Too Hard: Hayes Brothers Book 5
Too Hard: Chapter 1

THERE IS ONLY ONE THING I absolutely hate—packing.

Packing a suitcase is mildly annoying, but boxing up my entire life? Well, that’s another flavor of fucking torture.

It took me three days to vacate my room at Nico’s.

Three days.

I had no idea how many of my things hid around his mansion. Turns out the seventeen boxes I filled clearing the bedroom I called mine for the past four years were only half of the shit I accumulated. The rest, scattered around the obscenely large house, filled another van.

Add furniture into the equation, and transporting everything from Nico’s to my condo took three trips last night. Good job I have six brothers unafraid of heavy lifting.

It’s also a godsend that Nico’s fiancée and my younger sister are exceptionally organized. They didn’t just help me pack but labeled the boxes so unpacking would be easier.

While I considered moving into the same condominium as my brother Conor and his girl—Vivienne—I couldn’t get on board with no ocean view.

I coughed up a bit more cash, trading hypothetical two-bedrooms in Conor’s building for a one-bedroom, third-floor with an unobscured view of the ocean. My place, like Conor’s, is brand new, brought to life by the construction company headed by my older brother, Logan.

It’s a simple but functional design—Logan’s go-to style. The kitchen is to the right, separated from the main entrance by a coat closet. Straight ahead is the combined dining and living area. The master bedroom, complete with spacious bathroom and walk-in closet, is to my left.

The panoramic living room windows look out onto the patio, framing my favorite sight in the whole wide world: the ocean. Nothing beats this when the sun’s edging over the horizon, painting the calm blue waves in dawn pinks and purples.

Not only did I get a hefty discount, but I also spent the last few months working on this place outside college hours. Every fixture, power socket, and cabinet was installed by yours truly, so if anything falls off the wall, I’ll know exactly who to blame.

I rake both hands through my hair, gathering it into a bun as I inspect the airy living area. I groan inwardly at the prospect of spending the entire day making this place livable—free of clutter, mess, and trip hazards.

My wristwatch tells me it’s half eight in the morning. I should be asleep still. Why the fuck am I up already?

Probably because my brain buzzes with the list of tasks I should get done today. Wasting precious daylight hours in bed isn’t an option this fine Friday morning.

Well, not the bed, technically. The couch. My bed hasn’t arrived yet.

Glancing at the three-high box-stacks by the crisp white walls, I let out a long, defeated breath. I should’ve accepted Vee, Mia, and Rose’s offer to help unpack this mayhem because I lied.

There are two things I hate, and right now, unpacking is a fate worse than packing.

Only the massive vivarium housing my pet albino python, Ghost, stands where it should be. It takes up the living area’s entire left wall, where a dining table would go had I bought one.

Instead of a traditional dining setup, I asked my architect brother to tweak the blueprints and incorporate a kitchen island with a breakfast bar into the design.

It’s not like I’ll host dinner parties here.

Pulling my phone out, I scroll to B for Bug, then tap the screen twice—once to dial, once to activate the loudspeaker.

“Up already?” Mia sing-songs, her good mood almost infectious. “How was the first night in the new place?”

“Uncomfortable,” I admit, shooting a glare at the couch. “If the bed doesn’t show up today, I’m crashing in your guest bedroom.”

“I don’t want to sound rude, but I did suggest you stay with us.”

That’s her subtle way of saying I told you so.

“Yeah, I know, Bug. You were right. Happy?”

“Not really. I miss you already. Have you changed your mind about letting me and Rose lend a helping hand?”

“God, yes.” Without a second thought, I slump onto the nearest box. I should’ve checked Mia’s neat writing on the side before sitting my ass down. The crunch of glass doesn’t bode well. “When can you get here?”

“Good news, we’re already on our way. Won’t be long.”

“I love you.” Relief rattles through me as a lead weight lifts off my shoulders.

I’m a touch dramatic, but you should fucking see this place… it’s the stuff of nightmares.

