop the nervous, shaky laughter bubbling out of my chest.
“See? You’ve got another costume ready.” Add embarrassment to these first frustrated, guilty tears, and I’m officially a blubbering, snotty, trembling mess. “I’m sorry,” I wail, tearing the stinger apart for its now precious toilet paper stuffing.
“My fault,” he says, resting his back against a matte white Mercedes. Leaning forward so I can wipe the blood off his chin and hands, he then lets me hold a big, crumpled ball of paper against his nose. “I should’ve expected you’d bang the door.”
“I’m really, really sorry,” I mumble, the words almost catching in my throat while I do a lousy job of containing the quiver in my voice. “I swear I’m not doing this on purpose.”
He lifts a hand, wiping my tears away, his touch soft, the gesture careful, so affectionate my stomach sinks pleasantly.
“Calm down,” he whispers, inhaling through his mouth. “Don’t cry, Little Bee. I’m fine.” He takes my hand, moving it gently away. “See? I’m not bleeding anymore.”
Wiping my nose with the bloodied toilet paper, I sniffle, nodding fifteen times. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” His fingers dance along my cheek to the side of my neck, eyes following the gesture before they rise to meet mine. “Explain why you called off our date.”
“I already told you.” I draw deep breaths, willing my racing heart into a slower rhythm. “You’re not my type.”
Without warning, his strong hand wraps around the back of my neck. He draws me in, closes my lips with his, and slips his tongue inside so fast I have no hope of pushing him away before it happens.
His other hand circles my back, insistently holding, molding me to him, and… my mind blanks. I’m consumed by the moment. Every other thought fades away.
The heat radiating off his big body encompasses my senses, leaving me dazed. His taste halts the thoughts rushing through my mind. I drop the ball of toilet paper to the ground, weaving my fingers through his thick hair and. I. Take.
Endorphins flood my system the closer I press against him, teasing and kissing like I’ve lost my mind.
I have.
We just met, but it doesn’t mean a thing. His touch is electric as he pulls me close, the heat of his body searing my skin, the raw intensity of desire saying more than words ever could. The kiss evolves, turning feral, almost carnal. He holds me, firm but tender, and rediscovers my mouth like a starving man. The explosive chemistry between us makes the blood scream in my ears.
The kiss feels like an interlude to something bigger than life.
Conor’s a drug. Opiates. One taste is all it takes to leave me craving more. I can’t stop, the rational part of my mind unavailable while my body comes alive at our lips melding in breathless sync.
He’s not my first kiss, but he might as well be. All others fade in comparison. His heartbeat thuds against my chest, a challenge mine picks up, matching the rhythm.
I’ve never felt this consumed by another person.
‘I want more.’
More of his lips, more of his kisses. I want his warm hands against my bare skin, his muscles under my fingertips, his big body suspended above mine. Taking, claiming.
As if he reads my mind, his hand slides down my back, pulling me flush against him. The outline of his hard cock imprints itself on my skin, and my brain short-circuits.
The party happening around us fades into the background. The hot ball of pulsing ache burning between my legs begs me to curve into him further.
I knead my fingers through his hair, deepening the kiss.
I’m not sure how long we stand there, lost in each other. I wouldn’t notice if someone walked in, but once we pull back, breathless, thirsty for more, dazed, and equally baffled by what just happened, we’re still alone.
The realization we’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of our ragged, racing breathing fuels the fire. A rush of longing and lust floods my system. Conor’s eyes rage with desire. Full of surprise that sets my nerve endings alight like a firework display.
‘He’s just as confused and turned on as I am.’
The urge to feel his lips back on mine is nearly palpable. I can tell from the hunger on his face that he feels it too.
“Not your type?” he questions, his voice husky as his thumb traces the shape of my lips. “I beg to differ.”
“You’re a great kisser…”
‘But you’re still an entitled, born-with-a-silver-spoon asshat like all rich guys.’
I swallow hard, still on him like duct tape, my hands unwilling to leave his shoulders. One deep breath and one step back help me regain a sliver of control. “But no date.”
