Too Sweet (Hayes Brothers #3)(101)

“A beer, huh?” I ask, leading Rose across the lawn to the small line at the drink table. “How old are you?”

“It’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

“When she’s fifty.” I elbow our way to the Bud Light keg, grabbing a solo cup from the stack. “You’re at least eighteen, right?”

“Yes, since last week,” Rose admits.

“Fine. You can have one.”

She pinches her lips, trying to hold back a smile. “Yes, Dad.”

“Call me Dad again, and you won’t even get a sip. And Wednesday doesn’t smile, Rose. Lose the grin.”

She snatches the cup from my hand, filling it to the brim, then gulps a third of it down. “Oops. Too late.”

“Oops, you’re grounded,” a voice comes from behind us, and we turn to see the girl with the bee antennae.

Damn... busted.

“Wha-what are you doing here?” Rose wails. “You’re supposed to be at work!”

“I lied,” she huffs. “I had to know if I could trust you, and guess what? I can’t. And you!” She grows red in the face, the bee antennae bouncing left to right.

She’s got a tight dress to match and even a stinger attached to her butt. She’s shorter than Rose and paler in complexion, eyes a striking grayish color, hair like caramel up in a ponytail that swings from side to side over her bare shoulders.

“What the hell is so funny?” she demands, poking me with her finger, her cheeks on fire.

I don’t know what’s so funny.

I’m not laughing, but it doesn’t stop her snatching the cup from Rose and flinging the contents in my face.

“You’re enabling a minor!” she snaps.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Cody jumps between us. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Who are you?”

“I’m nobody.” She shoves Cody aside, then grabs Rose by the wrist, pulling her toward the house, but not even five steps later, she halts, turning back to look at me, eyes suddenly wide in horror like it only just clicked what she did. “I’m sorry.”

Now I laugh as I use the hem of my t-shirt to wipe beer off my face. “You ruined my costume, little Bee.”

“It’s Vee,” she says, then rolls her eyes when I cock an eyebrow. “My name. It’s Vee. Well, technically, it’s Vivienne, but no one calls me that. Just Vee.”

“I was referring to your costume.”

She looks down like she fucking forgot what she’s wearing, and the exasperated red of her cheeks fades when she snatches off her antennae and shimmies out of the stinger, which, I now realize, was on a rubber band around her waist.

She comes closer, a walking contradiction. Every one of her moves is gracious, like she comes from old money, but she sure doesn’t act it, throwing beer in my face.

Every look of her silver eyes sears right through me, forcing the rhythm of my heart into a higher gear. She’s really pretty. The kind of girl I’d turn to take another look at.

The kind I’d openly stare at all night.

Her light brown hair works perfectly, with freckles peppering her nose and cheeks. There are hundreds of them, an entire freckly constellation.

Her black, laced boots stop an inch from my Jordans, and she peers up, angling her head to meet my eyes. She’s not Mia-short but can’t be taller than five-three. My eyes are naturally drawn to the perfect, well-defined cupid bow of her lips.

A faint scent of fresh linen and soap fans my face when she lifts her hand, weaving her fingertips through my curls to initiate a wave of tingles over my scalp and down my spine.

I don’t even think.

To be perfectly honest, I’m in some alternate dimension right now, blind and deaf to everyone but this girl. I act on impulse, dipping my head to seal her lips.

Don’t ask why. There’s no rational or even irrational way of explaining why my insides are in knots when she’s touching me or why heat detonates in my chest when our lips connect.

A bone-chilling pause settles over us, before the temperature jumps a few degrees, growing thicker. A second ticks by. Maybe two at a stretch, the sheer surprise of this moment dawning on both of us, I’m sure, but I don’t move away.

Her lips twitch under mine like she’s about to kiss me back, but she pulls away. Before I can fucking blink, her open hand connects with my cheek so hard it jerks my head to the side.

Ouch. I don’t know what stings more: my cheek or my ego.

This is the first time I’ve ever been rejected.

“You’re unbelievable!” she snaps, arms akimbo, eyebrows drawn together. “I throw a beer in your face, and you think I want a kiss? Read the room.” She drops her hands, stepping closer again. “Don’t move. I’m fixing your costume.”

I’m too stunned to say one word. All jokes evaporate from my head, and I do as told while she pushes the headband into my curly mane, then wraps the elastic around my hips, hooks it back in place, and adjusts the big-ass stinger over my dick.

“Before you say it’s not as big as yours,” she muses, admiring her handiwork, “at least you’ve got a proper costume now.”

“So I’m a hornet, right?”

“I’d say you’re a hoverfly but have it your way.”

“Hoverflies can’t sting,” Colt says, the resident encyclopedia.