“Hey! What about me?!” Rose’s theatrically wounded tone hits my ears. “Who the hell stayed up with you until stupid o’clock unpacking your clothes?”

That she did. The walk-in closet is my only box-free room. My t-shirts are neatly folded, accessories organized in display drawers, and my jeans, jackets, and shirts hang in tidy color-coded rows because Rose is a stickler for the tiniest details.

“I love you too, sis.”

“Yeah, you do,” she trills, her voice painting a picture of the grin undoubtedly stretching her lips.

A knock on the door has my eyebrows meeting in the middle. “Are you guys here already?”

“No, that’s probably Conor and Vee.”

“Have you called in the whole family?”

“Pretty much. You need all the hands you can get. Start with the box labeled coffee, okay?” Mia pleads.

“Is that an indirect order to get off my ass and get you a coffee, Bug?”

“Make that two,” Rose chimes in. “Will be there soon. Bye.”

In true Rose fashion, she hangs up the call before I say another word. I’ve grown fond of her over the past five months. She’s easygoing, down-to-earth, and fits our quirky family dynamic like she’s always been a part of it.

Every part of her character mirrors one of us. She’s as moody as Nico, but still carefree like Logan and me. She’s effortlessly funny, like Theo and Conor, though with a slice of Colt’s smartassery. To top it off, there’s a hint of Shawn’s rational thinking to balance out her obvious carelessness.

She’s an explosive mixture, all bundled into a package that’s unmistakably Hayes. Well, not entirely. Her looks are more centered than her character. While she does resemble us all, she looks closest to Nico: black hair, black eyes, a golden complexion. I think she connects with him the most, too. Probably because she grew to besties status with Mia within a month, which means she spends a lot of time around Nico.

“Come in!” I shout when another knock shakes the door.

Conor and his Little Bee enter the condo dressed in sweats, ready to work.

“I see you’ve made progress,” Conor muses, gaze drifting over boxes that remain exactly where he left them last night.

“Rose was here until two in the morning helping me unpack my clothes. I was too tired to do much else after.”

“Good thing we’re here. Dibs on the bathroom,” Vee says, then stops mid-step, horror flooding her face. She falls into a momentary daze, murmuring under her nose. ‘What if there are hundreds of condoms? Or toys…’

“No toys, Little Bee. I prefer my vaginas real not rubber. Though, I might have some condoms. Need any?”

She snaps out of the trance—something the whole family has grown used to. Vee has ADHD and speaks to herself whenever her thoughts get too busy to stay inside her head.

“I’m on the pill, thanks.”

“That’s more information than I needed, Vee.”

She pulls a face, big eyes sweeping across the boxes, searching for one labeled bathroom.

“Coffee first,” I say, carefully shaking the box I sat on, listening for a telltale rattle. “I might’ve broken the cups with my ass.”

Conor fetches his car keys, using one to slice through the tape. Within minutes, the coffee maker is plugged in, ready to go. It’s not as fancy as Nico’s, but I’ve ordered an identical machine. It’s only a matter of time before I’m drinking the best coffee one can brew at home. Until it arrives from Italy, I have to make do with what I have.

By the time my sister arrives with Mia in tow, the breakfast bar is lined with five steaming cups, filling the condo with a rich, bittersweet aroma.

It’s two weeks before graduation so we’re all off college, and Vivienne doesn’t start her new job as Nico’s administrative assistant until Monday.

Turns out, Conor’s Little Bee has an exceptional knack for numbers. She completes complex calculations in her head faster than most people could type the numbers into a calculator. Not even Conor knew that until Nico was almost pulling his hair out last week, searching for a mistake his assistant made in a client’s account.

He had about thirty pages of stock transaction data strewn across the breakfast bar, tirelessly cross-checking figures until I’m sure he was seeing double. It took Vee five minutes to replace the blunder among the sea of data.

Five fucking minutes.

Needless to say, Nico immediately offered her an entry-level position, with a promise he’d sponsor any courses she’ll need if she ever decides to climb the career ladder.

So yeah, she’s between jobs and can spend the day helping her boyfriend unpack my shit.

