Too Sweet (Hayes Brothers #3)(13)

It takes me by surprise, but there’s no denying it—I love when she plays this piano. She’s ridiculously talented. Even my mother can’t elicit such emotion from a simple melody. Each note Mia plays burrows its way under my skin.

“You can play here whenever you want.”

She slowly turns on the stool when the song ends, her fingers partly hidden under the long sleeves. Eyes green like freshly mowed grass stare into mine, forcing my heart’s rhythm into a higher gear.

I wonder if that’s what cartoonists imply when drawing characters’ hearts stretching a foot away from the body, stretching the skin to breaking point with each beat.

Every man has a type.

Blondes, brunettes, tall, short. After all, beauty is subjective. Just because I find a woman attractive doesn’t mean other men do. Take my brothers and me. Theo’s wife, Thalia, is my type by default—a tall, sharp-tongued, confident brunette, yet she doesn’t strike the right chord for me. Theo, on the other hand, looks at her like she’s a goddess incarnated.

I’m drawn to women with protruding cheekbones, long, dark hair, and wasp waists. The sophisticated divas who seductively sway their hips, holding their heads up high. Those who ooze sexuality and confidence. Those who seduce a man with one look. They can bait, hook and haul my ass to their table with a lick of a tongue across blood-red lips.

Mia’s not that type, but she is gorgeous. Cuter than fucking cute. A total opposite of what I usually go for with that pretty, round face of hers and tiny curvy body.

I’ve always been a sucker for pretty, shiny things...

Mia’s exactly that. Pretty and shiny like the colorful, butterfly-shaped brooch pinned to her blouse.

“Don’t say that. I might abuse the privilege.”

“No one save for my mother touches this thing. It could use the attention. Play whenever you’re around.”

However often that may be.

I want her here; but I really don’t fucking want her here because I don’t understand my fascination with this girl. I’m way out of my depth. I should divert my needs to someone else pronto. Newport is full of willing women.

Too bad not one piqued my interest lately enough to buy her a drink, let alone fuck her. They’re all lacking in one way or another. Too much cleavage, too much makeup, skirts too short, boobs too fake, voice too high.

“Thank you,” Mia says. “I’ve got a Yamaha at home, but it’s not as good as this. My dad bought the first piano he saw when Grandad started giving me lessons. I’ve been meaning to change it, but...” She flashes me another one of those shy, barely-there smiles. “Sentimental value.”

I cross the room to make a drink. Mia’s sweet perfume hangs in the air here, targeting my nose as I move. “You want wine?” I ask, reaching for a crystal glass. She shakes her head, toying with her bracelets. “My mother has a 1904 Steinway in her living room. That’s what I wanted to show you after you had your tattoo done. I knew you’d appreciate it.”

“I’m sure I will. Monica asked if I could play at the Ball. She said she always brings that piano to the venue.”

Monica? “How do you know my mother?”

“I’ve been helping a little with the Charity events she organizes.” She tugs her sleeves until her hands are almost completely covered, then picks at a loose thread.

She’s nervous around me.

I don’t like that. I want her at ease. Comfortable.

Cody’s words pop into my mind.

“Mia needed to calm down. Piano does the trick.”

“Play something for me.”

Scarlet paints her cheeks as if someone pressed a button on her neck that sends blood to her face.

Fuck...

Why is that so satisfying?

She turns around, her fingers back on the keys. My body erupts into a fit of hot and cold sweats when “Dream On” by Aerosmith fills the room. I could listen to this song for hours on end, never growing bored.

How the hell does she know it’s my favorite?

The melody seems softer, a little slower, and... she opens her mouth to sing. She’s a gentler version of Dolly Parton; her voice soft, laced with a raspy undertone you can’t hear when she speaks but overpowers you once she hits the higher registers.

The urge to join her hits me like a freight train.

I grip the armrest, gouging my fingers into the leather, anchoring myself in place. I’ve not touched the piano in ten years, but I want to sit beside Mia and play.

No.

I want to sit behind her... my legs boxing her thighs, my arm across her middle, one hand on the keys, her back flush against my chest. The sweet smell of her perfume. The warmth of her body...

What the fuck is it about her?

Her blonde locks swinging from left to right in a ponytail as she plays are all I see; the lyrics pouring from her pouty mouth are all I hear. I’m in a daze until the melody ceases too soon.

“I believe that’s your favorite song,” she says, turning back around.

“How did you know?”

“I know a lot about you. You’re a stockbroker. A very good one. Your birthday’s next week. You don’t like birthday cake and eat apple pie with raisins instead. You like spaghetti, warm chocolate brownies, sky diving, and the color green.”

I cock a questioning eyebrow but don’t stop her. This isn’t the kind of information my mother would share if she played cupid—which she does often lately—so I know Mia’s not getting it from her.