“You need me to do anything?” Hottie asks.
“Nah, I’ve got it. But thanks.” I’ve done this a hundred times. I’m a pro.
I go back to the truck, fire her up, and set to getting his car on the truck, so I can get it back to the garage while Hottie watches on.
I’m totally aware of his eyes on me the whole time.
It’s disconcerting to say the least.
“You can wait in the truck if you want,” I offer.
He gives me an easy smile. “I’m good here.”
You might be good. I’m not.
I force myself to pay attention to the task at hand before I lose focus and possibly a finger.
When Hottie’s supercar is secured up on the bed of the truck, we both climb in the cab.
I pull my seat belt on and start the engine. While I wait for him to secure his seat belt, I switch over to the radio, putting on my favorite eighties station.
The B-52s’ “Love Shack” comes on, loud and proud.
I do a little jig in my seat. This is my and Penny’s party anthem. I don’t care who you are. You can’t not dance to this song. It’s awesome.
I hear a low chuckle from beside me.
“You like this song?” Hottie asks.
Negative connotation I’m getting there.
Oh no.
I slide my eyes to him. “Um, you don’t?”
A slow grin and a shake of his head. “Not my kind of music.”
Oh dear. Another hot point gone. Shame ’cause he’s so pretty.
“Dude. It’s The B-52s! Come on! ‘Love Shack’? Really?”
Amusement fills his eyes. “Nope. Definitely not my kind of music.”
“Fun music isn’t your kind of music? Shame. Your life must be so dull.”
He chuckles. “It’s gimmicky crap.”
“Oh no.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “You’re one of those.”
He frowns, a line drawing between his brows. “One of what?”
“A music snob. You’re all hoity-toity about songs. Like those people who sip wine and then spit it out to experience the flavor or some shit when, really, they should be swallowing.”
He chokes out a laugh, but I keep going.
“Music snobs think they have a far more refined taste in music than us mere mortals. Never would they be heard rocking out to ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.’ ”
“To be fair, it is a shit song.”
My mouth pops into an O. “Sacrilege! How dare you bad-mouth Wham! Get out of my truck!” I joke, pointing at the door beside him.
“Come on, it’s absolute shit. Total novelty song. Just like this one is.” He gestures to the radio, which is still playing The B-52s.
“Music snob.” I shake my head in mock disgust. “What is this fun music I’m hearing?” I put on my best snooty voice, pressing my hand to my chest in dramatic flair. “Music should be depressing. About love gone wrong. This is not music. Don’t even get me started on those happy lyrics!” I give a sardonic eye roll.
He’s laughing properly now. A full-on belly laugh.
Weirdly, I feel like I’ve won something in this moment. I smile wider than I have in ages.
“A song should make sense,” he says, his laughter slowing. “ ‘Love Shack’ does not make sense.”
“Hey! It makes total sense.”
“Really?” His damn brow goes up again, and he angles his body my way. “What’s it about then?”
“Um … a love shack. A place where people go to get together. And dance.” I give a cheesy grin.
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“And the tin roof is rusted.”
His laugh intensifies.
“It’s about sex.”
That shuts him up.
And I can’t believe I just said that. If Pen could hear me now, she’d be high-fiving the hell out of me. I’m talking about sex with a guy I’ve known barely fifteen minutes.
Me, I’m about to stroke out.
I know my chest has gone red. It’s always my tell when I’m embarrassed. Or turned on.
I risk a look at him. He’s watching me with those intense eyes of his. Then, that deep voice of his says, “That’s exactly what it’s about.”
I gulp. Then, I force my shoulder back and fake confidence. “See, I told you it had meaning,” I toss the words at him. Flick on the indicator, check the road, and pull out onto the street.
Whitney Houston follows The B-52s, and I give an excited little squeal, my embarrassment quickly fading. I’m not one to dwell. Especially when a diamond like this is playing. I flipping love this song!
I hear a groan come from beside me.
I slide my eyes to him. “Aw, come on, don’t tell me you don’t like Whitney?”
A curl of his upper lip and a shrug. “She was okay, I guess.”
Okay. He guesses?
Sweet Lawd.
Come on, who doesn’t “Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)”?
Apparently, this dude.
The rate he’s dropping hot points, he’ll have none left. Which is probably a good thing for me.
“Do you want me to change the station or turn it off?” I reach for the dial.
“No. It’s okay.”
I catch his eyes. He gives me a soft smile. I feel this odd flutter in my stomach. Probably indigestion.
It hits me then that I still haven’t gotten his name.
I gave Beck shit for not getting his name, and I still haven’t gotten it either.
I take a right turn off Main Street, heading in the direction of Dad’s garage. “So, I probably should have introduced myself before now.” Before I lectured you about the effects of smoking on marine life and your terrible music choices in life. I laugh. It sounds as awkward as I am. “I’m Stevie Cavalli. My dad owns the garage that I’m taking you to.”
He doesn’t say anything. I take my eyes off the road for a moment to look at him.
He’s looking at me. But not at me. Like he’s somewhere else in his mind.
“Um … usually, at this point, you would tell me your name. I do kind of need it for the paperwork back at the garage.” Well, my dad does.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s … Nick.”