Undeterred, he leans in, kissing me again, this time with a soft, slow intensity, savoring every moment. He sucks my lip into his mouth, teeth coming together just shy of hard enough to hurt, then runs his tongue over to soothe the mild sting, sending shockwaves down my spine.
I should push him away to make him believe I don’t want a date, but damn it, his lips are freaking magical.
“That will swell up real nice in a minute,” he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek, his nose nuzzling mine before letting me take a hasty step back.
And as if nothing fucking happened, as if he hadn’t just flipped my world on its axis, he pushes away from the car and heads out the door.
“I’ll see you around, Little Bee,” he calls over his shoulder.
I watch, dumbstruck, as he exits the garage, my heart pounding like a bass bin. What the—
I pinch myself hard, my nails biting into my skin. My heart races, a fast-paced drumbeat in my chest when the realization hits… I’m not dreaming. This was real and… so confusing. I try and blink it away, inhaling a deep breath that does nothing to clear the chaotic whirlwind of my thoughts. It doesn’t help me understand what just went down, either.
“He’s unstable,” I decide, clinging to the banisters of the porcelain stairs as I climb them on jelly-like knees. “Or drunk… or both.” I pull my eyebrows together, still stunned by the unexpected kiss and how much my body and mind enjoyed being pressed hard against Conor’s broad chest. “He’s on drugs. Mushrooms, probably.”
The volume inside the house has gone up during the last… however long I was gone. More people crowd the huge living room as I peek in, certain Rose isn’t waiting in the car like I asked.
“Can’t catch a break,” I mutter, shaking the weakness off my limbs. Readjusting my ruined costume and the mess that’s now my hair, I emerge at the end of the corridor.
I don’t know the Hayes. I know they exist, but I never had a reason to pay attention when they were mentioned until Rose started taking piano lessons with one of their fiancées. The one who makes me feel like I’m about to face the wrath of all Gods.
Nico Hayes.
I don’t know why the sight of him engages my fight or flight response—and it’s not like I’m going to fight him—but it does. Every time. Even now, when he spots me across the room from where he stands, arms protectively wrapped around Mia, his tall frame towering over her.
They’re the most bizarre couple I’ve ever come across. A tiny ray of sunshine and the reaper.
Rose is there, chatting with Mia, her face illuminated by a smile before she playfully pushes Nico away.
‘Brave. I wouldn’t risk touching the guy.’
With a deep breath of courage, I trot over, doing my best to navigate the throng of people unnoticed.
“Hey,” I say, stopping beside Rose. “I’m Vivienne, Rose’s sister.” Peeling my eyes off Nico, I meet Mia’s green gaze. “I’ve not had a chance to thank you for helping Rose and—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she cuts in. “She’s very talented.”
That she is. She’s always been musical. By the time she was three, she could sing along to every song on the radio, and before she turned six, she could play guitar.
“Well, thank you, and…” I turn to Rose, my cheeks heating under Nico’s intense scrutiny. “We should get going.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to plead, but she’s cut off by a different voice, the hair-raising kind.
“Stay,” Nico orders, his tone brooking no argument. “Rose wants to hear Mia sing. She’s going on stage in half an hour.”
How am I supposed to say no?
I’m afraid to freaking breathe around this guy. My head is automatically nodding before I’ve had time to decide whether declining is safer than staying with the possibility of facing Conor again.
Mia beams, taking half a step out of Nico’s embrace. “Come on, I’ll get you something to drink.”
“I’m—” My words pile into a verbal traffic jam as Nico tugs her back until she leans against his chest.
“Theo wants to test-drive your Ferrari. I’ll be back before you start singing.” He dips his head, kissing her softly.
“For the tenth time! It’s not mine. Don’t use me as an excuse to buy another car. I don’t even drive.”
“You’ll learn. Be good, baby.” He stamps another kiss on her forehead, bobs his head at Rose and me, then walks away, pulling a guy—I assume Theo—with him by his shoulder.
Looks like it’s settled: we’re staying for the party… Yay.
