Too Much (Hayes Brothers #1) Read Online I.A. Dice

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Hayes Brothers Series by I.A. Dice
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Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
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THALIA
Only regret the things you haven’t done.
Three suitcases and eight-hundred dollars to my name. That’s all I had when I fled my home country and moved halfway across the world to California. Escaping my past is easy when everyone I loved, and everyone I never met, deemed me public enemy number one. Making sure my past stays buried should be easy too. That’s until he comes along. I should stay away, protect my secret, and build my life from the ground up, but…
He’s not a regret I want to have.

THEO
Entitled. Arrogant. Loaded. Equipped. Player.
The list goes on. I’ve been labelled since I can remember. I earned most of those labels too. And I regret nothing. Life is too short for regret. I live mine as if it’ll end tomorrow… until she enters the bar; confident, sensible, and funny in her own special way. Walking, talking, breathing perfection. So why am I holding myself back on a short leash?
Good question.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

ONE

Thalia

“HERE'S YOUR UNIFORM.” Cassidy, my overseer this fine morning, holds out a pleated white skirt and a beige polo shirt.

Although neither is made of enough material to class them as clothing. The skirt could pass for a fabric offcut used in crafting, not part of a work uniform. Unless your job is stripping, then sure. Why not.

“What’s your shoe size? Five?”

Funny... she didn’t ask what my dress size is. Either one-size-fits-all or she ventured a guess. Not a good one if she thinks I’ll fit in a size zero. Considering the skimpy polo shirt and lewdly short skirt she wears and an identical set I’m now holding, it might be—one must fit all, or you can’t work here.

“Six,” I say.

Cass grabs brand-new white canvas sneakers and a beige baseball cap off the shelf. “Go get changed. The changing room is over there.” She gestures at the door across the employee common area, pulling a small key out of her polo shirt’s breast pocket. “Locker fourteen is yours. We should be out on the course in fifteen minutes, so hurry up.”

My shoes sink into the plush, brown carpet as I cross the stuffy room. Pushing the door open, I peek inside, frowning. I expected something more discreet—little booths with drapes like those in boutiques, but no. The changing room is an open space with lockers scattered around the perimeter and wooden benches bunched in the middle.

An older lady, scrubbing dusty-pink tiles in an adjacent shower area, peers up when I enter. She dabs at the beads of sweat glistening along her hairline with a handkerchief, sending me a small smile as she tucks gray hair behind her ears.

I offer her a smile in return, stopping at my locker. I’m not shy, but stripping to my underwear while any other female employee can walk in here is a touch nerve-wracking. I squeeze into the short-short skirt that ends half an inch below my ass, then tug on the polo shirt, groaning at my reflection in a long mirror hanging on the wall. The button-less V-neck ends low on my sternum, exposing my boobs, firmly pressed together courtesy of the skin-tight fit. Pole dancers at the club I worked a few years ago wore more clothes writhing around the poles than I’m wearing now, getting ready to sell beer, water, and sodas at the poshest place in Newport Beach.

I leave the baseball cap behind, turn the key, and head back to the common room. The temperature outside is in the eighty degrees range, but clouds gathered over Newport Beach early morning, obscuring the sunshine.

Bummer.

I chose California mainly for the weather, and what do you know? Two days of living the American Dream and zero sunshine so far. Figures. I’d have more chance at a pretty, golden tan in Greece.

“You look cute.” Cassidy beams while I tame my long, dark curls into a high ponytail. “You’ll be the center of attention for the next few days before everyone gets to know you.” She readjusts her platinum-blonde ponytail, sliding a cap over it, and leads me outside through the French doors. “This one will be yours.” She points at one of five identical beverage carts parked in a neat line. “I’ll get you started today, but tomorrow you’ll be unsupervised, girl, so pay attention. We’re busiest Friday through Sunday...”

My mouth curves into a blissful smile as my head spins from left to right. The golf course is picture-perfect—eighteen holes stretched over one hundred acres of lush greenery, a throw-of-a-hat away from the beach. The pictures featured on the website hardly do this place justice.

Several A-list actors and celebrities are among the club’s members. Considering the luxury cars parked outside, it’s safe to assume everyone who golfs here rolls around in cash.

Back home, I’ve only seen a Ferrari once, on a school trip to Athens. Here, not one but two Ferraris are parked out front, both red. Richie-rich golfers fill me with hope. Maybe they tip as well as the “Confessions of a Cart Girl” blog I read implied.


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