Perfect timing.

“When’s the rest of the furniture getting here?” Conor asks while the girls lock themselves in the bathroom.

I seriously doubt it needs all three of them to line the shelves with my toiletries, but I keep my mouth shut.

Who am I to interrupt their gossip time?

“Soon, I hope. The driver called at eight, saying delivery should be by eleven.”

“Alright. We should clear some space then.” He grabs his coffee, taking a slow, measured sip, inquisitive gaze scanning the room. “You know what you desperately need?”

“Beer?”

He laughs, nodding. “Yeah, but gentlemen don’t drink before noon, so put a pin in that. I meant your flat screen. That’s what we’re starting with. You want it mounted on the wall?”

“Not like I have a choice. I threw the stand away last year,” I sift through the boxes, hunting for the one labeled tools.

Once I have it and Conor locates the TV, we measure the wall, drill it, and secure the bracket. Half an hour later, the girls move on to the kitchen stuff—most of which they bought last week using my card—and Conor flicks through the channels till he replaces ESPN so the practice run for Spanish GP can serve as background noise.

An hour whizzes by. We’ve unpacked just five of over thirty boxes. Rose brews another pot of coffee as a knock reverberates through the condo.

Colt stands in the hallway, cradling the largest case of beer available. I’m surprised he’s here this early. I didn’t expect him to show up until at least late afternoon, when we’d have done most of the work, reducing his job to fuck all save for delegating the remaining task.

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?” I point at the Coronas he’s protectively clutching.

“Think of this as a pre-housewarming party and live a little.” He points his thumb over his shoulder at the boxes, furniture, and mattress leaning against the wall behind him. “Looks like my timing couldn’t be better. The rest of your stuff’s here.”

Narrowing my eyes, I throw a skeptical look at the white bookshelf and a mattress that can’t be the King-size I ordered.

“I don’t think that’s mine…” I say, glancing down the hallway where two men carry a three-seater, navy-blue couch.

And then all hell breaks loose. Figuratively, of course, but it feels like the Cerberus was let off his leash and charges right at me, all three wide mouths baring their long fangs.

My breath falters as a familiar figure rounds the corner, a large green plant in hand, a black designer purse slung over her shoulder to complement her tiny black dress and red-soled heels. I can’t actually see the red soles, but that’s all she ever wears.

“No fucking way,” I mutter, prompting Colt to check what got my panties in a twist. “This isn’t happening.”

A stifled snort flies past his lips. “Oh-oh,” he hums, amusement palpable. “Just your luck, huh?”

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth start cracking when none other than Blair Fitzpatrick—the instigator of Mia’s long years of bullying—locks eyes with me.

Her smile slips, and those striking, dark, stormy blues of hers narrow, roving up and down my body, her nose scrunched in disgust. Just like my breathing, her steps slow.

A shadow crosses her face, but as fast as it appears, it’s gone. She lifts her chin a notch, seemingly unfazed that fate, karma, heaven, and hell are shitting all over us right now.

Looks like I lied again…

There are three things I hate, and Blair Fitzpatrick takes the top fucking spot.

I’d rather be sentenced to a never-ending Promethean cycle of packing and unpacking than live across the hall from her.

Grabbing my smirking brother by the arm, I yank him inside the condo hard enough that he stumbles over his feet and swears at me, catching both his balance and the case slipping from his grip just in time.

Ignoring his calm the fuck down, I slam the door shut, ticking like a bomb about to go off.

“Guess who’s moving in across the hall as we speak?” Colt summons everyone’s attention. “Cody’s favorite person.” He wiggles his eyebrows, the sarcasm almost dripping from his voice.

“Blair?” Conor immediately supplies, well-versed in my favorite people. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Shut up,” I snap, grabbing my phone. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Logan. You’d think he’d give me a heads-up.”

“Logan doesn’t deal with sales, Cody,” Colt says. “What will calling him do? You already bought this place, bro. It’s done.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose as reality settles in.

Fuck. My. Life.