Then, I register his name together with mine, and I laugh.
“What’s funny?” He sounds actually defensive. It surprises me.
I flicker a look at him. His brow is furrowed. Jaw tight.
Huh.
“Stevie.” I point at myself. “Nick.” I use the same finger to point at him.
He’s staring at me in that you’re an alien that’s just landed way.
“Stevie Nicks. Fleetwood Mac. You’ve heard of her, right?”
If he hasn’t, he’ll lose another hotness point.
I flick my eyes his way again.
The tension in his face has gone. His lips have actually quirked into a smile.
Mood swing much?
“Yeah, I’ve heard of her.”
“Thank God. I was gonna have to push you out of my truck if you hadn’t.”
He laughs at that.
“So, do you have a surname, Nick? Or are you one of those special people who only has one name? Like Cher. Or Madonna.”
He chuckles again. “Slater.”
“Nick Slater,” I repeat. “Well, it’s cool to meet you, Nick Slater.”
I reach my hand over. He takes it and shakes it.
And I totally do not get any strange tingles in my hand at touching him.
Okay, I do.
What’s that all about?
I pull back and wrap my hand around the steering wheel.
“So, did you lose your shirt?” Or did someone rip it off your hot body? I thumb at his bare chest. The one I’ve been desperately trying—and failing—not to stare at since I laid eyes on him. “Or do you just have something against shirts as a whole?”
There’s a pause. I quickly look at him again. He’s watching me again. This time, there’s a smile in his eyes.
/> “I spilled coffee on it.”
“Ah, well, that’s gonna do it. I’d probably take my shirt off if I spilled coffee on it as well. To be fair, I’d also probably get charged with indecent exposure. You guys have it way too easy.”
I hear a chuckle from his side of the truck. I honestly don’t know if he’s laughing at me or with me.
Probably at me.
Can’t blame him. I do talk shit ninety-nine percent of the time.
We lull into silence.
I’m usually great with silences, but something about this guy has me sitting on all kinds of edges. I feel nervous. And not in the scared way.
More in the exhilarated, I want to rip his clothes off way.
Which is not good.
And causes verbal diarrhea to continue to pour from my mouth.
“Okay, so I know you don’t like The B-52s or Whitney. Do you like Pat Benatar?”
Pat is queen. I love her like no other.
His remaining hotness points exist on his answer.
“In the biblical sense?”
I snort out a laugh. “She was definitely a total babe in her day.” I nod. “But I did mean, musically.”
“Why do I feel like my entire existence depends on this answer?”
“It does.” Well, your hotness points anyway. Not that I’m sharing that fact with him.
I smirk, earning me a chuckle from him.
“Well … I don’t hate her music, if that helps.”
I look at him, and he’s smiling. Showing me a hint of those white teeth again.
“But if we’re going back to the eighties, I’m more of a Metallica, Iron Maiden kind of guy.”
I look at his leather jacket and tattoos. Makes sense.
“Fair enough. I can accept that. They had some good songs.”
He splutters out a choked sound. “I’m sorry, what? I think you’re mistaken. Pretty sure you meant, they had a shit-ton of great songs. Or do I need to start naming them?”
I laugh despite myself. “Calm down, heavy metal boy. I like Guns N’ Roses, if that helps.”
A grunt. “I suppose.” A pause then. “So, you really like the eighties cheese music then?”
“If by cheese, you mean, musical awesomeness, then yes.”
There’s another pause, but this one feels tangible. I can almost feel it in the air. I’m just not sure why.
“And what about recent music?” His voice sounds quieter than just before, and there’s a difference to his tone.
“What about it?”
“Do you like it?”
When I glance at him, he’s looking straight ahead, out of the window.
I shrug and answer, “I’m not really into modern music. Weird, I know, because I probably should be. But my dad loves the eighties, and I grew up listening to it. I only listen to the newer stuff when I’m in my best friend, Penny’s, car because she has law over the stereo.”
“What kind of music is your friend into?”
I slide him a look. “Uh … mostly Bieber.”
He laughs. There’s almost a hint of relief in it, which is strange.
“Dude, she’s obsessed. It’s his abs. They’ve got her mind all befuddled.”
Like yours have mine.
“He does have good abs, to be fair.” He shrugs.
Not as good as yours. “Yep,” I agree with a nod. “So, I know you like heavy metal music from the eighties. What about movies?”
He thinks about this a moment. “Terminator is my favorite film.”
“What? No way! Come on! Terminator 2 was far superior!”
“Didn’t that come out in the nineties?”
Huh. “Possibly. Maybe. Okay. Early nineties,” I admit, and he laughs. “But it was way better. The only movie where the sequel trumped the first movie.”
“Disagree. The first movie was better. I can’t believe you’re cheating on the eighties with the nineties.”
My face heats. “Am not!” I exclaim. “It was just better! Linda Hamilton in T-1 was all meek and wimpy. Completely useless. T-2—total badass!”
“True.” He nods. “But that was just character evolution. She saw a lot of shit after T-1. She had no choice but to be badass after that.”
