Too Sweet (Hayes Brothers #3)(3)

The melody flowing from downstairs overwhelms the new-age electro beat blasting in the garden, and “Fantasy” by Black Atlass playing in my ear.

Whoever is there, touching my fucking piano, is talented. Each note wraps itself around my tortured mind, soothing my frayed nerves. Whoever is there plays better than my mother, and I never thought that anyone, save for the songwriter, could play this song better.

Ten seconds later, I’m in the living room doorway, the AirPod in my hand. Cody sits at the foot of the corner sofa, toying with his cell phone, wearing nothing but yellow shorts, his chest bare. Dark sunglasses are pushed on top of his head, digging into the man bun Colt and Conor mock daily. He tucks the phone away when he sees me resting against the doorframe, my attention centered on the girl playing John Lennon’s “Imagine” of all songs.

“Hey, bro,” he whispers, crossing the room. “Sorry about this. Mia needed to calm down. Piano does the trick.”

Mia. The puking chick. Not a six-foot-tall karate champion. Far from it. She’s petite, her face hidden behind a curtain of dirty-blonde waves cascading down her waist.

Normally, that’d be my interest down the drain, but I can’t tear my eyes off her fingers gently skimming the keys, transitioning from one note to the next with effortless precision. A surge of liquid heat flooding my system eases the ever-present tension seizing my bunched muscles.

It’s almost fucking unnatural not to feel my ribs cinched around my lungs, not to hold my fists clenched, not to lock my jaw and grind my teeth.

My body gives into the calm melody, switching off the high-alert mode I’m always in, and I pull down a deep breath, filling my lungs with ease for a change.

“She broke Brandon’s nose?” I ask, mimicking Cody’s hushed tone.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to disturb her, but I hope she’ll turn around. She doesn’t.

She doesn’t acknowledge me in any way, as if she hadn’t heard me... as if she’s alone with the piano.

“Yeah,” is all Cody says.

So helpful.

By the look of her, she’s five-foot-nothing and less than a hundred pounds, making the nose-breaking incident hard to comprehend. Snapping a bone requires strength. I’d know.

“How did she manage that?”

A proud smirk crosses Cody’s face as he turns to Mia, a warm glow in his eyes. The bitter stench of beer wafting in the air tells me he’s had a few, but he’s sober enough not to swoon. And yet, here he is, dangerously close to looking like a love-sick puppy. “We’re teaching her some self-defense moves. She’s getting good.”

Good? Great, if you ask me. Taking on Brandon Price is an accomplishment. Especially for a pocket-sized girl like Mia. Bragging rights earned until the end of college and every reunion going forward.

“Where’s Colt and Conor?” I ask, watching Mia’s hands flit down the keyboard. She wears at least a dozen gold rings, some low where they’re supposed to be, others higher, above the middle joint.

“They’re kicking Brandon out.”

As the song nears the end, I wait for Mia to turn around, but she morphs the melody into another: “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley. A nagging curiosity burns me up from the inside out, leaving a smoke of question marks behind.

Who is she?

A pastel pink skirt she wears, sprawled over the stool, falls to her knees, and the white of her blouse peeks between her thick, wavy hair. I glance at the cream rug where she rests her feet, dressed in pink heels with little bows at the back.

Seriously, who is she?

She’s at a Spring Break party. Ninety percent of girls in attendance wear bikinis, and she’s dressed in pink.

Fucking pink.

“What did Brandon do to scare her?”

“He’s got a thing for Mia. She keeps shooting him down, so he’s growing impatient. He forced her onto his lap, and she elbowed his face.”

“Colt told me that much.” My voice is almost a whisper. “I’m asking what got her scared enough to throw up.”

“She always pukes when she’s scared.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “She doesn’t do well with confrontation.” He looks at her, his voice back to normal level when he says, “I’ll get you a drink, okay? We should head out soon, Bug. Will you be okay to go back on stage?”

She must be one of the dancers hired for the party. It’d explain her pink skirt.

Cody grabs a bottle of wine from the drinks cabinet, pours half a glass, and tops it up with Sprite.

White wine spritzer at a Spring Break party?

Beer in red solo cups is what college kids got me used to. Mia might’ve soothed my agitation with music, but it’s back twice as strong. I can’t make a single assumption about her. It’s unsettling... the not knowing. Curiosity sprouts inside me like a magic bean, growing fast until I think I’ll crawl out of my fucking skin if I don’t see her face.

Turn around, Mia.

“Last one,” she utters quietly, the words like both a plea and a promise.

“Yesterday” by The Beatles reverberates through the living room. My skin breaks out in goosebumps as pleasant shivers slide down the length of my spine. She’s too young to convey the emotions as if she’s McCartney himself.

The melody is overcome when someone calls my cell. Mia doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t stop playing at the interruption. Nothing calms my fucked-up mind like piano music, and that’s probably why I remain rooted to the spot instead of taking the call out in the hallway.