“No way!” I toss my hand in the air. “She should have been badass Sarah Connor from the word go. You bet your ass, if a terminator pulls a gun out on me, I ain’t running, crying to the cops or Kyle Reese to save me—even though Kyle was hot as fire. Nope. I’m getting a grenade launcher and blowing that fucker’s head off.”
He laughs. A deep sound that rumbles out of his chest.
It makes my chest fill with this strange sense of warmth.
An awareness settles over my skin. Like electricity and fire. Calm and peace. It’s … different.
I’ve known this guy not even half an hour. Yet we’re talking like we’ve been friends for years.
“And to finish off—”
“There’s more?”
I slide him a look. He’s grinning, amused.
“There’s always more when discussing the finer points of Terminator 2.”
“I’m all ears.”
“First off, T-2 had way better one-liners.” I recite a couple of the well-known lines from the movie, doing my best Arnie impression, which earns me a laugh. “And secondly, T-2 has the better ending. The best ending of any movie ever.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I’ll give you that.”
“Right? When Arnie sacrifices himself for John”—I slap a hand to my chest—“gets me every time.”
“You totally cried, didn’t you?”
I frown in his direction. “Eh … no. Maybe. Okay … a little.”
He chuckles.
“Come on!” I toss a hand into the air. “It was sad as all hell! When Arnie lowers himself into that vat of liquid steel … you can’t tell me you didn’t tear up a little at that.” Even Beck did.
“Nope.”
I give him a look of disappointment. “Cold, dude. Stone-cold.” I shake my head, teasing.
He laughs again.
I’m finding I enjoy making him laugh.
Dad always says, “If you can make others smile, then why wouldn’t you?”
“So, Stevie …” His voice sounds good, saying my name. Like Nutella sliding onto bread. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re—”
“Weird?” I cut him off, beating him to the punch.
It’s not the first time someone’s said that to me. Won’t be the last.
My ex used to tell me all the time that I was weird. He never meant it as a compliment.
I accepted my weirdness years ago. I wear my weirdo ways with pride.
“I was going to say, different.”
Oh.
Well, I guess that’s a kinder version of weird. But still weird.
“In high school, I was voted Most Likely to Do Weird Things in Public.”
Beck got voted Most Likely to Always Be the Heartbreaker in his year. My brother’s a pain in the ass. But he’s a good-looking pain, and he knows it.
Penny got voted Most Likely to Go to a Justin Bieber Concert.
And they weren’t wrong. And she made me go too.
As concerts go, it wasn’t the worst. But Bieber’s no Rick Astley.
Nick chuckles a low, sexy sound. “I was voted Most Likely to Have Sex in Public.”
I nearly swallow my tongue. I have nothing. For once, literally nothing.
I cough.
Then, I clear my throat.
“Well … if you’re gonna go around shirtless all the time, people are gonna get that impression,” I finally manage to say with a shrug.
He grins.
It’s panty-melting.
“I don’t go shirtless all the time. Only when I know I’m about to meet a cute girl.”
I slide a glance at him. Then, I roll my eyes. “Oh, very smooth.”
“I do try.”
We lull into a silence.
Then, he speaks,
“If I’d have voted for you in high school, I would have voted you Most Intriguing.”
Intriguing?
My eyes zipline to his. He’s watching me with that thing in his eyes I saw earlier. It looks like interest. Yep, it’s definitely interest. I momentarily freeze in his blue gaze. Well, I freeze as long as one can when driving a truck.
I force my eyes back to the road. Ignoring the thrum in my chest. I lick my dry lips. “Intriguing? Didn’t you say a minute ago that I was weird?”
“No.” He sounds affronted. “I said you were different.”
A pause.
Then …
“Different … and intriguing.”
“Different … and intriguing.”
What the heck is that supposed to mean?
I guess it’s a compliment, right?
That he finds me intriguing.
Well, he’s definitely smooth. I’ll give him that.
But I’m not going to go gaga over it.
I’m not interested in him.
Sure, you’re not.
Okay, he’s hot. The hottest of the hot. But he’s got player written all over him. And I’m not a one-night kind of girl.
I’m a relationship girl.
My ex was the only guy I’ve ever been with. We’d been together since high school. Hell, I thought I was going to marry the guy. And look how that turned out.
I’m a shitty judge of character when it comes to men.
And I’m really not interested in having my heart broken again, thank you very much.
Once was enough for me.
I’m as single as a Pringle. This girl definitely does not need to mingle.
“So, how long have you been towing cars for?” Nick asks, breaking my thoughts.
“Oh, this isn’t my job. I’m just doing a favor for my dad and brother. It’s their garage. Well, it’s my dad’s. Beck works for him, but it’ll be his one day when Dad retires, I guess.”
“Beck’s your brother?”
“Yep. That’s who you spoke to on the phone when you called for the tow. You got any siblings?” I ask him.
There’s a brief pause. Then, he says, “Three.”
“Three? That’s a lot of people to share a bathroom with.” It was bad enough, having to share a bathroom with Beck, growing up. Still is, considering he won’t move his ass out of the B&B. I can’t imagine having another two of Beck to deal with.
He laughs softly. “I had my own bathroom.”
Finding Storm Page 7